Her face lit by the blue of her ship’s holo console, Jacqueline Rees taps her holopad, swiping through countless files and tapping out quick lines of code. A half-empty whiskey bottle is her only companion along with the hum of every computer in the cockpit churning through data.
Focused on her hunt, the captain pays no mind to the world outside the files and code she quickly calls up, breaks down, dismisses, and starts anew. Through the viewport, the Nar Shadda skyline hints at nighttime with extra neon lights on its gaudy streets. A night rain falls, leaving pale brown streaks in its wake as drops stream down the clear plexiglass windows. Thunder rolls in the distance, rumbling between the city’s countless buildings. Unabated, she hunts.
Finally, a single datafile pulls up on the main screen. Flashing a grin and rewarding herself with a gratuitous swig from the bottle, Jackie leans back in her pilot’s seat, propping a leg up on the console. “There you are,” she teases, tucking her hands behind her head and smirking. But as soon as she enjoys the spoils of her victory, something quirks her brow.
“Huh,” she observes aloud. “. Now, now, now, who broke you? Zakul blew something up or does the Republic still suck at record keeping?”
Pulling up her datapad, Jackie almost lazily taps in a few bits of code. “Typical ‘Pub facility, I’m willing… to bet…” she pauses words between tapping. “All your data back ups… are sent… here. Aaand… gotcha.” Grinning, she flicks a finger across her datapad, sending the discovered datafile on another holo display. Leaning back, she eyes them both.
“Huh,” she observes. “Huh,” she repeats, leaning forward suddenly. “The hell?” She leans forward further, her eyes flickering back and forth, reading more data on the screen. “Sonuvabitch, Soult. Who the hell has screwed with you?”
Eyeing her datapad, then the identically corrupted files, Jackie snatches up her belt and holsters, grabs the whiskey bottle, and abruptly turns from the cockpit. Marching straight down the plank and into crew headquarters, she pays no mind to late night passers by. She appears all intent on her hunt, fastening her belt and holsters as she walks.
Descending into the powered down war room, she heads straight for the monolithic, almost decorative-looking war panel in the south end of the room. Though its surface looked more like a sweeping, graceful mosaic than a console, and certainly far different from any other bulky tech in the room, her hands still quickly found a socket to plug in her datapad. The panel beeps in query, its sonorous tones sounding almost curious. She runs the files again, eyes rapt on the results. Lights come to life on the panel as data from her pad quickly uplinks itself and completes a comparison. Gritting her teeth, she repeats: “Sonuvabitch. So it wasn’t you.”
Unplugging her datapad and switching off the console, Jackie is left in a darkened room. Lit only by the emergency lights and dimmed screens humming with nocturnal security protocols, her face stands with a grimace then finally a grin.
“Well,” she says to no one, helping herself to the whiskey bottle. “Guess I don’t need to make up an excuse to break into that place anymore. I practically have an invitation.”