The man with the glowrod somehow managed to dodge the sniper's shot, which planted itself firmly in the face of the prone figure he had previously held pinned. Bits of the latter's face, propelled by the small charge inside the bullet, exploded outward in a grotesque fountain of blood and gore.

Randel watched the scene unfold with a sort of serenity that comes only to those with recent head trauma and the clinically retarded.

The poor son of a bitch.

Glowrod may have escaped the sniper's first shot, but Randel could see the merc furiously reloading, preparing to do with a second shot what he had almost done with the first.

I wonder why sniper rifles always seem to have a one round magazine.

Randel was no expert on sniper rifles, or any type of rifle for that matter, but everytime he saw a sniper in a holo-film they always had to reload after every shot. Even in Randel's current state of mind it seemed horrendously inefficient.

The merc was taking aim now, the butt of his gun pressed firmly into his shoulder, and much to Randel's surprise Glowrod was still standing straight up, in plain sight, near the corpse of the dead merc.

Time for Mother Nature to thin the herd.

Randel grinned at the thought. Anyone too stupid to run for cover, to do anything beside stand motionless in a situation like this deserved their fate. Of course, Randel had tried to run away, and it hadn't helped his position by much.

Then, in an instant, Randel realized that Glowrod hadn't been completely motionless. He had grabbed a nearby piece of debris, and hefted the chunk of twisted durasteel in his palm.

Randel grinned, a maniacal, cackling, lock me up in the madhouse grin. The odds of taking down a sniper, hell anything, at this range with a hunk of metal were incredibly low. The sheer thought of it was preposterous. Of all the harebrained, half-stoned, mentally derelict ideas one could possibly ponder in a situation like this, it had to rank among the top five worst.

Hmmm... he's got a high powered rifle, large scope, probably wearing body armor... I think I'll throw a hunk of metal at him. That ought to do it.

This guy must be bat-shit cra...

Glowrod hurled the piece of metal with what seemed like a casual effort. The debris flew straight and true (defying every possible law of aerodynamics- there was no way this thing was meant to fly that far that fast with such a high level of accuracy) and connected squarely with the sniper's head. The merc stumbled, then tumbled off the ledge into the pillar of fire rising from a wrecked freighter.

Randel Terrance blinked profusely.

Glowrod made his way over to Randel, though his namesake tool had either be discarded or put away, because Randel saw no trace of it on the man.

“There you are…Was there anyone else with you? What happened here?”

His voice was soft and had soothing tone.

Randel didn’t respond immediately, but allowed the man to help him to his feet. A resurgent tidal wave of pain reminded Randel why he had not been able to get up on his own.

“I’m taking you to help. Medical teams will be arriving shortly.”

Glowrod started leading him forward, supporting much of Randel's weight on his shoulders, away from the carnage and destruction. Randel gingerly took a few steps forward, thankful to have escaped the ordeal.

Wait.

Randel slowed, allowing his whole body weight to rest on his rescuer. He was forgetting something, something important. The cloud that hung over his mind, the blackness, was obfuscating exactly what it was, but it was most definitely important.

What is it... what I am I forgetting.

"Come on, help is this way."

Glowrod's voice remained soothing, but a slight bit of firmness, a tone of leadership and guidance had slipped into it. Randel felt his resistance begin to fade. He knew that Glowrod was right. He did need medical attention. Doctors, doctors and medical droids, and bacta tanks and their syringes. They would make it all better...

THE SUITCASE!

Randel lurched backward, away from the support of Glowrod, and staggered, his body teetering as it tried to support the sudden increase of weight. Somehow he managed to stay upright for several strides, carrying his battered frame back towards where he had been laying.

Randel didn't know how he knew where the suitcase was, nor how he managed to propel himself long enough to get to it.

But he did.

He made it to the somewhat charred, dented (but still closed and locked) metal suitcase, and grasped his hand tightly around its handle.

Then he fainted.



Randel Terrance opened his eyes, and he knew immediately he was in a hospital because the walls were white and the lights were unusually bright.

The medical droid leering down at him, with unknown medical device in it's right appendage that was moving in the direction of his person reinforced that fact quite nicely.

Randel sat up quickly, his eyes scanning the room, and he saw Glowrod (why was he called Glowrod?) and a man in a white coat who had to be a doctor. Out of the corner of his eye, Randel noticed the briefcase, sitting on a chair near his bed.

