There is some part of me deep down inside that knows this isn?t all necessary. It?s the part that whines and complains when I?m stumbling down a filthy alley or letting some thug bully me. It?s the part of me that wonders just what the hell I?m doing it for when I?ve got to force myself to take the punch head on, rather than swivel to my left, chop up and out with my right hand, break the attacking arm at the elbow, and drive my other first into the attacker?s solar plexus.
It?s the part of me that really hates the taste of scotch, and the part that wonders what it must be like to be affected by alcohol.
Then there?s that other part of me. It?s the part that?s seen good men die. It?s the part that?s been on the the wrong side of an interrogation room. It?s the part of me that?s seen what happens to the people who let their guard down.
So I stumble through the streets, reeking of the alcohol I?ve been drinking and spilling for weeks now. My clothes are baggy and cheap, the better to play into the role of the poor sap who fell face-first into Rhy?Din and is barely making enough money to support his drinking habit. They?re comfortable, and they hide my gear perfectly, but they?ve hardly seen a drop of water since I got them.
If you think playing undercover bum is rough work, try playing it with a hyper-sensitive sense of smell. Not so much fun.
Still, it?s been useful. People don?t tend to watch their words around the drunks and the bums. They?re treated like children. If they don?t appear to be actively listening in on the conversation, then they must not be. I?ve learned a lot in the past few weeks: enough so that I?m pretty sure I can make my way out of the city with the gear that I need - and without getting spotted.
Some of it?s easy. The water?s easy to come by. A dark brown bottle looks the same whether it?s filled with water or booze, and nobody finds it odd to see me stumbling down the street with one in my hand.
The rest of it?s not so easy. I?ve been working the docks for a few weeks now, loading and unloading cargo. It takes some doing, but I manage to ?misplace? a crate of cloth, leather strips, and sewing materials. Sure, it?s all multi-colored high-fashion crap, but it?ll get the job done. All I really need is something to keep me out of the shade for too long. UV rays don?t mean much to me, but you?d be surprised the amount of power you can soak up out of the desert sun. Don?t want to get any twitcher than usual out there, if you know what I mean. The leather?ll make good replacement boots, at least, and my SNEAK suit will provide most of the resistance to the wind and sand.
I know what you?re thinking. Why not just have Wolvie beam the latest high-tech stuff to some drop point and pick it up on my way out of town? Hell, why not just have him beam me out into the desert in the first place?
Cause I don?t fancy getting killed, that?s why. The transporter?s annular confinement beam causes enough background fluctuation that anyone with a compass and a working knowledge of electro-magnetism can figure out it?s been used. Whatever this thing is out there, Wolvie doesn?t want anyone else knowing about it yet, otherwise he wouldn?t be bringing it to me.
So we do it the old fashioned way. Truth be told, I kind of like it that way anyway.
***
I?m out of the city by sundown the next day, after making sure to make a big depressing scene of drinking and yelling in the local Inn. If anyone thinks to ask - and I?ve given them no reason TO ask - they?ll just assume old Dolus is sleeping off a binge in a gutter somewhere. If I did my job correctly though, I won?t have registered on anyone?s radar yet anyway. No questions, no worries.
***
The desert?s bigger than I expected. Kilometers listed on a PADD don?t quite add up into a real visual in my brain. I need to see it to really understand it.
The sun - as alien to me as they all are - beats a steady symphony of energy down on my head as I make my trek into the desert. Already the wind and sand are whipping and tearing at the ridiculous bright green and pink cloth of my makeshift traveling cloak. From a distance I probably look like an Orion who got into a horrible accident at a bubblegum factory. Or maybe like an Orc with a really bad fashion sense.
Or, that part of me says, you just look like one great big neon target.
I sigh then, pull out my Tricorder, squint through the blasting sand and wind, and check my heading one last time. Straight ahead. Whatever?s out there, it?s thataway.
I just hope I have enough backup plans for when this all goes bad.
It?s the part of me that really hates the taste of scotch, and the part that wonders what it must be like to be affected by alcohol.
Then there?s that other part of me. It?s the part that?s seen good men die. It?s the part that?s been on the the wrong side of an interrogation room. It?s the part of me that?s seen what happens to the people who let their guard down.
So I stumble through the streets, reeking of the alcohol I?ve been drinking and spilling for weeks now. My clothes are baggy and cheap, the better to play into the role of the poor sap who fell face-first into Rhy?Din and is barely making enough money to support his drinking habit. They?re comfortable, and they hide my gear perfectly, but they?ve hardly seen a drop of water since I got them.
If you think playing undercover bum is rough work, try playing it with a hyper-sensitive sense of smell. Not so much fun.
Still, it?s been useful. People don?t tend to watch their words around the drunks and the bums. They?re treated like children. If they don?t appear to be actively listening in on the conversation, then they must not be. I?ve learned a lot in the past few weeks: enough so that I?m pretty sure I can make my way out of the city with the gear that I need - and without getting spotted.
Some of it?s easy. The water?s easy to come by. A dark brown bottle looks the same whether it?s filled with water or booze, and nobody finds it odd to see me stumbling down the street with one in my hand.
The rest of it?s not so easy. I?ve been working the docks for a few weeks now, loading and unloading cargo. It takes some doing, but I manage to ?misplace? a crate of cloth, leather strips, and sewing materials. Sure, it?s all multi-colored high-fashion crap, but it?ll get the job done. All I really need is something to keep me out of the shade for too long. UV rays don?t mean much to me, but you?d be surprised the amount of power you can soak up out of the desert sun. Don?t want to get any twitcher than usual out there, if you know what I mean. The leather?ll make good replacement boots, at least, and my SNEAK suit will provide most of the resistance to the wind and sand.
I know what you?re thinking. Why not just have Wolvie beam the latest high-tech stuff to some drop point and pick it up on my way out of town? Hell, why not just have him beam me out into the desert in the first place?
Cause I don?t fancy getting killed, that?s why. The transporter?s annular confinement beam causes enough background fluctuation that anyone with a compass and a working knowledge of electro-magnetism can figure out it?s been used. Whatever this thing is out there, Wolvie doesn?t want anyone else knowing about it yet, otherwise he wouldn?t be bringing it to me.
So we do it the old fashioned way. Truth be told, I kind of like it that way anyway.
***
I?m out of the city by sundown the next day, after making sure to make a big depressing scene of drinking and yelling in the local Inn. If anyone thinks to ask - and I?ve given them no reason TO ask - they?ll just assume old Dolus is sleeping off a binge in a gutter somewhere. If I did my job correctly though, I won?t have registered on anyone?s radar yet anyway. No questions, no worries.
***
The desert?s bigger than I expected. Kilometers listed on a PADD don?t quite add up into a real visual in my brain. I need to see it to really understand it.
The sun - as alien to me as they all are - beats a steady symphony of energy down on my head as I make my trek into the desert. Already the wind and sand are whipping and tearing at the ridiculous bright green and pink cloth of my makeshift traveling cloak. From a distance I probably look like an Orion who got into a horrible accident at a bubblegum factory. Or maybe like an Orc with a really bad fashion sense.
Or, that part of me says, you just look like one great big neon target.
I sigh then, pull out my Tricorder, squint through the blasting sand and wind, and check my heading one last time. Straight ahead. Whatever?s out there, it?s thataway.
I just hope I have enough backup plans for when this all goes bad.