Perhaps the woman's prophet-like confidence works at inspiring the masses here but it makes Boba roll his eyes. To him, it comes across as typical Jedi arrogance.
No matter. He turns his attention back to the spy in their midst, who clutches a small bag by his side in preparation to move with the others. Boba notes it with interest as he again positions himself by the door, watching and waiting.
At first, the mole acts no different from the other refugees. He forms a line with the others as the transports approach, standing near the back and waiting with the same sense of anxious anticipation. Boba does his best not to stare too openly. It's times like these that he most misses his helmet—with the 360-degree viewscreen inside, he can turn his head any way he likes and still see everything. Fortunately, the man he's watching now is clearly inexperienced. He doesn't seem to notice Boba's attention at all as he begins to bag with the parcel in his hands.
It's as the line starts to move that the target finally gives himself away: he leans forward, attempting to obscure his next movements and then, casually, removes a parcel from his bag and tucks into the bundled belongings of the person in front of him. When they move forward in line, they unwittingly take the smuggled cargo with them. And the man? He pats his pockets as if he's forgotten something, turning his head as if searching—and then, quietly, exits the line, making to slip out of the safe house's back exit. With the others so focused on the waiting transports, it isn't difficult for him to go unnoticed.
Boba follows in his wake, stopping first to grab the secreted parcel from the other refugee's belongings before following the man out of the safe house. He handles it gingerly, knowing all too well that the most likely options here are either tracker or a bomb. By the time he makes it outside, the man is already making his getaway through the treeline—though, not fast enough to escape Boba's sight.
It's the work of seconds for Boba to summon his armor—and his jetpack with it. The man barely makes it out of sight of the safe house before his escape is cut off by the impact of a green-armored figure landing square in his path. Between the man's startled momentum and the added bulk of his armor, Boba has no trouble knocking the would-be agent to the ground. In one hand, he lifts the parcel the man had left behind.
"Forget something?"
The man stares up at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Boba can see panic setting in. "I—I don't know what that is. I was just—"
"You tried to smuggle it in with someone else's things," Boba interrupts. "What was the objective? Tracking the transports or destroying them?"
The man shakes his head. "I don't know—please, I don't even know what's inside! They—they just told me to get it onto the transports..."
The black visor of Boba's helmet betrays nothing. "Are you a Sylphid?"
"No, I'm—it was just a job, alright? They didn't tell me anything. Please. You'll never see me again, I promise—"
It's the same desperate pleading Boba has heard time and time again. He knows there's no use in indulging it and, if he's disgusted by the man's weakness, he also takes no pleasure in giving false hope. His judgment is swift and matter-of-fact: "Then you're of no use to us alive."
Assuming no one intervenes, the man will have only a brief moment to make his peace as Boba draws his blaster. It will only take a single bolt to the head to silence him for good.
no subject
No matter. He turns his attention back to the spy in their midst, who clutches a small bag by his side in preparation to move with the others. Boba notes it with interest as he again positions himself by the door, watching and waiting.
At first, the mole acts no different from the other refugees. He forms a line with the others as the transports approach, standing near the back and waiting with the same sense of anxious anticipation. Boba does his best not to stare too openly. It's times like these that he most misses his helmet—with the 360-degree viewscreen inside, he can turn his head any way he likes and still see everything. Fortunately, the man he's watching now is clearly inexperienced. He doesn't seem to notice Boba's attention at all as he begins to bag with the parcel in his hands.
It's as the line starts to move that the target finally gives himself away: he leans forward, attempting to obscure his next movements and then, casually, removes a parcel from his bag and tucks into the bundled belongings of the person in front of him. When they move forward in line, they unwittingly take the smuggled cargo with them. And the man? He pats his pockets as if he's forgotten something, turning his head as if searching—and then, quietly, exits the line, making to slip out of the safe house's back exit. With the others so focused on the waiting transports, it isn't difficult for him to go unnoticed.
Boba follows in his wake, stopping first to grab the secreted parcel from the other refugee's belongings before following the man out of the safe house. He handles it gingerly, knowing all too well that the most likely options here are either tracker or a bomb. By the time he makes it outside, the man is already making his getaway through the treeline—though, not fast enough to escape Boba's sight.
It's the work of seconds for Boba to summon his armor—and his jetpack with it. The man barely makes it out of sight of the safe house before his escape is cut off by the impact of a green-armored figure landing square in his path. Between the man's startled momentum and the added bulk of his armor, Boba has no trouble knocking the would-be agent to the ground. In one hand, he lifts the parcel the man had left behind.
"Forget something?"
The man stares up at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Boba can see panic setting in. "I—I don't know what that is. I was just—"
"You tried to smuggle it in with someone else's things," Boba interrupts. "What was the objective? Tracking the transports or destroying them?"
The man shakes his head. "I don't know—please, I don't even know what's inside! They—they just told me to get it onto the transports..."
The black visor of Boba's helmet betrays nothing. "Are you a Sylphid?"
"No, I'm—it was just a job, alright? They didn't tell me anything. Please. You'll never see me again, I promise—"
It's the same desperate pleading Boba has heard time and time again. He knows there's no use in indulging it and, if he's disgusted by the man's weakness, he also takes no pleasure in giving false hope. His judgment is swift and matter-of-fact: "Then you're of no use to us alive."
Assuming no one intervenes, the man will have only a brief moment to make his peace as Boba draws his blaster. It will only take a single bolt to the head to silence him for good.