On the plus side, his sudden movement had not left him racked with excruciating pain, which considering he was in a hospital was probably a good thing.

One the minus, he had absolutely know idea where he was.

Seemed like a good place to start.

"Where am I?"

It just didn’t make sense.

Irtar sat in the taxi, watching the sun pass in and out of the skyscrapers. Traffic was laden with people making their way to work. Cars, expensive and poor, packed end to end on the street. On the streets below, numerous bicyclers rushed along. How many people like them were harmed in the events that transpired earlier?

Emergency crews were still combing the wrecks and controlling the fires on a couple of the vessels. And over what? Irtar intended to find out. The man he found in the spaceport was in one of the ambulances clearing the road in front of them, the taxi keeping close behind the screeching vehicles. Irtar had to find out more about the man.

It wasn’t just because the man had helped to save his life. It wasn’t just because he was one of the only survivors who could have some answers. It was because he could have THE answers. The suitcase the man had more or less forced himself to try and get was the same the mercenary had taken. All this death and carnage had to have been centered around it. But why?

Irtar looked down at the plain metal case. The thing was locked, and he didn’t have the key. He could cut it open with the lightsaber but what prevented the case from being trapped? It seemed ridiculous but so did the idea of mercenaries shooting up the spaceport to get said briefcase. He was at least going to wait until that other man woke up.

If nothing more, he deserved the chance to explain before they drew their own conclusions.

---------------------------------

Hospitals always had the most peculiar air about them. The place was so busy and hectic, with the sick and wounded having this and that done to them. But yet, there was this overbearing sterile sense to it. The white halls and uniforms, and the smell of antibiotics all overriding the disease that permeated everywhere. Or perhaps, it was the sign of the success of the hospital against disease?

Irtar didn’t have too much time to ponder such questions. There was a far greater question bearing onto his mind, the answer of which would alleviate much suffering within him. It had been bothering him ever since he had sat down. It was that burning feeling in his backside.

Why did they have to make hospital benches so uncomfortable?

It really didn’t feel like there was any point to the blue ‘cushions’ on the thing. Did they want to discourage people waiting in the hospital? Just when he was thinking about giving up and standing, Irtar saw a group of men clad in green uniforms. The silver badge upon their chest identified them as part of the Sinsangese Security Force.

The SSF were one of the best police forces in the Outer Rim, if not the best. Despite the best work of the Coalition, much of the Outer Rim was still underdeveloped backwater. But many thank the high amount of internal security as to why Sinsang has always been prosperous, sometimes even rivalling Mid-Rim counterparts in terms of quality of life. But unfortunately, in the chaos of the times there’s always types who manage to slip through and raise all sorts of trouble like earlier.

The men came towards the ambassador and the man in the center looked down at him. The man was obviously of higher rank, since he had more brass on him than his companions. He apathetically just drew forth a datapad and hit a couple of buttons on it.

“Ambassador Mal’Gro, I am Captain Hikigo Iori of the SFF. I have some questions for you.” The man said in a cold and professional tone. He looked over at Irtar expectantly. “Like what you were doing at the scene of a terrorist attack on the property of the People of Sinsang?”

“I bet you wouldn’t even believe me if I told you.” Irtar said light heartedly as a small smirk came to his lips. When he looked up to the officer and saw his chill eyes gazing down upon him, Irtar straightened up. “Eh heh. Well, I decided to go down to the market around there early. Y’know, before the rush and crap when the shops around there just open up. It’s my sister’s birthday coming up and I was looking for an old show she used to watch as a kid. And that’s when I heard the explosion….”

After a long explanation, and leaving out the fact the mercenaries had made a move for the briefcase, the officer took a hard look at him. He cast another long gaze at the metal briefcase before returning his gaze to the ambassador. “Is that all the details Ambassador Mal’Gro?”

“Well, all that I can remember. In between the exploding wreckage, and the deranged para-militants shooting up the place I may have lost a detail or two.” Irtar retorted with a hint of sarcasm. Iori narrowed his eyes on the former Jedi, and Irtar knew that if he wasn’t an Ambassador he would’ve gotten a fine or two.

