A Time For Every Purpose

 Episode Name:  A Time For Every Purpose

   Written By:  Shaft

         Cast:  Isole, Magret, Randal and Shaft.

  Produced By:  Starfleet

  Directed By:  Shaft

     Aired On:  Tue Jan 14 07:35:23 2003

     Stardate:  52925.2

Time: Tue Jan 14 02:07:28 2003

Stardate: 52924.6

Scene: Getting a charter flight isn't difficult. Getting a charter flight towards the Sandstorm took some doing. Isole had to pay out of pocket. A lot. Fortunately the majority of expenditures thusfar have been primarily an exchange of services. They can afford this. Not that money is any object to Isole and Magret where revenge is concerned. Poverty they can handle. It's being dead that cramps their style.

The Freighter takes them only so far. Which is fine, since Isole arranged for pick-up via shuttle. They're posing as a black marketeer and his Betazoid bodyguards. Why Betazoid? Because they're sexy. And they know it's coming. And it was an easy costume job. The coverstory wasn't hard to establish. New to Dulcais. A weapons collector. Wants some contraband weapons of the racially significant variety. No problem! Come on down. We've got just the thing...

The shuttle docks with the freighter a goodly distance away from the Sandstorm, which looms impossibly large in the distance. Who knows /how/ they survive in there. Once aboard, the Orion pilot and co-pilot offer drinks and food to tide their guests over until they can arrive at the base. They assure them it won't be long, and leave them otherwise alone.

--ACTION--

It's been a long while since Randal has worn this persona, but it fits like an old glove. He sits in his passenger chair as if it were a command station, his arms grasped loosely over those of the seat, his feet planted firmly on the floor. Gone is the friendly smile that usually graces his features, instead replaced by a stony expression. His eyes are obscured beneath the shadow of his brow as he keeps his head pitched forward, heavy-lidded eyes peering out like those of a bored predator. He looks at the attendant who offers refreshments, shakes his head wordlessly.

Isole is, admittedly, still sporting a limp. And a cane. The normal cane has been replaced by an elaborate black and red sort of device, a serpent wrapped around a shaft, the handle forming the head. The pain just lends credibility to her scowl, which she's long since mastered. It, like Randal's expression, is wholly predatory. And with cause. Just the same, she reclines on one side of Randal, one arm draped casually over his shoulders, legs crossed to accentuate the ... pants. When the attendant comes to offer food, like Randal, she abstains with a small shake of the head. And when the man leans a bit too close, perhaps to get a better view of the ladies -- it doesn't matter, closer -- Isole's cane is placed promptly between his legs. And she hisses quietly. Mrowr.

Jungle kitten. Paging lazy panther kitten. Yes? Magret lolls against the other side of Randal, her head laid on his shoulder, the tumble of her black curls contrasting only very little with the black of his duster. Her gaze makes that three sets of predator's eyes sliding their foci lazily about. She stretches her long legs up to an empty seat, and when the attendant leans a bit too close, she yawns, arching her back and adjusting her lean against Randal. One arm slings lazily across his stomach, and she quirks up one corner of her mouth at the infringing male amusedly. You know that look. It's the 'I Would /So/ Eat You Alive And Spit Out Your Nasty Little Bones Before I Suck Out Their Marrow, But The Very Idea Bores Me, Because I Did That To Someone Else Yesterday' look. Her looks are extremely conversant.

The mixture of signals in all of this has the attendant beating a hasty retreat with murmurs of apology. Between Randal's indifference to all that transpires around him, to Isole's overt hostility and Magret's sleepy homicidal tendencies, there's just no point in his sticking around. He sets the tray down and retreats up to the crew cabin, leaving the trio in peace. Likely not unmonitored, but alone.

Only once the attendant is clear of the cabin does Randal afford himself the faintest of smirks. He glances to Magret, then Isole with a hint of delight in his eyes that seems to imply 'So far, so good.' This only lasts for a moment at most, though, until the stoic mask of the weapons collector returns. If he's worried about the fact that they're strolling into a veritable lion's den, or the fact that the disruptor pistol in his holster is nothing more than a replicated prop, he doesn't let it show in either expression.

Isole leans languidly away from Randal, more or less leaning over his lap really, to continue hissing at the attendant as he makes his retreat final. And, knowing they're watched from somewhere, she keeps up the facade by slinking back into her seat, idly tapping her cane from the toe of her boot all the while. Once back into her liquid recline, she slips the fingers of her dangling arm into Magret's hair and toys with it idly, all while peering attentively around the belly of the shuttle. The camera is there somewhere. It would be good to know where. "We'll be there soon. Not long at all... which suits me fine. The accomodations are deplorable."

