The man stayed in the shadows, observing those around him. A matte black coat caked with wind blown dust shrouded his body protectively. The only indication that he was alive was due to the darting of the orbs sunk into their sockets. For all his mystery and self-confidence, it was evident that the man was tired, intensely so as a matter of fact.

It had been days since he'd slept more than a few hours at best. He'd been running around Coalition and Commonwealth space, luring potential applicants into the shadowy world of wraiths. While not a resounding success, the recruitment drive had turned up several gems and overall, the man was pleased with the results.

Today, just hours ago, a beat up, old freighter had docked at the main Ilum spaceport, discharging its cargo of landspeeder parts as well as a single passenger. Having committed the city layout to memory, he'd threaded his way gamely through the confusing streets as if he'd lived there his entire life. Few officials gave him trouble as he flashed his clearance I.D. It was a rumored clearance level, one that few said actually existed...oh, but it did and it gave its bearer access to literally every aspect of the Commonwealth's government. No longer did he have to go through security, customs, nor answer to condescending officers and pompous asses. It was a power he wielded with relish but a slight tug in the back of his mind told him to use it with caution.

Now, as he stood in the back of the office and let the General in charge of the garrison chew over his credentials, he thought again about how easy it had been to gain entry.

"Well Colonel, I don't know how the Sith you're clearance is better than mine, but damn it! Orders are orders I suppose." The boisterous officer thumped his desk and glared at the darkened image of his visitor. "My garrison is your garrison...sir." He managed to chuck out through clenched teeth.

"Thank you." There was no emotion in the voice. It was utterly flat. No hint of smugness nor self-importance.

Bewildered, General Nuzack squared his jaw and refused to be intimidated.

With a slight bow, Colonel Oso drifted out of the office as quietly as he'd entered. He made his way towards the barracks, gained entry and located the man he had come to see. Lance McCallister.

Beckoning with his hand for the Major to follow, he led them outside to a waiting speeder driven by Adaki.

"If you will." His eyes bored into McCallister's, trying to gauge their reaction...

Eyes as dark as space met with eyes as cold as ice, and the face of an uncaring asteroid met what could have been a spiritual reflection within a grimace like a canyon wall on Hoth. In the expression, the colonel would only find wrath and grief, with not a hint of pride or esteem of any kind. It was as if the very meaning of such emotions as 'joy' and 'cheerfulness' were wiped clean from the major's vocabulary.

Without hesitating, he offered the colonel a sharp salute before they were led out of the room. The walk to the speeder was relatively silent; until they arrived at the vehicle, the only words were from passers-by, who issued the usual "sir"--sometimes to both of them, though mostly to the higher-ranked man--with a crisp salute and a quick shift to attention. They were just as easily ignored on the walk through the garrison's corridors.

The speeder wasn't the best of models, but it was still military-grade and military-maintained, which meant that it was almost guaranteed to run. Considering it was doing precisely that at that moment in time, it made more than enough sense to figure that it wouldn't stall on them later on, somewhere along the trip... Wherever that leads, Lance thought to himself.

All the while, he couldn't help but wonder to himself what exactly he'd done to attract the attention of a colonel, and at that, one who insisted on being extremely secretive amongst even his peers. Well, subordinates, most of them, but still colleagues and comrades-at-arms in the fight against Imperial tyranny. And Imperial bloodlust, came the bitter thought, an even more bitter memory behind it.

"As you wish, sir," came the major's response, his voice hardened by the battles he had fought and the suffering he had experienced. Acting on the unspoken order, he climbed into the back of the speeder.

Climbing in after Lance, the Director closed the doors and listened for the audible hissing sound that indicated a solid seal had been made. They were now protected against chemical attacks. A slight rap on the privacy mirror separating the driver from the passengers alerted Adaki to activate the electronic jamming field that blanketed the speeder. Now that they were secure, he shifted the vehicle into drive and set off at a leisurely pace through the city. Picking a destination on the far side of the city, he wound their transport through the most congested of streets and took the round about route in an attempt to give the two men time to converse.