“Very well, Ambassador Mal’Gro. I will be returning to question some of the other survivors later. I suggest you allow us to handle this, since the courts don’t recognize Jedi Jurisdiction. Anything you do would just be tampering with evidence.” Captain Hikigo Iori stated bluntly as he returned the datapad to its pocket. “But since I cannot detain you Ambassador, you may do as you wish. But consider yourself… advised.”

“I’ll be sure to take that into consideration.” Irtar said as he got up, and offered a smile to the officer. “But I wouldn’t mind at least thanking the man who gave me a heads up. Good day and good luck in the investigation.”

It was more to get away from the officer than anything else. He had told the doctor to come and get him when that guy regained consciousness. Well, it also gave him an excuse to stretch out and get away from that bench. When he came to the sterile room, he saw the doctor running over a couple of the notes on a datapad while checking some of the bacta patches.

“How is he doctor?” Irtar asked as he put the metal briefcase on a nearby chair. The doctor looked up, a bit of shock on his face. He probably was so involved in his work he hadn’t noticed the Jedi come in.

“I thought I asked you to wait in the hall, Ambassador Mal’Gro?” The doctor asked as he returned to his work. A tinge of annoyance had crept its way into in his voice.

“Well, yeah.” Irtar mumbled in a somewhat bashful manner. “But the SFF are about and, well, the Captain has been giving me the death gaze. So I just decided to step in for a moment while him and his boys do their rounds.”

“Well, if you must know he is taking the bacta treatments well enough. Most of his wounds weren’t serious and I was thinking of holding him the night for observation.” The doctor said as he finished whatever he was doing and turned around. A medical droid in the room moved in to try and resume whatever treatment the doctor was doing. “Now, he isn’t conscious and you’re not family. So I’d like it if you returned to the waiting room and give the patient some room to breathe.”

Suddenly, came a third voice into this conversation. "Where am I?"

Both Irtar and the doctor turned simultaneously to the formerly unconscious person. “Bei-diang General Hospital.” The doctor said as he took back out his datapad and jotted something down. “Now Ambassador Mal’Gro, may you leave the room while I ask the patient some confidential questions?”

“Well, sure. But first I’d like to ask him something.” Irtar said to the doctor who gave him this entirely unimpressed look. “Now, now. It’ll be fast and with that I’ll be out of your hair okay? He’s obviously conscious enough to talk.”

With a groan, the doctor left the two for the time being. In a moment, Irtar turned to the man with a nod. “Okay, first off I’d like to say thanks. I probably wouldn’t be standing here right now without your warning. And I’d thank you as proper as I could if not for the doctor wanting me out of his hair. So I’ll just cut straight to the chase.”

Irtar grabbed the briefcase and sat down in the chair he had put it on. He ran his fingers along and watched the man. “Okay, so tell me why a group of militants were willing to shoot up a Coalition spaceport in order to get this?”

It took a moment for Randel Terrance's brain to process the information that Glowrod and the man in the white coat had given in unison. Randel's mind was mired in a thick haze, and he struggled mightily to focus his mental faculties on deciphering the information.

After what seemed to be an inordinately long time, he managed to remember that Bai-Daing was the capital city of Sinsang. This piece of information was virtually useless however, because while it provided Randel with answer to the pressing query "where" it left him clueless in regards to the equally important "how" and the always crucial "why". Randel had racked his brain searching for the appropriate memories that could answer those questions, but they all seemed jumbled together. It was like someone had taken them, his vivid, living recollections and shoved them into a food processor set to blend. He was left with a grayish, amalgamated blob that contained all the proper ingredients for understanding, but was instead absolutely useless.

He latched onto the only relevant information he could, his current location. Sinsang. Affiliated with the Galactic Coalition, industrialized, at least by Outer Rim standards. Close to Dantooine. Useless, completely irrelevant trivia. For the life of him, Randel could not recall why he had chosen Sinsang.

If he had chosen it at all.

The thought gained a foothold in the fertile ground of paranoia and confusion that was currently dominating Randel's mind. His mind, desperate for something that would fill the void left by his missing memories, took the idea down the only logical progression: he couldn't remember why he was here because he had been drugged. He didn't remember coming to Sinsang because he hadn't- at least not of his own free will. The medical droid next to his bed (conveniently holding an object Randel didn't recognize) must be administering some sort of coercive agent. He was about to be interrogated, possibly tortured.