The ambigiously-oriented, sexy bodyguards and the stoic man in a black trenchcoat. Magret keeps her lazy expression on, down to the fact that she opens her mouth into a delicate little yawn. It's almost cute, until she half-opens her eyes again and lets her sleepily homicidal hint of a smile slide back onto her face. Then it's /like/ cute, but with deadly pointy bits on it. Isole's caresses are responded to with a lazy nudge of her head. Boooooring.

Isole was right. It's not long at all before the viewports are dominated entirely by the cloud of dust, distant flashes deeper into the cloud telling all that need be said of the interior. Inhospitable. Deadly. Dangerous. Really, it does a nice job of outlining their entire mission. The shuttle speeds along the exterior of the cloud and banks suddenly into an opening in the storm. There is a pocket here, like a bay in the sand, enormous spatially speaking, but tiny when compared to the sector-spanning enormity of the Sandstorm itself. There, at the center, rests the tiny speck of the Kostva base. Nothing, when compared to Station 419. Barely larger than the Hernes, taken all for all, and rather piecemeal for all of that. A single vessel is docked to the side of the thing while smaller fighters zip out from its shuttle bay to escort the shuttle in. A voice comes over the shuttle intercom, "Sir, we're nearing our base. Just sit tight back there and we'll be down shortly."

Randal glances around the cabin with his eyes, leaving his head fixed forward. "Hmm... yes," he says in a snobbish tone which carries agreement and supposed disappointment. "I should hope their station shows a bit more investment than this. I would hate to think these people are wasting my time." He glances toward the intercom speaker as the voice pipes in. "Good," he replies simply. He then glances out the viewport to the base that they are rapidly approaching. A base that, if all goes according to plan, will no longer exist in the not-so-distant future. Outwardly, he seems to look upon the outpost unimpressed, but inwardly he experiences a heightened wariness. Size has little to do with capacity to be dangerous, Randal knows well (and fancies he's proven himself, on past occasions).

The lazy bumping of Isole's hand nets a lazy smirk from the ... um. Betazoid. She shakes her head faintly, glancing away towards the crew cabin at the front of the craft. Her eyes narrow faintly in consideration, prior to her gaze shifting back out to the viewports where the base is looming into view. Like Randal, although her exterior is calm and certain, there's a pang in her stomach that just won't retreat, and a taste in her mouth like ozone after a lightning strike. It's called fear. The news from the front is met with a soft snort. She could care less. Really.

Years of staring down traders in portside bars lead up to this moment. Countless encounters where she's been sick to her stomach and weak in the knees but /counting/ on being able to stare flat-eyed at some bigger, predatorial male come into play in sculpting Magret's expression of perfect ennui when she stares out at the upcoming space station. Yep. Her expression is one that multitudes of women -- Centauran or Betazoid -- have worn across millenia. It's so... small. Yes, everything with the character Magret plays right now is about the fact that her pants stop just above her pubic bone. Even the size of the space station. Despite all of that, there's a cold corkscrew in her stomach and the coppery taste of fear -- like blood -- in her mouth.

The fighter escort of the shuttle parts once it begins its final approach to the shuttle bay. The docking proceeds normally, the shuttle easing to the tarmack with a series of weighty magnetic thunks that do little more than vibrate the seats of the luxury shuttle. The attendant reappears, presses the button on the hatch, and rolls out the red carpet for their guests. Figuratively speaking. He leads the way down the steps to the tarmack and escorts the trio to a smartly dressed Orion, clearly the polite go-between. This man is accompanied by a like number of armed escorts who eye Magret and Isole and leave Randal right out of the picture. Their masks are of bland indifference to match the 'bodyguards' opposite them. But they play the stare down with the best of them. The trio is led out to the station's main deck (it has three) and down a stylishly appointed corridor leading into a vast reception room, currently set to receive their guests. In the room are four guards and a venerable scoundrel of an Orion at the head of a long black table. He's dressed like a petty emperor sans crown. And when the trio are ushered in he rises slowly to his feet.