The silence was heavy in the speeder. It hung like a thick velvet blanket over the two men as they eyed each other warily. Xen made no attempt to hide the fact that he was studying the man. As his piercing gaze categorized each detail he saw, his mind was already reviewing the contents of the man's dossier. His decorations and awards were indeed impressive, as was his ability to follow orders without question; a trait he had already demonstrated admirably when Oso had first beckoned for him to follow.

From his personal files, Xen had surmised that this man would perhaps be a bit...unrestrained when it came to the Imperials, seeing as how they had killed his wife and unborn child. Fury, rage and passion were dangerous when left to roam on their own. Oso hoped to contain this man's emotions and direct them in a positive manner to further the cause of Section 8. He didn't give a Hutt's Spit about the Major's need for revenge, nor his emotional trauma. Like everyone else he associated with, he saw McCallister as a usuable tool that could benefit his unit.

It wasn't anything personal, it was just much simpler this way. One never knew when one had to assassinate their own co-workers and if one kept their distance from the onset, it was much easier to deal with the after effects later.

"Major Lance Thomas McCallister, also known as Knighthawk. Born in Coronet City, Corellia. Your mother passed away due to cardiac arrest and your life didn't improve when the Imps killed your wife and unborn child. Your 27 years of age, standing at an impressive height of 6' 4" with a healthy weight of 220 pounds. Body fat is at a minimal and it's obvious you keep yourself in shape." Xen paused, eyes carefully scrutinizing the man in front of him.

"Earned yourself a Bloodstripe...pretty impressive. You also have some cybernetic parts, blah blah blah and some of the shrinks think you're unfit for duty. Tell me, do you enjoy the condition and location you are currently in?"

Silence was a wonderful thing. Beautiful, for it was such a pristine wonder to behold. Sure, communication had its place, and most of the time it was noisy, but there was something to be said for silence, as ironic as that might have sounded. All that considered, Lance would have given anything he had if it would have averted him from having to hear what had broken the silence in the speeder. He honestly didn't relish the idea of hearing those words, or dealing with the constant memories of torment being called forth so callously.

Anger, of course, was something he'd learned to hide; sorrow, the very same. Still, it was hard to actually try and investigate someone--see how he'd react just by reading surface elements and body language--when he was bringing up something that made you want to rip out his throat. The one element of his own self-control that went beyond his grip at the time was his left eye, which went from a natural shade of deep ocean blue to a hue of midnight.

Sighing heavily, he forced himself to calm down, as if it would somehow magically cause his anger at the colonel's recollection to vanish. Oh, how he hated being reminded of his life's greatest woes... and how he hated the woes themselves. "Respectfully, sir, I don't believe it's protocol that a meeting with a superior officer start with a synopsis of the junior officer's life story." There was far more that he wanted to say at the time, but he held off from it, knowing that it would only hurt him right now to bring it up.

"As for my condition and location... I'm stuck on Ilum. There's a Jedi cave of some kind not too far off where they'd get crystals for their fancy little lightsabers, back before His Imperial Majesty ordered their asses collectively killed. I run a low-level, low-maintenance Special Ops team that looks like it hasn't a hope of going anywhere beyond that same cave. What's more, those damn shrinks are so concerned about their Light-forsaken paychecks that they don't care to recognize what I can do, and instead look at what those Imperial dogs have done to me."

The left eye had remained black all through that time, the tirade only reminding Xen of what the visual organ was already telling him: that he was dealing with a very angry man. "In case it isn't clear, no I do not enjoy where I am stationed, sir." The frustration in him coursed through faster than blood, almost palpable to him within his own spirit as he looked at the colonel, letting his response sink in. "Why are you asking me this?"

Lance's reaction had no discernable effect on Oso. The man had a sabaac face that professional players would've died for. In fact, the young Major had more or less responded in the way the Colonel had predicted. It was hard to remain calm and composed when talking about such a subject. It would bring out the pain in even the most stoic of men.

