This petition is not on behalf of Czerka, this is a personal matter. One of formality and necessity.
Passion and Glory,
Miss Haze
She didn’t have to verify the contents of the closure to the message, but her hands froze, her luminous eyes stared over the words to the holo message. Miss Haze had already known the entire content and topic, even if certain details to the topic at hand did not compute to her. This was important, but the decision was made. She did not hesitate another moment, and pressed enter.
The message sent.
She deactivated her company datapad. It was not an oversight that she’d sent such a letter on the company letterhead, but not for the reasons she’d like to admit. There was of course the idea of causing confusion, or perhaps to provide a flimsy platform with which to continue a protest or argument, there also was the benefit of seeming falsely incompetent. She could process multiple benefits and negatives to having done as she had, but none but her would know her true intentions.
Her mind quickly computed the coordinates to her own personal datapad, eyes scanning briefly the durasteel desk she stood behind in the Czerka Tower. She wasn’t hourly, hers was a salaried position, and that was the way she preferred it. Complaining and bickering over hours was a waste of time, efforts, and potential. Her only motivation was efficiency, and collecting results. However, this particular circumstance demanded more of her than simply Corporate Work.
She opened the drawer, scanned her own datapad to rapidly note that there were no lingering heat signatures on it or any immediately detectable signs of tampering. The item found it’s way into her data-holster, and she left the tower to Racin’ Jims.
The clicking of her heels down the streets of Veles wasn’t the only sound, nearby spacecraft and scavengers were hard at work. The Landing Pad and Port nearby proving the efficiency she’d helped coordinate during this crisis. Unilluminated road guides were detected on her scans as she headed to the Gates, vapors from the various industry, some levels detected as toxic to humans, cathar, and zabraki though within acceptable parameters. The colony was not yet optimal, nor was it as clean as she would like.
Yet.
The rangers on patrol greeted her politely, she registered their body language immediately, one of them was afraid of her or nervous, his fidgety behavior indicating he was going to attempt to say something. She stopped, and stared at him, and his words caught in his throat. He said nothing, and gave a professional nod, but seemed vexed.
“Good evening, Rangers.” She spoke to them in Basic, a proper greeting before continuing on regardless of what they’d say to her. She had other priorities than overstepping her authority to interrogate the Rangers or make performance evaluations. That was Lieutenant Grik’s job, and he hadn’t asked her to do it. Yet.
“-Even’n Ma’am.” The other replied professionally, he seemed completely unaware of his partners unease. His own body language had been sleepy, but aware, he was clearly on some stims and likely overworked. That man loved money, she could tell. He was also likely bad at keeping it.
“Good Even’n.” The other replied, but she was already several steps away. She lifted a hand over her shoulder to demonstrate politeness. It was the professional thing to do, she computed.
Her cybernetics gave her certain feats of awareness that would make others exceedingly uncomfortable if they knew her full potential, and she wasn’t keen on sharing her capabilities with others. It should suffice that her professionalism and adherence to duty was beyond what a Droid could do, and she was of the impression that in many ways organics were superior to Droids in so many ways. Yet they squandered it, their capabilities, their potential, their minds, their lives, even their bodies.
It was beautiful in a way, the ignorance and innocence of life. However, she was on the edge, her humanity, her civility seemed so far away. Distant. A haze, not unlike the name she’d adopted.
The pulsing bass and drums of the Cantina filled her ears, but not before the sounds of blasters and kath hounds echoed across the planes. Blaster fire detected less than a kilometer away, and not in her direction did not register as a threat enough for her to turn.
Not even enough to tune her shields.
She approached the door, activated the door to hear it’s telltale mechanical activations, and traveled into the scent of sweat, liquor, smoke, and whatever chemical odor the staff was pumping into the air to sedate the more hostile alien species. The music wasn’t too overbearing, it pulsed against her skin, but she did not seem to notice it’s existence other than to note the pattern and how it influenced others. It was a relaxing song, and the mood fit the crowd.
The regulars were all here, Czerka Rangers, a Spacer or two. All of them, doing almost the same thing exactly as the last time she saw them. It was routine, one she’d mimic to seem more normal and civil.
Finding a booth, she sat down and activated her datapad. Just as she always did whenever she appeared nearby. Work was the image she wanted to project. However, what appeared on her datapad was not work. It was personal.
She read the inbox and noted the number of messages she’d received. All of them were unread. The number was still increasing. The missed Holocalls. This was an older model datapad, it was surprising that it still functioned. She hadn’t looked at it since surviving Tattooine, and the crash that had herself, Zeese, V.4 ND-41, and Zatil all stranded there… Forced to blast their way to a small mining industry that was self sufficient enough to get them all off planet again. It was part of her past that she wanted to forget, she didn’t have a right to what lay before that crash.
However, choices have consequences.
She chose to send that message from Czerka files, because she knew that her family would know that she was alive. That she’d appeared again. She did not know when they would know, or how long the information would take to get to them; the woman who called herself Miss Haze knew only that it would.
She opened the inbox and read the latest message, sent nearly a year ago:
Please come home.