"Ah. Mister Caspian, I presume. I am Captain Kostva. Welcome to my Station." He eyes the women that attend Randal for a moment before smirking faintly. "What a charming retinue. I trust they are as expert with their weapons as they are with their manner of dress?" Magret especially receives a long leer. "Give me that one and I'll give you pick of my armory, sight unseen. I like the bored ones. They're hiding something... and judging from what she's not hiding, I'd warrant it's very. Deep. Indeed."

Randal regards the Orion with apparant dispassion. "With all due respect, Captain Kostva, I am not yet certain if that would be a truly equitable trade. After all, my companions represent a significant investment... good help is so hard to find, these days."

In the hierarchy of facedowns, this one's right up there. The only problem is, her name isn't Indigo Montoya. That's not Darth Vader. And at the end of this, nobody will be whispering 'The Horror... The Horror...'. If anything, this is Indiana Jones getting the journal signed by Hitler himself. She can't say or do anything to comrpomise their position or their mission. She just stares at the Orion. Stares and thinks seering hateful thoughts as her hands form tight fists and unfold reflexively. Like a good bodyguard, she's tense. Attentive. And make no mistake, if someone so much as sneezes she may go off like a bomb. At this moment, Isole is hatred. Nothing more. Hatred and a pretty face.

GAME: Isole spends a courage point.

What's a girl to do, when she's being leered at? Magret works it, duh. She props an elbow on Randal's shoulder and leans just so, jutting her hip out and lazily folding her forearm so that her forefingers brush the front of one plastic-painted thigh. Hi. I'm Bored Betazoid Sex Barbie. I'd say it's nice to meet you, but at the moment I'm busy contemplating how many different ways I could eat your spleen and still look hot. I thought about doing it to someone just like you last Thursday, though, so it's really still boring. Her eyes slide lazily over the armed guards, and as her gaze comes back to the Orion, she reaches up and, in the manner of all femme fatales, pushes one artfully-falling curl back out of her face. (It's so good that she can't understand almost any of what's being said.)

"Too true, Mr. Caspian." Kostva clicks his tongue at the show, then glances to Isole and her cane. And her limp. "Apparently, truer than either of us would like to admit." Kostva gives a bored glance down to his PADD and notes, "Lovely cane, by the way. It goes well with your limp." Glancing up, he motions to the flunky that escorted them here. "Fetch the blades." The man nods politely and withdraws into a side chamber, returning a short time later with a heavy case. This is set on the foot of the table, the code keyed, and the top opened. Within are all manner of blades from all manner of cultures. Hrisal, Chaka, Dk'Tagh, you name it, it's there. The attendant sweeps back as Kostva motions with his hand. "Certainly a noted dealer such as yourself can spot the fake. Pick it out, toss it aside, then find what you like and we'll talk price. Do not and... well. You're not worth my time, now are you?" The four armed bodyguards take on a much more foreboding presence at that.

GAME: Randal spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Randal (claiming advantage) contests his Material Engineering (Weaponsmithing) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Fails!

GAME: Randal spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Randal (claiming advantage) contests his Intellect (Perception) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!

(For note: Randal is given three opportunities to spot the fake. One using practical knowledge, one using intuition, the last being blind luck. There is a collective sigh of relief.)

'Mr. Caspian' pours over the blades with a discerning, expert eye. Actually, Randal leans over the case, trying to think of a way out of this predicament, considering he doesn't actually know the first thing about archaic weapons. Think, think, think... one of these blades are not like the other. One of these blades does not belong. His eye skips from one shiny blade, to the next shiny blade, to the next shiny blade... what. Shiny? He picks up a Chaka, and carefully running his fingers along the flat of the blade. "Ah... nothing exemplifies death's hand like the rare Andorian chaka." He shows it to Isole and Magret. "Look at how pristine the blade is. How polished and untarnished the hilt is. And this fine blade... sharp as the day it was forged." He then, rather casually, tosses it over his shoulder, letting it clatter on the floor just behind him. "Utterly worthless. If that were a real chaka of any considerable age, it would bear the scars of many, many duels."

If you think these pants are uncomfortable now, imagine them after Isole pees herself. She puts on a good show of not being nervous to the point of nausea and covers for it by idly leaning against Randal's side in lieu of using her cane. She inspects the weapons as does Randal, trying to discern which is the fake and which are real. Her proximity might allow her a whisper, possibly. Maybe. But when Randal makes his choice, she's yet to make her own, and so she slips a little closer to Randal. If they're going to be shot, they're going to be shot in a nice tight bundle. As the blade goes spinning over Randal's shoulder, she leans her head back and away from the blade, then returns it to rest on his shoulder, her hand idly drawing little circles on his stomach with a fingertip. Good Randal. Nice Randal.

