Risk didn't like Sith.
It was a dangerous dislike to have in the Sith Empire, but it was there
all the same. Sure, they paid well. Sure, their squabbles kept her and
the Clan with a never-ending supply of jobs to pick from. But Sith?
They were dangerous, unpredictable, and if she were honest with herself,
it boiled down to the Force.
Their use of it.
Their abuse of it.
The way they thought they had the right to trickle thoughts into a
mind, the way they thought they had the right to dictate conditions,
controls, plans, avenues - the way they felt they were the only ones to
have the right of power.
The Mirialan had her gauntlets pulled off, a file in one hand as she
sharpened the claws attached to the back of the gauntlet's hands. Her
helm was set aside as well, an almost meditative look to her scarred
face as she worked. Schink. They were sharp, sharp enough to stab into armor, sharp enough to rake skin and leave bloodied gashes behind.
It all came down to the job, didn't it?
She'd landed the Clan a nice little gig, babysitting a Sith House and
its assets. The first job had gone off without a hitch, covert shipping
from the homeworld of Dromund Kaas to wherever the Sith had begun to
hole up. But then she'd met the allies of the House she'd stitched a
job with.
Schink.
They were all Purebloods, the heads of the Houses. And they were
hotheads, the other two - pacing and growling, using the Force on
whomever they wanted. Her lip curled as she once more filed the claws,
scar slashing across her face pulling skin oddly with the expression.
One of 'em had lost one of their number - she didn't know the ranks
they'd used and by that point she was more inclined to turn and leave
than stick around and ask what the kriff everything was about.
It wasn't part of her job, to be involved. And it wasn't in the Clan's
interest to be involved, either. Not judging by the snarls and threats
and bickering she'd seen. There was another Clan involved with the lot
and she knew she was frowning, fitting the gauntlets back onto her
forearms and meticulously locking the clasps, sliding the claws against
each other. The other Alor'd spent too much time with the Sith, she
figured, and the Clan was suffering for it.
"Risk," a voice called from her helm, the woman picking it up and sliding
it on, locking it into place. "Got a job from a regular."
"Who?"
"Arwen."
Risk grinned, standing up. "Forward it."
~~~~
"Please!"
Risk's helm moved as she turned to face the sobbing woman.
"Please, don't... don't kill us. We...we can pay you!"
The twin blasters pointed, one at the unconscious man, clobbered on the
back of the head by Risk, and the other at the sobbing woman. The
contract details were displayed inside her helm, eyes moving as she
scrolled through the particulars.
"Sorry lady."
She pulled the triggers, hitting both the woman and the man in the
center of their foreheads. The jerking and crumpled fall of their
bodies made a soft, impactive thud on the plascrete.
The little boy, hiding behind a fallen table, let out a shrill scream as
the sight of his parents filtered into his brain. The contract had
specified the couple's death and the boy's survival. Holstering her
blasters, Risk moved quickly, picking up the screaming child and firing
one last shot, stunning the kid. Carefully cradling him in her arms,
Risk left the scene.
The boy was delivered to his uncle, her fee was paid. The reason for
the mark had been laid out, and it was one Risk was happy to help with.
She'd kept her cool, as much as she'd itched to leave the bodies
mangled.
The kid would get over the jarring experience. With some therapy he'd
get over what his own parents had done to him, too.