Randel turned his attention toward Glowrod and the doctor just in time to here Glowrod utter the statement, "He’s obviously conscious enough to talk" which only lent more credibility to the theory.

Randel steeled himself for the worst as the doctor groaned and left the room, leaving him alone with Glowrod. His body felt fatigued, and he wondered if the medical droid was administering some sort of sedative at that very moment.

Glowrod turned back to Randel and spoke.

“Okay, first off I’d like to say thanks. I probably wouldn’t be standing here right now without your warning. And I’d thank you as proper as I could if not for the doctor wanting me out of his hair. So I’ll just cut straight to the chase.”

Randel had not been expecting that.

The mental construct, his confounded brain's half-witted attempt to explain what had been/what was going on fell apart courtesy of a single stiff blow of logic- you didn't begin an interrogation by thanking a prisoner for saving your life.

But the haze in Randel's mind refused to clear, and despite his best efforts he could not find within the depths of his mind the incident about which Glowrod was talking.

Glowrod. Why do I keep calling him Glowrod?

An image, previously distorted, suddenly became clear- distinctly bright amid the gray morass of his jumbled memories. The image of Glowrod, standing over a corpse with a horribly disfigured face, holding in his hand a luminous object with a light blue tint. That light burst forth, searing and burning through the fog that clouded his mind, and he saw, he remembered:

An interdictor cruiser annihilating a corellian corvette, an escape pod, men in military fatigues, a hail of blaster fire, a fiery inferno, a metal suitcase, a torrent of blood and flesh, the pain and the confusion and the insanity of it all.

Glowrod grabbed the suitcase, the very same suitcase from Randel’s memories, and ran his fingers along its dented, scarred surface.

”Okay, so tell me why a group of militants were willing to shoot up a Coalition spaceport in order to get this?”

Randel knew that the suitcase was very important. He remembered that the man from the escape pod had inquired about immediately after regaining consciousness, and the last thing he could remember doing was running back to pick it up. He did not know, however, how to express why this was the case.

“I don’t know.”

Randel could see Irtar was not satisfied with that answer. But before he could begin to explain why he didn’t know, before Irtar could ask any more questions, they were both distracted by the somewhat muffled, but unmistakable, sound of blasterfire that was immediately followed by a high pitched scream…

Qive was angry.

Punching the orderly who attempted to keep him from entering the intensive care wing of Bai-Daing General Hospital helped relieve a fraction of his pent up fury.

A very small fraction.

Qive let the huge hooded overcoat he had been wearing drop to the floor, abandoning the last pre-tense of subtlety that Tir Esias had insisted upon. Now, instead of a gargantuan humanoid figure whose exact species was somewhat obfuscated by the immense coat, he was a gargantuan alien species whose exact species was obfuscated by a vast array of military hardware, armor plating and the fact that, with one or two notable exceptions, the Gen'Dai race had spent the last millennia or so herding nomadic livestock on their remote, bucolic homeworld.

The orderly slumped to the floor. A woman screamed. Some hotshot rent-a-cop hospital security guard moved to draw whatever pathetic excuse for a weapon that was strapped to his belt, most likely a stunstick or truncheon.

Qive drew one of his oversized Merr-Sonn 434 Deathhammer heavy blaster pistols and blew a smoking hole in the man's chest.

"Enough Qive! We are wasting valuable time."

The voice belonged to a man standing slightly behind the behemoth. He wore a crimson suit and held at his side a long walking cane. His skin was pale, quite in contrast to the straight locks of ebony hair that flowed down to his neck line. Black, smoky glasses covered his eyes and confirmed the prognosis of his disability for those who misread the cane as some sort of elderly crutch.

Qive moved toward the large sliding doors and found the way unblocked. The waiting room around him was astonishingly quiet and still, despite the several dozen sentients (mostly human but with a smattering of non-humans) who still occupied it.

As if reading his mind (though, considering who he was talking about, maybe he had) Tir spoke.

"I've temporarily suppressed their reactions to preserve the maximum amount of hysteria."

Qive didn't respond- he had worked with Tir long enough that such peculiarities were surprisingly commonplace. He stepped through the doorway and started down the hall. He heard the distinctive clack of Tir's cane against the tile floor, and then the muffled sound of pandemonium erupted from the waiting room they had just left.

