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Rated: E · Draft · Fantasy · #2250907
Kajara waits for her chance to right what's wrong. even if it takes all night
Kajara clutched the pole- its solar sail whispering and waving lucidly. She had only the roaring of the waves and melancholy call of the barges to keep her company now. Thank goodness it wasn't a windy night.

She climbed to the top gracefully and transitioned to grey and black shimmer, mimicking the glittering lights of the city, the moonlit sea, and the distant flicker of satellites above her. Not every race could still camouflage, hers was lucky to be one of the last on Earth. