boxofmisfits | A minor setback

This had not gone according to plan.

He had successfully infiltrated a branch of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, where he was to observe their movements, learn their organizational structure and resources. He'd set up a covert communication triad on the planet, with just enough power to transmit encrypted messages to an off-world listening post without having to rely on the local holonet technology. He had steadily been feeding data back to the Ascendancy on that one-way transmitter, out of contact with his handlers. Until they gave him a sign, he would participate in planning and executing covert operations against the Galactic Empire to keep his cover intact.

And he'd almost grown used to seeing a pale, dull-eyed face in the mirror. His skin and hair follicles had been bleached and tinted with a reversible dye, and a disguise mesh and adaptive lenses had altered his eyes and features enough to make him seem Human.

It had worked. The only close call had been the injuries he'd sustained two months ago, when he'd had to hide their extent from the rest of the group rather than risk them seeing the large blue patches of skin left behind when the bacta patches came off. A little more dye, and he'd been back in character again, undermining the local Imperial presence and fomenting unrest. It wasn't work he was proud of, but he did enjoy the skill it took to pull off.

The arrival of the Seventh Fleet had been unexpected, and, frankly, a disaster. He'd advocated that the Alliance cell fall back out of the system and regroup, but there were too many local partisans who held the area as sacred ground. A battle that soon followed destroyed one pole of his triad, leaving him unable to send a message to the Ascendancy.

They didn't stand a chance. Mitth'raw'nuruodo was not going to be bested by these aliens, and he couldn't tell them why they were doomed without breaking his cover. He couldn't leave, either, not without his cover identity being branded a deserter from the cause. That could still reach other Alliance cells. He would have to wait until he could convince enough of them to flee or go to ground.

It was frustrating, knowing that regardless of what he did, much of his work here had been pointless. The local cell was unraveling, and while he'd begun to sketch out their connections to other groups, it wasn't enough to make it all seem worth it.

He'd hoped, at least, that he had sufficiently secured his own position. But that turned out not to be the case.

The raid struck without warning--perhaps they'd been compromised somehow, he had no idea. Cornered, countermeasures outmatched, there'd been nothing left to do but fight.

The blaster bolt burned a hole in the armored cloth of his coat, and he fell back hard onto the metal floor, hitting his head. He didn't remember very much after that.

Threaded | Flat

The mission had been a simple one. Thrawn had correctly predicted the presence of a rebel cell in the system, even as other Admirals had claimed the area was of no consequence. The rebels didn't stand a chance.

The rebels had refused to fall back, of course. Thrawn knew they wouldn't. They were stubborn and defiant, which was almost admirable. Yet that wouldn't save them from being torn apart.

A lieutenant reported that they'd captured a rebel and were holding him in the brig. The rebel had been injured, and the officer claimed there was something 'weird' about him. Thrawn asked him to elaborate, and the officer said that his blood was the wrong color.

Curious, Thrawn made his way down to the brig, without an escort.

Reaching the prisoner's cell, Thrawn unlocked it and stood in the doorway. No sense in getting ambushed.

no subject