There's a little monologue going on inside Magret's head. (I wonder if they can see my stomach twisting up. It's exposed. There aren't any telepaths, are there? I hope not.) And so on, and so forth. The 'lady' in red looks (surprise) bored during the weapons selection, idly patting under the corner of her left eye with her ring finger to make sure that her eyeliner isn't smudging. Pat pat. Not smudging? Good. What's that, boss? Oh, you picked one? Oh, I see. That's nice. Nice and /boring./ And so on, and so forth. She does slide a hand across Randal's shoulder and pick a loose thread off of his duster, dropping it as if it's the most important thing she could be doing right now. Thereafter, her hand brushes briefly over the back of his hair. Nice Randal. Good Randal.

Kostva watches perplexed. Apparently weapon knowledge is an aphrodisiac to Betazoids. Mental note. He leans back in his seat with a smug expression as Randal lifts the Chaka, listening as he describes the weapon accurately enough. The reasoning for tossing the blade over his shoulder is accepted with a small nod of the head. He expected nothing less, of course. "Forgive that little test, Mr. Caspian. I don't know you and you don't know me. It's an impressive fake, you must admit. I'll have to nick it a few times for the next fellow. Raise the bar, as they say." He motions to the case. "Have your pick, then."

Randal nods. "Indeed," he says, as dryly as a Vulcan history professor. "I might suggest putting traces of Andorian blood on it, as well, were the fraud to hold my interest for more than a moment." Ancient dueling weapons? Randal's extent of knowledge on the subject comes from a historical holo-documentary series his mother forced him to watch. Perpetuating a convincing fraud? That's more along Randal's forte. Anyway, his eyes begin search over the case of weapons. Okay, phase one complete. So, how do we get to phase two?

"I've always been fond of Dk'tagh, baby," Isole coos into Randal's ear, eyeing the Klingon weapon. Why? Because waiting around and staring is going to get them killed. And they've got a mission to accomplish. And it's the smallest damn thing in the box. That's why. They're not made of money, here. "And I bet you could use it to cut me out of these pants once we get back home." A theatric bite is placed on Randal's shoulder before Isole slinks away with the undercurrent promise that she won't be back until Randal buys her something to kill with. Something pretty. And brutal. Yes. Isole glances to Magret for a moment and lifts her chin faintly. Back off, jungle cat. I want a toy this time. (Also. Follow my lead!) She casually leans on her cane at that, jutting her hip out just so.

Tch. Apparently the only thing that can even vaguely shift Magret's I'm So Bored expression is the idea that /Isole/ gets the knife this time. At least, that's the impression she gives off. She clicks her tongue once against the back of her teeth, rolling her eyes back and forth beneath her eyelids -- that sort of directionless, purposeless, 'I'm pouting, is anyone looking?' glance -- and then she languidly slides her arm off of Randal's shoulder, brushing her long, slender fingers down his arm as she gives in. Fine. Isole gets the toy. She /always/ gets the toy. This is so /boring./ A few languid, hip-rolling strides have her following Isole's lead, indeed.

Kostva regards the proceedings dully, just... waiting. He even drums his fingers, perching his chin on a hand.

Randal lets a faint smirk glide across his lips. "Ah... yes. Klingon weapons, like their creators, are so... visceral." He picks up the Dk'tagh, holding the hilt with one hand and resting the side of the tip on the fingers of his other hand. As he rolls the knife to one side, pretending to scrutinize it, he trips the mechanism which causes the secondary blades to open up with a *snick* He pauses for a moment, fighting the reflex to drop the weapon or betray any sign of startlement. Thankfully, a snappy response comes to his lips. "Ah... I love that sound." Damn those Klingons. Even their antiquities are out to get him. "How much for this little item?"

Good Randal. Nice-- EEK! Isole /does/ start when the blades pop out, but she quickly transitions she shiver of fear and brief loss of composure into a shiver of another kind. Um. Yes. That was really sexy. Not at all scary. As evidenced by my biting of my lip and lidding of my eyes. This slight doubling over due to knee weakness, nothing at all to do with the urge to freak out. Nope. It's all about Randal and how sexy he is with the Dk'tagh in his hands. Yep. Can't wait to get out of these pants. (No. Really. She can't. Don't Orions have /bathrooms/?)

