Wed Aug 21, 2019 4:35 pm
Buck does his utmost to appear relatively professional. "Uh... Howdy, Feb...kesho?" There's no way he's going to pronounce the thing's name, so why bother? "We've had some dealin's with Mokila - we've talked most of it over now, really, an' we're just waitin' to catch a ride off this shithole."
"Please pardon my teammate's behavior," Brom interrupts. "He gets a bit anxious in places like this. I'm Connley, by the way - Connley McKale! We're mercenaries, and -"
"I don't care about your names," Feb Keshor interrupts. He's barely paying any attention to the inmates at all; he puts down what he's looking at and picks a laser pistol up off the table.
Brom, not much liking Keshor's attitude, clears his throat and continues. "We made a few enemies by mistake before we happened across him, and they were closing in when he sent us here. I of course offered to stay and fight, but Mokila wouldn't have it."
Feb Keshor, experimenting with the laser pistol, fires a short burst with it at the floor, producing a brief puff of smoke as a layer of grime vaporizes. "And you came here specifically... why?"
This time, Buck starts in before Brom has a chance to open his mouth. "I'd much rather just sit back an' swig some at the Ponderance, but some shithead alien over there dun' wants us dead now 'cause we looked a him queer or somethin'."
Feb Keshor sighs. "Which 'alien'?"
"This frakker was really ugly an' weird," Buck chuckles. "Imagine this - big lizard alien thing, walkin' on two legs like he was a man. Four arms, though, an' spikes on his head. Lots o' armor, too. Think he dun' had one o' them big ol' outworld shotguns. Was shootin' peacekeepers left an' right."
At this description, Feb Keshor's expression darkens; for the first time, the fireteam has his full attention. "Mebasha??" he hisses. "You're on the run from Mebasha?? Then why the hell did Mokila send you here?"
Buck shrugs. "I dunno."
"Mebasha's been staying with us while he's on the station." Feb Keshor turns his attention back to the table of gear, picking up an assault rifle. "He'll be back in a couple hours. You need to be gone by then. Understood?"
But nobody answers: the three inmates have just realized that the gear on the table - guns, PDAs and all - looks exactly like that of Tartarus Inc. Their situation may be even more delicate than they had imagined.
Samuel takes a step back, intimidated. "We're his catspaws!" he blurts out quickly. "He has a job for us at the palace, and told us to go to you for a better bargaining chip. He told us to tell you his name and you'd help us!" In a terrified squeak, he adds, "Please don't shoot us!"
Hosef'Wa's expression darkens slightly; he shows a clear lack of empathy or amusement. Actually, he's starting to look angrier, but at that moment Cole pushes his way past Samuel and speaks up. "We're some mercs Daneelo employed," the soldier says coolly. "There's some lady held prisoner in there that he wants us to get released. He suggested heading here to get some kind of weapon so we'd have an easier time of negotiating with them."
"Hopefully this is a secure area," Polaris hisses warningly. "If anyone else hears that, we’re in for a much harder time."
When the soldiers begin speaking, Hosef'Wa's demeanor changes slightly. He has little use for pathetic cowards and fools, and even less respect, but a warrior? That merits slightly less hatred. "Hmph," he mutters. "Yeah. I know of the girl. And Daneelo says I can help with 'negotiations'?"
Hosef'Wa curses, holsters his weapon, and heads over to some crates in a dark corner of the room.
While Hosef'Wa digs through crates, Polaris and the others get a good look around. The room is somewhat akin to a "basement" and looks like it isn't part of the structure above - in fact, some of the walls are hewn straight out of rock, and the paneled floor looks relatively new. There are rows and rows of shelves in the center of the room, all piled high with various articles of weaponry - guns, melee, what have you. The edges of the room are piled with haphazardly-stacked metallic crates. It's unclear what the contents are, but each of them are stamped in some kind of alien script. None of the inmates can read any of it; there's very little Galactic Standard text in sight.
After several moments, Hosef'Wa walks back with a crate in his lower two arms. With his upper two, he pries off the lid, tosses it clattering to the floor, and removes a device from the interior. "Is called Grarshkat," he growls unpleasantly. "Spiderbot, TD-23, Opitek-made. Would've made good profit off it, dozvosnat. You tell Big Daneelo we're even."
The inmates peer inside and see an eight-legged robot - sleek, black and silver. He raises it out of the crate and drops it to the floor. As soon as it leaves his grasp, it springs to life; it lands softly, clatters and skitters about two paces away from Hosef'Wa and turns back to him, tilting its "head" "curiously" before growing deathly still.
"Good enough for a gift? I show you how it work, or I find something else?"