"It's also not protocol to be conducting a meeting in an unmarked speeder armed to the gills with counter-intelligence hardware. Nothing about this meeting follows protocol. I am no ones superior and at the same time, I'm everyone's superior. Remember that."

Xen's face remained the same as his mind calmly went over each candidate for this position. So far, he only had one another hopeful and Lance was the last possible recruit. Of course, the position they were being asked to fill demanded perfection and performance of the highest calibre. Not to mention, you would disappear from the face of the galaxy. It wouldn't do to recruit someone with family or an ongoing romance. Sadly, that pretty much eliminated a good deal of the best candidates.

"Why am I asking you this? No reason. Just curious." Rapping twice on the privacy glass, Xen alerted Val to turn the speeder around and head back towards the base. The quick trip back was sheathed in silence and it wasn't until the speeder had stopped that Oso spoke up again.

"If you want to get out of this dead end location and lead an actual Special Operations team with an unlimited budget and unlimited access to tech. come see me." Handing the man an expensive looking business card, Xen gestured towards the door, a not so subtle indication to get the hell out.

When and if Lance looked at the card, he would find a single word scrawled on the front. Oso. The card itself was black and the words were printed in a light gray. On the back was a private number and a private frequency. If he had any gray matter, McCallister would figure it out.

Lance reserved his thoughts for when he got out of the speeder, just in case his rather impromptu host was able to tap into the Force. Sure, it was an unlikely thing to worry about, but the soldier who didn't prepare for a circumstance was the soldier murdered by that circumstance, so it was infinitely better to be safe than it was to be sorry...and dead. Once the vehicle was far enough away, though, that he was sure of his safe isolation, he looked at the card.

Oso...

So, at least I know who I was just dealing with. The numbers on the back, however, were something else. There was something...unusual about them. Perhaps it was just that they were a strange segment of communications code. After all, the frequency didn't match anything he'd heard of, and he knew quite a few standard comms frequencies. This one was just plain wierd, though.

Sighing, he made his way back to the barracks, isolating himself in his quarters after leaving a very short message with the base commander, indicating that he needed some personal time to think. It was highly likely that said general would interrupt him, but there was nothing that would make the major answer at this time, short of nuclear holocaust or some other form of massive disaster.

"I am no ones superior and at the same time, I'm everyone's superior. Remember that." The comment made no sense; of course, how could it? It was designed to not make any sense, to not mean anything concrete. Here he was, a colonel, saying that he had no authority, and yet that he could make even the most important men and women of the Coalition bow down on a whim. Logic screamed that the contradiction made the proclamation moot. Perhaps, however, that was the key: logic; rather, the absence thereof. Logic couldn't unravel the mystery of the numbers, or the message...

...so being illogical will have to do. His mother had always explained that to him, saying that it's how his father's mother had thought when things became difficult, and that he could use it to the same ends, even if not in the same exact ways. The illogical perspective was, however, an awkward one to attain, as much as it fit the bill for this particular incident. Practice and deployment upon deployment upon deployment, however, had made switching into his own illogical frame-of-mind almost second-nature for Lance, and he was able to look at the current information from a different frame of reference almost immediately.

A nobody, and yet more powerful than all the 'anybody' people of the Coalition...

It took him a few minutes to figure out what was meant by that comment, and thus that this man truly did have the power to grant the offer he had mentioned shortly before departing. After sending a small clearance check through security, Lance entered the frequency and comm-code, and opened a transmission. Right now, this was his best hope for some sort of decent future in the fight against the wretched Empire. He'd not miss this opportunity; no, he was going to reach out and take it by force.

The Sentinel was hidden in the blackness of space. It's stealth armour and XP5 jammers performed their jobs admirably. What few ships there were in the area suspected nothing. The Stealth Intruder certainly did live up to its name.

Onboard, Xen stood over a communications terminal. He was staring at the extremely bland face of one of his subordinates. The man he was communicating with was shrugging helplessly. "Sorry sir, the man wasn't cooperating. We gave him several opportunities."