Erk. Magret's eyes open all the way, and she draws in a sharp breath, which she, like Isole manages to turn into 'hey, baby.' Her eyes opening all the way return to their half-lidded state, and her sharp breath in is turned into a puffed out pout-breath. Hm. See how sexy that is? It is! It's sexy. If mostly boring. It's sexy. And /Isole/ gets it this time. Hm. Her arms fold lazily over her chest, and she glances aside at Isole, pretending jealousy and checking on the status of her lover.

Once Randal makes his selection, Kostva frowns just a touch sending Isole a dark look. Well he knows that this selection is the cheapest thing in the case. (Making it costly, just the same.) Even so, his visions of a lucrative and mind-boggling profitable transaction evaporate. His interests are now set squarely in the 'close the deal, get the money, get them out' line of thinking. The price he names is handsome and overpriced naturally, and Randal's counter-offer is respectable. (And uneducated.) But far be it from Kostva to nay-say a good deal for him. He nods to Randal once their price is agreed and notes simply, "I'll be back once I've verified your credit, Mr. Caspian. You and your... ladies... can wait in my office." And from the motion of the guards, they don't have much choice in the matter. While Kostva drifts away to attend to the matter of their credit line, the trio are ushered into Kostva's office. The guards take up positions on either side of the now closed door. And there, in the luxuriously appointed office, rests a single data terminal as well as a secondary communications terminal on the wall. This, then, is their chance.

Randal turns to Isole and Magret after the doors of the office have closed. He knows better than to drop the act just yet, though -- if Kostva has an ounce of paranoia, there's got to be some sort of monitoring equipment here. "Our business here is almost finished. And then, we can take our new toy home and... put it to good use." His eyebrows knit as he struggles to keep languid enthusiasm in his voice and his actual disgust out of it. "All we have to do is close the deal. As it were." He idly glances at the terminals, then the desk, then the door. Not so fast. Don't look nervous... look imperious and critical. Alrighty, it's time for Isole and Magret to work their magic.

<CONTEST> Isole contests her Intellect (Perception) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!

<CONTEST> Randal contests his Intellect (Perception) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Fails!

<CONTEST> Magret contests her Intellect (Perception) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Fails!

Isole limps into the room, and like Randal, continues with the facade. Her eyes are, in contrast to Randal's, searching the room attentively. Because, yes, there's going to be a monitoring device here somewhere. And. There it is. Isole's eyes focus on a part of the cornice which lines the ceiling, wherein rests a single speck of silicoid. A small camera. She keeps on staring at it, waiting for the rest of the team to clue in. Her eyes then shift to Magret, then up to the camera, then back to Magret. "Well," she says with enough sauce to play out, "since you're not getting me until I get my Dk'tagh..." And that said, she slinks across the room to Magret, slipping her arms around her neck to, ostensibly, nibble at her ear. The truth is, of course, much different. She murmurs in Centauran, instead. "There's a Camera behind you. Above your head. Loop it." She pushes Magret slowly back against the wall with a thud. And, rather than make out in a sloppy fashion, she rolls away from Magret to rest flat against the wall and begins making sloppy kissing noises against her forearm.

GAME: Magret spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Magret (claiming advantage) contests her Systems Engineering (Security) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!

True to her part, when Magret's pushed back against the wall, she starts to make a series of incidental heavy breaths, which she keeps doing even as her hands flip open a little access hatch right there where she was pushed. Begin a loop of heavy breathing noises and smoochy sounds that would make any Adult Entertainment Soundtrack proud, as her skinny fingers tinker with the guts of the system for a few seconds. She pauses after she finishes fiddling with the camerabits, almost as if expecting something to explode. No? No. That finished, she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and gives Isole the nod.

Randal watches Isole and Magret with a rather curious expression when they start to have their mock-makeout session. But as he watches Magret open the hidden panel and work on the electronics within, he gets the idea. He pretends to watch intently, with a very pleased expression on his face, holding very, very still. He faintly wonders if there's an Orion sitting in a security cubicle somewhere wishing he was standing where Randal's standing. Oh, the irony.

Isole wastes no time in getting down to work once Magret neutralizes the camera. Okay. Some. Magret gets a breathless stare. This is getting thick. She then hobbles over to the chair behind the desk and settles in, eyeing the terminal for external failsafes. Naturally, there's a password protecting initial access. No problem. She reaches down the front of her corset and makes the 'this is uncomfy' face while withdrawing a slim PADD. She doesn't even /touch/ the terminal as yet. Instead, she synchs her PADD with the wireless inlet and starts cracking. "Randal. You've got to let me know if they're coming. This may take me some time." Her eyes focus between the terminal before her and her PADD as she works. Feverishly.

