The Tourist Trap [Emic]

[Salem Norongachi]

Onderon
Iziz City

“You’re going outside in that?”

“I’m on holiday.” Salem responded to the voice of Emah on his ships com.

“Where people can see?” he was beginning to feel a touch self conscious and tugged at the collar of the short sleeved shirt, it was blue with splashes of yellow, the pattern suggested an ocean wave against a sunset, possibly from a beach view. “In that shirt? Where people can see that shirt?”

“It isn’t that bad.” a lie, bold and blatant.

“It looks like a bantha ate its way through a paint factory and vomited on some fabric.”

The ship bucked and danced as it hit Onderon’s atmosphere, the jungles a flow of green carpet at this speed and Iziz off in the distance stood out like a durasteel and plascrete blight on an otherwise natural landscape. The passive sensors of his Helix Class Interceptor were already gathering data, marking the thick high wall that ringed and protected the denizens there in from the predators of the surrounding jungle. Laser cannon batteries were spaced across the wall, fulfilling the role of dealing with terrestrial threats as well as extraterrestrial, such as enemy bombers hoping to blow holes in the city.

As cities went it was damn near a fortress and if the day ever came when the Alliance attempted to take it by force, there would be a lot of freedom lovers lying face down in their own blood at the foot of those walls.

“Iziz Control, this is the independent freighter Wave Dancer requesting landing assignment.” he spoke into a separate channel.

“Iziz control to Wave Dancer, you are cleared for pad 46-C.”

“46-C, confirmed Control.” he clicked off the channel and sat in silence for several moments before exclaiming. “It isn’t that bad a shirt!”

“What was that Wave Dancer?” The voice of the air-traffic controller asked and a sweeping moment of embarrassed dread washed over Norongachi, his eyes wide and fixed on the small com-speaker.

“I-Uh-Not-”

“You really are incredibly gullible.” the familiar female voice cut in, utterly devoid of humor.

“You’re due a memory wipe.” Sal growled at the BRT Super Computer, lying somewhere in deep space outside the Japrael Sector.

“You wouldn’t even know how.” she scoffed.

“Bloody find someone who did…” he muttered under his breath as he brought the ship in over the city starport and the assigned landing pad.

[Emic Lai]

As pleasant a day on the demon moon as was possible, the Chief sitting reclined on a lawn chair, cigarra hanging from her mouth, puffing smoke that dissolved into the humid air. Her fatigues were rolled up to her knees, and her feet were propped up on a cargo crate. The kepi on her head was pulled over eyes, shielding them from the sun as she napped.

“Chief, I’ve received a message from the Onderon Port Authority,” came a voice into the sleeping Zabrak’s ears. In her surprise, she awoke and inhaled sharply, sucking smoke into her lungs and coughing it immediately from her nose. She adjusted her cap to see the caller. Lieutenant Dunwich, uniform as crisp and clean as ever, impossibly so in the moist environment of Dxun.

“Well?” responded the Zabrak.

“An interesting figure has arrived at the spaceport. Known Alliance collaborator named Salem Norongachi,” the Rattataki explained as she brought up a holoimage of the target, as he was last documented at the Iziz spaceport. “Seems to love interfering with Sith operations.” She paused before adding, “And wearing hideous shirts. Should we dispatch a squad to apprehend him? He could prove disruptive to our operations should he get too… curious.”

Emic pondered the image and its implications. “No, I’ll take care of it. Prep a shuttle.”

“Understood, Chief,” said Luce as she turned off the holo, and walked, as regulated and proper as ever, off to the hangar.

Emic stood, and made her way to her quarters that flanked the barracks. She took to her mirror, and sheared the sides of her head, carving her hair into a new style. She had needed a haircut anyway. As the hair fell to the floor, she left the sidelocks as they were. What remained on top of her head was pushed to one flank, leaving the other shaved side on display. She usually didn’t like such styles, but looking like someone who just got back from a Zeltron vacation would help her remain invisible.

Of course, Norongachi had no clue who she was, and wouldn’t recognize her. Thanks to her new look, neither would the Onderonians, and that was the real help. Moving undetected would let her trail the collaborator without the interference of overeager locals.