"I suppose it can't be helped. Some men are just far too loyal."

"How is that a bad thing sir?"

"Loyalty blinds oneself and can lead to your self destruction."

"Don't you expect us to be loyal to you?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you walk a very fine line sir."

"Hmm...perhaps I do. It's in the job description. I assume the body has been carefully taken care of?"

"Yes sir. Local officials are already claiming his lover killed him then committed suicide. Would you care to know the details?"

"I'll go over them in the detailed report you'll be sending me."

"To the point as always sir."

"As always. Good job and I'll see you back home."

The man's unremarkable features contorted into a smile and he snapped off a sharp salute before the transmission fizzled out and Oso was left staring at a blank screen. Before he could do anything else, Adaki caught his attention with a slight tap on his shoulder.

"It's Major McCallister."

"Well, that didn't take long. Dispatch a shuttle to pick him up. Oh, and play the recorded message, just to humor him."

A chuckle escaped Val's lips. "Sounds good sir."

As Lance waited for a reply transmission, the Vice-Director of Section 8 activated a code that sent a standard recorded message heard by all their recruits when they called. At the same time, an ordinary shuttle was dispatched from a nearby location and ordered to pick up Lance; it would be there within the hour and was under express orders to take him through the normal procedure. Knock him out, test him for bugs, then bring him in. Half a dozen commandos, men part of the team Lance would be leading, were riding shotgun on the shuttle to make sure the Major cooperated.

Back on the planet, Section 8's reply came through.

"Hello and good day sir or ma'am! We are so happy you called us instead of us calling on you. That probably would have ended with you in a body bag." The voice was female, sultry and cheerful, totally out of character with the message it was delivering. "Anywho! A shuttle will be down to collect you and your belongings momentarily. Do not worry about the 'legal' junk, we'll be taking care of that for you. The shuttle will be docking in Bay 29 within the hour. Do not attempt to search for them, they will find you. Oh and I suggest you do not struggle. If you're a woman, then have a good day. If you're a man, then mwuaah!!! Kisses!" The transmission ended abruptly.

To say that the message made Lance feel 'happy' was the same as saying that a Neimoidian would gladly entertain the thought of fighitng someone bare-handed. It just didn't jive, at all. Especially that part about being advised not to struggle... that had him on edge, worse than a hornet. And they're gonna hate meeting me when I'm on edge...

Sighing imperceptibly, the major got to work packing his bags. There really wasn't all that much to stuff into the duffel bag, since he didn't have much to worry about. His old wedding ring, which he kept in his arm next to his grandmother's lightsaber, didn't need to be moved at all. His sidearms...another matter. One of the DeathHammers was tucked in nice and neat with his clothing in the bag; the other rested at his side, and he made sure--out of protocol, and not habit--to put his uniform's matching hat on for his walk to the outside of the base. Security would have a fit if he went around armed without indicating as such...and Medical Command would have him discharged for insanity on the spot.

The DC-17m, which had been a nightmare to file requisition forms for, was packed into a second bag, the attachments gently placed in separate compartments with spare clips for each. An extremely safe area had been made on the bag, specially designed for the AA rounds that went with the munitions launcher; Heaven forbid they detonate while simply being carried in a storage bag.

Sure, the gear weighed him down a little, but he was still able to move quickly and easily through the halls, even though he sure as Hell looked awkward carrying two duffel bags. Security questioned him once about his destination, and he provided a very simple explanation: bay 29, exactly as he'd been told. The two guards at the checkpoint waved him onward, and the rest of the walk was without interruption.

As soon as the major arrived, he made his way off to a relatively lonely segment of the massive bay, placing his bags on the floor near him and closing his eyes. To the casual onlooker, it appeared that Lance was trying to catch some desparate sleep standing up; this was far from the truth, however. In actuality, he was trying to clear his mind. With the stress that had started to run through it, the clarity of thought was a welcome relief...

...and so was the strange feeling of inner awareness that it granted.