GAME: Isole spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Isole (claiming advantage) contests her Computer (Data Alteration) skill vs a difficulty of Challenging and Succeeds!

Now is the time when her girlfriend is working. Magret half-closes her eyes and listens, leaning against the wall in the very essence of the 'God, I'm so bored' pose. Just in case, it's good to have your pose on already.

Randal nods. "Okay." He starts to move, but stops himself. Camera. Hmm. He reaches in his holster, takes out the fake disruptor and sets it on the floor alone the toes of his boots. Now that he can return to the exact place he's standing in the camera loop he steps away, and toward the comm terminal on the wall. "I can try to tap into the security monitor on the outside of the door. Assuming there is one there. Which there almost certainly is." He stretches his fingers as he examines the panel, pondering what attack strategy to take on the security system's own access protocols.

GAME: Randal spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Randal (claiming advantage) contests his Security (Security Systems) skill vs a difficulty of Routine and Succeeds!

Contrary to Isole's self-doubt, her work is brief and effectual. There's a blip from her PADD and she glances up between faces. "We're in." Isole then focusses in on Magret, nodding to the terminal and speaking in Centauran. "You need to get one of our Isolinear chips in there. Crack the back, there should be a line of them above the main board. If we make a data stream, they'll be looking for it. But if we back-up data, they're not going to look as hard. I hope. Once it's in, I'll start the transfer from here." She ignores Randal. It's too much to think about should he screw up. She just focusses on Magret and instilling her false sense of absolute certainty in their success.

<CONTEST> Magret (claiming advantage) contests her Systems Engineering (Computer) skill vs a difficulty of Routine and Succeeds!

Very. Deep. Indeed. The problem with these damn Iso chips is that they slide, okay? And it's not like Magret's got all THAT much cleavage to tuck the thing into. Her fingers dig around inside the corset and thank whatever GODS there are that Randal is turned the other way because for a second one of her breasts escapes. The last thing he needs is to suddenly flub what /he's/ doing because one of her mammaries escaped from the boob rodeo pen that is her bodice. It turns out to just be easier to pull it out from the bottom of her corset with one hand and stuff her boob back in with the other hand. Let's just NOT think about how close that isolinear chip was to sliding out the bottom of her bodice, shall we? Scooching down to the back of the terminal, she tucks that chip between her breasts for safekeeping, pops open the back, removes one chip, and slides the other into place. Click!

After making sure there aren't any nasty booby-traps or codekeys or somesuch on the comm terminal, Randal tunes it to receive-only on an intercom in the corridor. He listens intently for indications of Kostva's imminent return, his eyes flicking to the door, then to Isole and Magret, then back to the door. Fortunately in a pattern that causes him to miss entirely Magret's difficulties with her, um... hiding place.

<CONTEST> Isole (claiming advantage) contests her Computer (Data Alteration) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!

Isole isn't oblivious to Magret's battle with her bodice. It's simply that it's hard to laugh at the unfortuante love/hate relationship corsets and propriety share when a mistake could cost you your life. So she just retains her deadpan stare at Magret until such a time as there's a click in the back of the machine. That's Isole's cue to set to work. And she does. Once password access is acquired a full backup of the Kostva databanks is undertaken. Now? There's just waiting. Isole begins bouncing in her seat after a minute has passed, eyes shifting between the progress of the backup and Randal at the comm terminal.

Partway through the transfer, the doors can be heard opening via the comm terminal. Kostva's voice mumbles, answered by another mumble from his lackey.

"Places. Get to your places." In Centauran Isole orders, "The Camera. /FIX THE CAMERA/. We're almost there!" Isole leaps from her seat and limps around the desk, PADD in hand, monitoring the progress. Come. On. She looms over the iso chips, waiting to make the switch, sets her PADD to chirp, and stuffs it back down her front. COME. ON.

<CONTEST> Magret (claiming advantage) contests her Systems Engineering (Security) skill vs a difficulty of Moderate and Succeeds!

GAME: Shaft spends a courage point.

GAME: Isole spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Isole (claiming advantage) contests her Shipboard Systems (Computer) skill vs a difficulty of Routine and Succeeds!

GAME: Randal spends a courage point.

<CONTEST> Randal (claiming advantage) contests his Security (Security Systems) skill vs a difficulty of Routine and Succeeds!

