As the guards began to haul away a new meta, a blue-skinned man with solid red eyes steps into their path.
"Hold," he commanded to the guards surrounding the new arrival, and they bristled at him. "I'm rerouting that one to secondary processing. You've been reassigned to back up the response in the east wing."
The lead guard's face was hidden, but the body language was belligerent. "We haven't heard--"
"Command channel eight," the man cut them off. "You're supposed to be tuned in, as of twenty minutes ago."
There was a tense silence. "He's right, sir," one of the guards said. "They need human backup down at Central."
The leader gave the meta a hard shove towards the man. "Fine. Get moving, metas."
The blue-skinned man was already taking the prisoner by the arm and leading them away, keeping a half-step behind them. "You--what are your powers?" He says to them, quiet and calm, but expecting an answer.
2. For "fellow" government agents
He'd taken the opportunity to hand one off. Maintaining his cover was priority one, but there was still quite a lot he could get away with. As far as anyone knew, he was brainwashed. Functionally unable to resist orders.
Still, that was no reason to engage in sloppy work. He'd had an especially promising new meta ready for transport, now he didn't. So, to make his story stick, he'd torn out and stomped on his earpiece, given himself a vivid indigo bruise across one cheek, a few larger ones under his clothes for the medics to find and note down later, and, his least favorite--a series of superficial burns across his relatively unprotected hands and biceps, with singed and smoking clothes to match.
Now, all he has to do is limp back to the command center, looking especially piteous. "Resistance attack on level six," he called out to the first person he saw, the natural raspiness of his voice a little thicker than normal. "Took a meta on the way to processing. Unable to pursue."
Cipher Nine | Star Wars: The Old Republic | OTA
As the guards began to haul away a new meta, a blue-skinned man with solid red eyes steps into their path.
"Hold," he commanded to the guards surrounding the new arrival, and they bristled at him. "I'm rerouting that one to secondary processing. You've been reassigned to back up the response in the east wing."
The lead guard's face was hidden, but the body language was belligerent. "We haven't heard--"
"Command channel eight," the man cut them off. "You're supposed to be tuned in, as of twenty minutes ago."
There was a tense silence. "He's right, sir," one of the guards said. "They need human backup down at Central."
The leader gave the meta a hard shove towards the man. "Fine. Get moving, metas."
The blue-skinned man was already taking the prisoner by the arm and leading them away, keeping a half-step behind them. "You--what are your powers?" He says to them, quiet and calm, but expecting an answer.
2. For "fellow" government agents
He'd taken the opportunity to hand one off. Maintaining his cover was priority one, but there was still quite a lot he could get away with. As far as anyone knew, he was brainwashed. Functionally unable to resist orders.
Still, that was no reason to engage in sloppy work. He'd had an especially promising new meta ready for transport, now he didn't. So, to make his story stick, he'd torn out and stomped on his earpiece, given himself a vivid indigo bruise across one cheek, a few larger ones under his clothes for the medics to find and note down later, and, his least favorite--a series of superficial burns across his relatively unprotected hands and biceps, with singed and smoking clothes to match.
Now, all he has to do is limp back to the command center, looking especially piteous. "Resistance attack on level six," he called out to the first person he saw, the natural raspiness of his voice a little thicker than normal. "Took a meta on the way to processing. Unable to pursue."