The shuttle flared its nose up as it came in for a quick landing. The pilot and co-pilot were both veterans of 'hot' insertions and exfiltrations, especially during BlackOps missions. They were used to piloting aggressively but carefully, staying on the fence between spinning out of control and maintaining order. Other pilots called them hotshots, pilots who were crazy, insane, just plain dumb. Perhaps they were right, perhaps not but in this case, these two men were the perfect duo for Oso's crazy assignments. Having them fly around the galaxy, dodging customs frigates, slipping past blockades and transporting live cargo that was always extremely dangerous. It was all in a day's work for these two.

The ground underneath the shuttle was blasted into a fine spray of ice and dirt as the pilot angled the nose towards the sky. The stinging mist obscured the view of everyone in the bay and made life miserable.

Silently, as if wraiths, six men rappelled down the sides of the Sentinel-class shuttle, each armed to the teeth. Boasting carbines tailored to their individual needs, plenty of grenades and thermal detonators, each commando could level an entire building with the explosives strapped to their bodies. Plenty of knives and other sharp objects adorned their bodies while thick body armor covered all their vulnerable areas. One man held a heavy repeater rifle while another carried a flame carbine.

As they touched ground, four men trained their sights on Lance and moved with lightning speed towards him. The other two watched their backs and guarded the shuttle. Switching to stun shots, they closed in without mercy.

The special ice-show did little to help obscure the approaching shuttle, if that was any concern of the people in charge of it; in fact, it served only to make them far more overt than any other ship entering the area. Fortunately for the major, the only part of the entire issue that he could personally detect was the feeling of the cold backwash, part of the usual environment on this wretched ice-ball. With the continued daily grind, Lance was made certain of one thing, something that the minor inconvenience of an additional blast of cold only more harshly confirmed: there was no worse planet in the galaxy.


The approaching soldiers were quiet, to the extent that Lance barely heard the whizzing noise that usually accompanied people descending via rappelling rope. Their collective walk was, despite all of their equipment, whisper-quiet. If nothing else, they were clearly trained professionals... and they reminded Lance of his old team back at Coronet, and how much progress these men had over their Corellian Military counterparts. Almost perfect, even.

Almost.

A powerful scream erupted silently in the major's mind, resounding in only his ears; danger of some kind, closing rapidly and without noise. Clearly, something had to be done, but what? No, drawing the DeathHammer wasn't good...this was a docking bay, for Light's sake. A stray shot would turn the place into a makeshift barbecue pit. As one of them drew nearer than the others, it became clear what there was that could be done... it wasn't much, but it was something.

The pistol came closer to his head, still set to stun, when a metal hand flew up and batted it away, blue eyes snapping open. A flesh and blood hand hurtled upwards almost as quickly, catching the gunman in the jaw with a dull thud. As the first of the four shooters fell, blue bolts began to sear the air, each fired from a position that eliminated crossfire and collateral damage. Moving into a very tight roll, Lance managed to just barely dodge the three shots...

...only to find his left ankle in the durasteel-tight grip of the man he'd knocked down just a second or so earlier. Before he could break free, another salvo of stun shots fired, all three impacting with his back. Darkness took hold of him so fast, he didn't even have time to think of a curse against them.

------

"Private," came the gruff voice. "How's he doing?"

Angela closed up her med-kit, getting up slowly. "He'll be fine. Scan shows no traces of any toxins or other chemical imbalances, and there's nothing mechanical on him other than prosthetics." She turned to face Hack, a cheeky grin on her face. "Do I need to examine you, too, sir?"

Hal's expression was a grim one, and his voice was still very upset-sounding. "No, I'll be alright. Gonna have to take it easy at lunch today in the mess, but alright." Letting out a sigh, he turned his attention to his immediate second-in-command. "Eagle, your shot hit first; call it in."

"Yessir," came the reply, Thomas' voice carrying a warm Imperial accent. Very calmly, he took out his comm-link, signaling Colonel Oso's frequency. "Sergeant Smith to Colonel Oso. Package is inbound intact; repeat, inbound intact."