Back to her place! Fiddling with the camera desperately! It's not like Magret isn't aware that her outfit might just have cost her her life. It's just that sometimes you can't help these things. You just /can't./ And so it is that she stuffs with one hand and rearranges while opening the panel in the wall. Fortunately, she's got enough experience with bodices to be able to get her decolletage rearranged perfectly before she needs both of her hands back in order to fiddle with camera guts. One. Two. Three. "Got it!" This is offered in hissed Centauran before she places her back against the wall, right where she was before. (She had a terminal to locate herself by, after all.)

Randal puts the comm connection to rest and resets the frequency, it having served its purpose, and strides over to where he was standing, marked by the pistol prop. Once in place, he scoops up the pistol, shoves into his holster and smooths his duster, and resumes the entranced stance he maintained when the camera was looped.

Isole madly switches the chips, her hands numb from abject terror at being caught. She fumbles with the chips for a moment before making the switch and smacking the back ot the terminal closed. While Magret's fiddling with the camera, Isole turns about and -- promptly collapses forward onto her belly as her leg gives out. She releases a muted cry of pain before scrabbling her way in a crawl across the floor. Once the Camera is switched, Isole pushes up to grab the lip of Magret's pants, tugging her down atop Isole. This serves two purposes. One? They're supposed to be doing nasty things over there. Two? It lets her stuff the Iso chip up Magret's corset from the bottom. And so there they are, Randal watching smug and amused while Magret pins Isole to the floor and Isole stuffs her hands up Magret's corset.

Just as Kostva returns to the office.

Where Isole leads, Magret will follow. It's a good thing she's tugged down onto the floor, because she was about to head there anyway, what with Is /crying in pain/ and all. Must keep up the act. Must keep up the act. Oh baby. Unf. &c. She uses her mass of curls as a shield over the two of them, pretending to hold onto the top of Isole's head tightly with one hand at the same time. (This will let her check her lover's wig and make sure it didn't get knocked out of place in that tumble). Her breath, quickened with fear and worry, will work just fine as faux-excitement, especially with the bodice to exacerbate matters. And, because she can, she steals a couple of brief-but-actual kisses amidst all of this. One for courage. Two for strength. Three because we're almost done, baby. Almost done.

Kostva returns to the office, carrying a slick PADD. Custom job, like everything else he'd dare to have on his person. He pauses at the door, scanning the room because, let's face it, the place just stinks of fear and tension. Likewise, his aid glances about the interior, and instantly becomes distracted with Magret's rear end, nicely displayed as it is by her position. Kostva, on the other hand, eyes Randal with narrowed, shrewd eyes. Oh, yes. He knows something. What is impossible to say. He ambles into the room and stoops to pick up Isole's cane from its position in the middle of the floor. He did not. Notice. The chair. This? Is a very good thing. All the same, he paces over to the two women and sticks the cane through Magret's hair, poking it rather roughly into Isole's face.

"I believe you dropped this." He drops the thing on Magret's back and turns to face Randal. "Your Dk'tagh is waiting for you on your shuttle. Which I strongly suggest you use. Captain Thorne."

Randal stares with an absolutely blank poker face as his real name is used. Crap. Well, there's little point in denying who he is. But there's no point in explicit confirming it. "I believe our business is concluded," Randal says coldly, still maintaining the 'Mr. Caspian' spiel. He then turns his gaze to Isole and Magret, waiting for them to collect themselves and join him. At which point he will get the hell out of there as directly as possible, short of breaking into a run.

It gets worse. Kostva turns a blind eye to Randal, grabs Magret by her hair and pulls her off of Isole, tossing her away rather casually. It's Isole he wants, after all. It was her cane. He reaches down and grasps her by the arms, hoisting her bodily from the floor, dangling her toes above the deck by a few inches. The pain this causes her leg? Intense. And it shows on her now visibly tear streaked face. Not content, he draws her back and slams her agains the wall again until she swoons with a mixture of terror and pain.

"I don't know who you are. But when I find out, I am going make your life a misery." He lowers her to the floor, letting the shock shoot up her leg. More pain. This allows him to grab her chin in one iron gripped hand and shake it until she's more aware of what's going on. "You. Are a walking. Dead woman." He then grasps her by the throat and shoves her towards Randal and Magret, a process that ends with Isole flat on her back and sobbing.

GAME: Magret spends a courage point.