The ensuing chaos might slow the inevitable response of the Sinsangese authorities, but not by too much. Qive turned and fired a pair of blaster bolts into the door's locking mechanism. That might add another minute or so, maybe less, to the response time for Sinsang's finest.

Frankly though, Qive was hoping they made it in time to interfere.

He had recently been apprised of the fact that a man who was supposed to be dead (and not just dead, but dead by Qive's own hand) had somehow managed to survive. This fact, along with several other related nuggets of information, provided the explanation for why he was accompanying Tir Esias to a hospital on one of Galactic Coalition’s most important (and therefore most heavily defended) planets. The reputation of the SSF was of a very professional, competent security force.

Which would make crushing whatever attempt they made to stop him all the more satisfying.

"This way Qive."

Tir Esias may have been blind but Qive didn't hesitate for a moment as his charge turned down a side corridor. Tir Esias was very rarely wrong about anything. Then Tir stopped.

"A Jedi."

Tir's spoke the phrase with a combination of intrigue and annoyance. The first thing that came to Qive's mind was the diminutive (but certainly dangerous) from of Vodo Baas. Before Qive could inquire about the proclaimation, Tir raised his cane and pointed.

"Our target is in the third room on the right."

Qive peered down the hall, and noticed a figure in a white lab coat tapping his foot impatiently outside of the room Tir had enumerated.

"Our first priority is the suitcase. If it is not present, then the spacer assumes that mantle."

'What about the Jedi?"

Qive knew from his breifing that their target was not known to be a force-user. He also knew that Tir Esias had not made his easlier remark as some sort of jest.

"If he interferes, kill him."

And with that statement, Tir began walking briskly toward the unsuspecting doctor, Qive on his heels.

“I don’t know.” Was all the man said. A simple answer but was it an honest answer? He had run back to grab it after all. Would someone risk themselves for something they didn’t even know?

Irtar looked at the man seriously, taking a deep breath. He was about to go into a list of questions to probe what he could about the thing. The means to open it, the reason for its existence, and how it entered the man’s life. But that would have to be saved for another time. Irtar’s thoughts on the matter were cut off by the familiar sounds of screams and blaster fire.

Was there a second squad? Was it so important that maybe another group was after it as violently as the first? Irtar quickly picked up the case and ran towards some cupboards in the room. Promptly throwing the suitcase into there and shutting the doors Irtar looked back at the man in the bed.

“I dunno what’s going on, but I’m betting it has to do with that damn thing. How are you feel? Alright enough to move? To run?” Irtar asked the stranger. “Because I’m betting things are about to become a dangerous.”

“A bit, I can try.” The man said as he began to make his way out of the bed, grimacing his face in pain. Irtar tried to offer what help he could and guided the man to the bathroom attached to the room. Irtar sat him there in the corner least likely to take blaster fire.

“Stay here and try not to get killed…” Irtar said and went back into the room, standing to the side of the door. His lightsaber drawn at the ready and waiting for whatever was going to come through that door.

Prepared to swing for a gun, or throw back a grenade. Irtar felt confident he was prepared for whatever this new band of mercenaries could offer, but then he felt it. The shiver that just crawled up his spine.

He felt someone with the Force.

Irtar’s entire though process just suddenly stammered and nearly fell to pieces. The entire strategy and purpose changes when a Forcer becomes involved. They knew what he knew, and sometimes more. And he didn’t gain the advantage of hesitation from them. Most people didn’t know much about the Force and that was an advantage when fighting the uneducated.

And the coldness that coiled around him…. Was he yet another Sith come to try and prove himself by coming after him? Or was this just the onset of pure coincidence that both he and this briefcase were together?

Then it dawned on Irtar. A realization that allowed him to clear his mind, at least for the time being. Why did the why matter? Either way, these people were willing to kill their way through people in a callous manner to get to this room. Be it for him or that briefcase didn’t matter. Either way, he was going to have to fight to stop them.

If they wanted to kill him, then either way he’ll have to fight for his life. If they wanted the suitcase, it had to be for ill-intent to which more people will be hurt. Either course was unacceptable other than to stand and fight.

With lightsaber in hand, Irtar stood in wait. Now, prepared for the fight to come.