She dug through her wardrobe for clothes that she had not worn in a long time, not since bar fights back home. A stylish jacket, real leather, and boots of the same. Yet, the transformation was not complete. A brush dipped into black face paint to blend her ink into something new. First was to make it symmetrical, then round the edges. Diamonds into circles, trapezoids into rounded rectangles. Soon, it was a whole new face. Now, she needed a whole new name.

Disguise was a hobby, a way for her to keep her identity safe under the many hats she wore, and a hobby to which she had grown more attached over her black ops work with the Kings. Fingers scrolled a datapad, through all her identities to an unused one. Teeth Terune, violent anarchist and sometimes hitwoman. Adelaisa Mashoni, old-money socialite. Severin Abasa, notorious pit fighter. Finally, the hit. Desmi ‘Scalps’ Kasbin, activist, sometimes vagrant, and all-around punk. Perfect. Her telltale smile grew on her face. “Nice to meet you, Desmi.”

She was strapped into the shuttle soon, and on her way to Iziz. This would be a nice break from the protocol.

[Salem Norongachi]

The lightsaber training droid hadn’t seen action since the bygone days of the Jedi Order. It buzzed around the cargo hold of the Wave Dancer with apparent glee, the noticeable modification to one of its low power blasters catching the overhead lights. It hadn’t taken much to install an optical recording sensor (or camera, for the layman), just a command to one of the many maintenance and engineering droids that kept the Hand of Fate operational.

“D4-V3,” Norongachi called over his shoulder as he adjusted the body armour under his shirt to hide any noticeable bulges. The droid stopped mid-flight and turned the circular optical sensor toward him. “This is a big city, we’re probably going to go into the Jungle as well,” he strapped a weapon holster to his hip and gave his Westar pistol a spin before slotting it into place. “You can’t be buzzing around like a crazy person, what’ll I do if you get lost? Or stolen? Or both? Do I strike you as the type of man to carry his own camera?” he slipped a vibro shiv into his boot while the droid appeared to consider this.

“Well?” the dazzle of the flash nearly stunned him and he stumbled backwards barely managing to catch the edge of the weapons locker before he went face first into the serrated edge section.

Black and blue spots phased in and out of existence and with some effort he managed to focus on the little droid. “Disable flash.” he growled and blinked his way toward the ships lowering boarding ramp.

“Name, ship name, purpose of and duration of stay.” the port authority peon said with bored monotony not even bothering to look up from her datapad when Sal and D4 approached the check-in kiosk.

“Salem Norongachi, Wave Dancer, tourism and hunting, no more than a week.” the woman began to input the relevant information and then looked up, finally, into the scarred face of Norongachi, his medium length black hair swept back and his green eyes hidden from view by a pair of standard issue tourist sunglasses. He risked a friendly smile.

“In that shirt? Any animal would see you before you left the city gates.” and run away screaming, she added internally. D4 beeped the equivalent of amusement above and behind Sal’s left shoulder.

“Are we done here?” the change in Salem's being from amiable tourist to stone cold happened so quickly it jarred the port worker into silence and she gingerly offered him the datapad, which he applied his signature and thumbprint to for confirmation. “Have a nice day.” his tone left her wondering if that was a threat but thankfully the man in the shades and garish shirt stepped aside and another faceless arrival took his place.

[Emic Lai]

The shuttle that the Kings used for trips to Onderon set gently down in its private landing pad, away from the prying eyes of the spaceport and far past customs. One final comm to the lieutenant, and it was relayed to Emic that the tourist had just left the port authority checkpoint and was beginning to wander Iziz.

Stepping from the ship and ducking quickly into the streets, she found a nice corner to wait for more information of her quarry’s path, or if she was lucky, he would walk right down this busy avenue. Before she posted up, she slipped into a hardware store and bought some spray paint, sliding it onto a leather belt.

With a pack of cigarettes in a jacket pocket and a hand running through her freshly-cut hair, she waited for that atrocious shirt to go somewhere notable. Then, she’d work her magic.