It takes every shred of interest Magret has in STAYING SANE and getting both of them out of there alive (as her worldview briefly narrows, sorry Randal, to two people) not to leap onto Kostva's back when he manhandles Isole. Every shred of love, every shred of discipline, every shred of self-interest not to scream in her (and well she knows it) thickly-accented Centauran voice. Kohl streaks down her cheeks from sweat, gold eyeshadow smeared across her face, her hair in disarray. She smashes her bodice against herself, surreptitiously feeling for the position of the iso chip. Okay. It's not gonna fall out.

All of the time that Magret Etena takes to do that is the time that the center of her universe is being manhandled by a man she thought she couldn't hate more. Oh, oh how wrong she was! How wrong she was! The hatey-hate! It burns in her like a thousand Alpha Centauris! The game is up, at this point, at least for the moment, so what's a girl to do? A girl's to drop to her knees next to the other girl and slowly drag her up to her foot, offering support. Her eyes shoot up to Randal, then to the cane. Get it. We go.

Kostva points at the trio in three sharp gestures. First to Magret. "You. If you want to keep her alive, you will hide her where light itself can't find her." Then to Isole. "Even then, it's just a matter of time." And lastly to Randal. "If I /ever/ see your face again, Thorne, one of us isn't walking away from it. Now go." He paces towards his desk and falls into his chair without heed to its placement, calling out to his guards in the hall. "If they so much as breathe wrong, kill them all!"

Randal starts to move toward Kostva as he abuses Isole, but becomes keenly aware of the nominally loyal and presumably well-armed aide keeping watch behind himself. The Orion's actions do, however, break the inscrutable mask Randal's been wearing all this time. His eyes widen with shock while the other features of his face twist in muted rage. It's a /very/ good thing the weapon at his side. Randal would be pondering something very stupid and likely very short-lived right about now. With his primary outlet of rage thwarted on all accounts, he settles on glaring at Kostva. "That we can both be sure of," he mutters in reply to the crime lord. His rationale and survival instinct takes control, and he grabs the cane, helps to hoist Isole up with as optimal a balance of gentleness and haste he can find, and moves to the door.

Isole's game is up. Period. There's just now recovering from all of this once it's started. Kostva succeeded in breaking her more than a slave collar ever could. She's a misery of muted sobs the entire journey back to the shuttle, keeping her head hanging limp, chin to her chest. The better to just pretend there aren't guards with blasters on either side of them. The better to pretend she didn't just lose her cool when confronted with a man she intends to see dead. The better to pretend everything's going to work as planned.

When the trio return, there is no Dk'tagh, but rather the Chaka, sitting broken in half on one of the chairs. A note has been left atop it. It reads simply: 'As false as you are, as broken as you will become.'

There is no catered meal for the return flight. Only silence.

If the game is up, there's no use pretending she's anything other than Isole's lover, even if she's staying Betazoid. The entire way back to the shuttle, she supports and comforts her as best she can in silence, does Magret. In the shuttle, she silently fusses over Isole, settling her leg as best she can, petting her face, soothing her beloved without much regard for her own appearance -- save, mind, that she occasionally readjusts her bosom in her bodice. For. You know. Comfort. And to make sure the Iso chip isn't slipping. Once their transfer is made and they've returned to 419, she thanks Randal, again, in silence, with a brush of her hand across his cheek, before taking the shattered center of her world to the 'Factory, all the better to put her into zero-g and get her comfortable again.

Randal picks up the broken pieces of the Chaka after glancing at the note just long enough to read it. He lets out a single, sardonic chuckle. "Guess neither of us were fooled." He is otherwise wordless on the trip back to the station. Once they are back at the relative safety of S419 and Magret makes her gesture of gratitude, he offers a smile. A weak one, perhaps but a sincere one nontheless. "Anytime," he mutters quietly, before going off to his quarters to polish off a bottle of Coridan Whiskey he'd stashed away for emergencies like this.

Joining Randal in his drink is Kostva, back in the now shadowed recesses of his office. Romulan ale replaces Cordian Whiskey, but it's otherwise much the same. The Orion settles back into his seat and taps at his terminal with an idle hand, pouring over files and networks to begin tracking these bastards down. Finding Thorne was simple enough. How hard can it be from here?

After a few minutes of time, he closes his search and taps open a comm channel. Secure frequency. A short time later, the face of a rotund Centauran appears on the screen.

"Kostva. What can I do for you?"

"Ahh. Achine. I believe I have a job for you..."