Name: Vasheira Andore
Age: 21
Species: Human
Hair: Dark Blonde
Eyes: Aqua Blue
Height: 5’11" / 180 cm
Weight: 158 lbs / 71.7 kgIdentifying Features: Hair usually short ponytail; cybernetic implant in skull around left eye socket and brow — function seems purely structural.
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“Next.”
Agent Horvat leaned forward and lit a fresh cigarra, sucking its smoke with relief and letting the smell ease some of the tension in his muscles. His ashtray desperately needed emptying; he’d already gone through almost a whole pack today. He’d likely go through a whole pack more if he had to sit through another terrorist’s simpering sob-story. All this talk of fighting the Sith occupation of Ord Mantell, and not a spine among them. Just excuses for their crimes against the Enclave planetary government.
Ksshhht.
The door opened with a soft hiss across from his desk. “Name,” he demanded curtly without so much as a glance up at the newest applicant to enter the office.
“Andore, Vasheira,” came the matching brusque reply. It was a young woman’s voice, haggard and tired. Many of the citizens-to-be that Horvat had processed today had sounded similar, probably trying to squeeze some sympathy out of him.
A few taps at his terminal began a search for any matches in the database of known insurgent fighters. No results, of course. It was either a false name or this bitch was a nobody in the ranks. Probably both, he mused snidely. “Fill out the highlighted fields on the terminal in front of you,” Horvat instructed tersely, a cloud of smoke billowing out from his lips into the woman’s face, assaulting her with the musty, aggressive stench of tabac. “Were you involved in the resistance in any way?” He added, waiting for the inevitable claim of innocence.
“Yeah.”
Horvat paused. He finally looked up, furrowing his bushy brow. The human girl standing in front of his desk was tall but looked barely eighteen, with tanned olive skin and dusty blonde hair, and wearing a dirty, old jacket over a faded shirt and loose, ribbed pants. She was reasonably attractive (for a terrorist), but the left side of her face was mostly covered with gauze and bandages, leaving only one of her sea-blue eyes visible.
“An honest one,” he muttered, blowing out another small puff of smoke and tapping some of the ash off the end of his cigarra. “That’s new. Battle wound?” He gestured upwards at her face with the cigarra trailing smoke between his fingers.
“No,” Vasheira said, her one visible eye glaring down at Horvat with unmasked disdain. It was almost enough to send a chill down his spine. “You and your Sith buddies shelled my house.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t have harbored terrorists in your house,” the agent replied with dismissive casualness, clenching the cigarra between his lips again. “Let me see.”
Vasheira rolled her eyes, then reluctantly peeled back the bandages from her face, wincing as the medical tape pulled at the sensitive flesh. A grimace spread over Horvat’s face and a squirm in his gut as she revealed the heavily bruised, and burnt flesh beneath the bandages, the otherwise pleasant tan of her skin warped and scarred into a mess of raw pink and black and purple and caked in dry blood. A cybernetic graft was visible above her eyebrow, a strip of metal implanted into her skin and likely bone that ran back and curved down around her eye socket.
“Alright, alright,” Horvat waved his hand, and the woman pressed the bandages back in place. So she wasn’t faking it. “That implant looks like Enclave property. You know theft’s not gonna look good on your record.”
“What, you want it back?” Vasheira snapped with mocking indignance, a hand pressed against her bandaged face tenderly. “I guess you’ll want me to return your shrapnel, too?”
Horvat frowned. “Fair point. Fine. Republic’s demanding we start everything from a fresh slate anyway. Sit down.” He sucked in another mouthful of smoke and tapped a few buttons on his screen to look at Vasheira’s application form. “A’right…what did you do for the ‘resistance,’ then?”
“Mechanics, piloting,” the injured woman sat down in the chair opposite the agent. “I drove supply speeders and fixed broken things. Sometimes built new things.”
“Did you participate in combat?” Horvat inquired, looking at her expectantly. The look in his eyes told her what he really meant was, ‘did you shoot at our men?’
Vasheira’s silence told him she had.
The agent grinned slowly, blowing out another rush of smoke, this time purposely into her face. His grin faded when she didn’t flinch. “We’ll be placing you on a watch list,” he declared, his tone turning dismissive and cold again. “I’d be careful to obey the law from now on; our enforcement officers don’t take kindly to terrorists.”
“I don’t plan on sticking around,” Vasheira answered.
Horvat shrugged and leaned back, looking down his nose at the girl. “Suits me fine. If it were up to the Enclave, we’d have all you nerf-herders executed. One less of you stinking up our rightful territory is just dandy.” His grim smile only made Vasheira scowl harder at him as he held up a holocam and snapped a picture. A plasteel card printed from his terminal with her information recorded on it, her picture capturing her look of disgust and bandaged face tauntingly. He took the cigarra out of his mouth and mashed it into his overflowing ashtray, then pulled out the last one from the pack and set it down. “Report to the Emigration Offices in a day or two, and maybe you’ll be allowed to leave. Just remember once you do, you won’t be allowed back. Price of terrorism, you understand.”
“Oh, shove it up your—”
“Uh-uh-uh,” Horvat chuckled, waggling his finger. “Threatening an Enclave Agent is a very serious crime. Security’s just a button-press away, and they’re not as nice as I am.”
Vasheira ground her teeth, not caring how much it hurt on her left side to do so. Watching her steaming only tickled him more, and as his grin widened, the humbled woman stood up, leaned forward and snatched the ID card from the desk. “Thank you, sir,” she said sarcastically through clenched teeth, turning around and walking away from the chuckling agent.
Horvat sighed with relief as he lecherously watched Vasheira’s behind until the door closed and he was alone again. That had been the most fun he’d had all day. Closing her file, he reached down for the cigarra he’d placed on the desk. Then he frowned. He looked down. It was gone. His face twisted into a sneer, and he swatted the empty pack aside into the garbage. “Bitch,” he grumbled spitefully before hitting the comm button on his terminal. “Next!”
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