THE RECRUIT

OSK: Memories

YV-865 Aurore-class Freighter
Unyielding
Destination: Coruscant
LST: Unknown // Day On-Board: 11
RC-5570

Sergeant Mech eyes each of the POV screens offset at the bottom of his HUD. Hardcopy's display window shows a 2-D model of little red lines mapping where the ten crewmates are moving around in the YV-865 freighter at. Like pathways on a navcomputer— thanks to a healthy dose of Dust, courtesy of Kal Skirata and his seemingly endless resources— they've been tracking the men and their patterns as they come and go on the ship. The Dust is a fine microscopic tracking powder, each particle capable of relaying its location back to their HUDs. It lasts about two weeks. If these men are working for the Seperatists they'll find out.

Mech hangs his head stretching out his stiff neck having been laying prone for a better part of eight hours. RYNO Squadron was assigned to a covert op on Unyielding for eleven days now. The ventilation system feeling more confining as the hours press on. No stims, not yet.

Sparkstick's POV bounces to an unknown beat. From the grates in front of his face, he's hold up in a floor maintenance shaft. A couple of pairs of boots walk over the floor panel. His HUD labels them as ENGINEER and LOADMASTER[A]. Mech opens the same nav-window Hardcopy is studying and, as usual, finds LOADMASTER[B]'s red line heading towards the refreshers.

Mech opens the short-range comlink to Sparkstick but gets an earful of bouncy Glimmick music. He cuts the link. The comms have a ten-meter radius and Hardcopy is in the lower cargo hold. I'll ask Cardshark.

"Seventy to ten. Come back Cardshark."

Cardshark's display is completely dark. A window maximized in his field of view. The strip-cam— all the high-technical workings of a holocam compressed into the size of a piece of flimsy— is angled towards the helm of the freighter. A middle-aged man in oil stained caution-yellow coveralls stares off into a swirling blue tunnel outside the permaglass. He holds a transperisteel cup sipping on colorless liquid. The label on his head reads: PILOT. Hardcopy had the brilliant idea of tagging each crew mate. It makes things significantly easier, I'll give him that.

"I read ya, Sarge," says Cardshark his voice just above a whisper. He could talk regularly if he wanted to. Their helmets sealed any noise they made until the external audio is opened. But two precautionary habits are good.

"I need a sitrep," Mech says just as quietly.

"Is it me or does PILOT look li—"

"No." Mech cuts him off. They'd concluded PILOT shares their similar facial features, like the tanned skin, brown eyes, and square jaw but that's where the similarities end. He slouches and coughs like he's hacking up his left lung. He doesn't talk much either, preferring to drink tihaar and chain smoke cigarras. "Unless you've got some information to share I'll wait for Hardcopy to report in."

Cardshark takes the jab in stride. "PILOT has us heading towards Coruscant on another run. CO-PILOT is getting bored. He's already munched through two packs of chewstims and is working on a third. OPERATOR hasn't budged since our departure from the Outer-Rim."

"Destination and item pickup is still TBD?"

"Yup. Just like the last thirty runs."

"Figures. Alright, when we land you know the drill."

"Copy that, Sarge."