The young repairman only shrugged at their words and went inside the Blue Otana, his temporary living area. Sliding out of the warm fabric of his jumpsuit, he stood over his bunk, arranging the sheets in a perfect, almost anal way. Once they were so firm across the mat that he could bounce a quarter off of them, he turned and stalked to the sonic shower, eager to be rid of the grime that coated his hands and face.

Perhaps the discipline he showed in preparing his bunk came from his earliest memories, those of his father. His father had been a hard military man, both in the Empire and then when he had defected to the Alliance. He could remember well the lectures on propriety given to him in that gruff, but loving voice. A small stab of pain pierced Dak's heart as he stepped inside the small cubby that housed the sonic cleanser.

Anger matched pain as the vibrations of sound scraped away the dirt and grease that stained his skin. If he could just find those responsible, those who had done this terrible thing, not only could he get Pasha back her ship, wihch he knew his father would have wanted... But he could finally redress the wrong done to his family. There in the quiet of the hyper-sonic sound waves, he found solace in knowing that whom so ever had done this terrible act would pay.

Stepping out, and throwing a small towel around his midsection simply to hide his privates from the view of his crewmates, he stomped back to his bunk, his normally jovial face twisted for a moment, but quickly returning to it's exuberant tint. While putting on his underclothes the hard-muscles of his arm flexing in the dextrous interplay of a man used to exact movements, he spoke up loudly.

"Good night, my friends, " in his tenor voice, undaunted by the world about him. So with a kind word, and a smile on his lips, he dreamt of killing those who had so unrighteously murdered his father.

"Whatever."

The Corellian chuckled softly in response to Mikal's indifferent remark, her wry grin never once faltering. She was an easy-going individual, and while some might have been moved to irritation at his curt reply, Pasha had come to expect nothing less of him. Mikal was a man of few words, and the few he did choose to graciously bestow upon her were callous and filled with sarcasm. It was an odd friendship the duo had formed, but it was one that worked nevertheless. She was a lady of many vices that enjoyed the thrill and excitement of battle and oftentimes took unneccessary risks, and he was a man that had come to serve as her counterpoint. He was at times the voice of reason, and more importantly the one that had kept her from drinking herself stupid and attempting a one-man retaliatory, and suicidal, attack after the subsequent capture of the Sonata of War and the death of many of her close friends who had served as crew with her.

She fluidly pushed herself away from the Blue Otana and swayed slightly upon her feet, though she managed to stay upright and not topple to the ground in a pathetic heap. She casually flicked the remnants of her cigarra onto the ground and put it out with the toe of her black leather boots, stifling back a yawn as she watched Dak disappear within the starship. It was late at night, and only now did she realize just how truly exhausted she was.

"I'm turning in as well," she yawned out, already shambling up the ramp and into the Blue Otana. "Good night."

She was comatose within moments of sprawling out on her bunk on the lower deck. She hadn't even bothered to undress.



Pasha awoke the next morning with a throbbing headache and a foul taste in her mouth, and immediately she knew that today would be a bad day. Her face had firm imprints of the pillow's lining she had been sleeping upon, and her mane of black hair was in such a state of disarray that she had to stop and wonder just what she had been doing in her sleep. Had she been wrestling a damned Wookie? She certainly felt like it.

With a pained grunt the Corellian rolled out of bed and stumbled about her small quarters as she disrobed and then began the arduous task of donning the uniform of an Imperial officer. Though she didn't know it, the uniform she was putting on belonged to the branch of Imperial Navy Support personnel. The outfit was a light grey, and consisted of a double-breasted tunic, trousers, long-sleeved black gloves, a black belt with a silver buckle, and of course a cap.

"Sithspit," she mumbled in agitation, working the tangles free of her thick hair before pulling it back into a tight bun, and then placing the grey cap atop her head.

The uniform was a decent fit, though it was obvious its previous owner had a smaller chest and slimmer waist than she. After smoothing the wrinkles free of the outfit she at last left her quarters, and then climbed up the central ladder and onto the main deck.

"I never thought I would find myself dressed as a frackin Imperial, but what do you think?" She asked upon seeing both Dak and Thorin in the lounge area. "And you had better not laugh."

Captain Ortho Gutt



The skinny man had greasy slick-back hair, a long nose that seemed to remind Ortho of some off-world rodent, and eyes that darted about as if the man was in a constant state of caff withdrawal.


"It was not easy to come by this information." the man said, looking around from time to time as if knowing the 501st Stormtroopers would come smashing into the nondescript eatery they were in.

Ortho was wearing his off-duty suit (a two piece as a one piece was not kind to his body). The air circulaters must have been moving at half speed (if that) for Ortho's head was sweaty and his armpits began to release copious amounts of liquid and stench.

None of this was noticed by the skinny man before him (who must have been a jawa in another life).

Ortho's discomfort was hidden by a show of blustering belligerence, "Let me guess, you had to hack into IHC's encrypted mainframe?" he barked out in scorn.

The man looked surprised, "No.. Not the IHC... too many security traps there. No.. No.. Ministry of Transportation!"

Ortho's eyes narrowed pretending to know what the skinny man was talking about. "I don't want repo'ed aircars or speeders!" He felt like reaching across the stained table before him and throttling the useless man.

"What?" squawked the other, his voice breaking in nervousness.

"I am looking for.." Ortho began again and the other man suddenly found some spine (or a part of one) for he bit back, "I KNOW what you want? But you just can't slice into the government. It's not like slicing through butter with a knife or squirting jelly out of a roll!"

The fidgety man slapped his hand on the table and some alien waiter came over.

As the man began rattling off an order for food that impressed even Ortho's gargantuan appetites, he turned back to ISD Captain, scratching a crusty off his nose. He ignored where it landed on the table.

"Look. Just because the government confiscates this old junk does not mean that they just leave it there and call it Cache #482. They 'pick it up'! Who do you think the government goes too when they need this done? The same place the Merchantile people go to! The same place the Civil Authorities, MP's and other department chartered to police us! Civilian towing companies. Civilian moving companies.

Now, not everything is legit and not everything can be found this way, but I did find something."

As the man was driveling on, Ortho had the distinct impression that the man knew what he was talking about.

So, Ortho reached out to the offered datapad as the food arrived and as the skinny man attacked his plate as if it were his last meal, he scanned through the scrolling data.

He looked at an odd notation and asked the other man about it.

Dripping yellow yoke of some poor creature's egg that was fullfilling it's destiny as breakfast, the skinny man looked over and added, "That means the items were not alone."

"Not alone?"

"Manned."

"What am I going to do with vessels taken while their crew was still around?" In fact, Ortho had thought that perhaps the caches were full of items left by dead rebels. Not those still living.

The skinny man scratched his head as if in thought but plucked out an offending tiny bug and flicked it away. When he looked up, his eyes gleamed with a cruelty Ortho had not noticed past all the nervousness.

"I suppose it depends on how long they have to live, no?

That was something worth considering and Ortho stroked his third chin as the other slurped up the goey mess called breakfast.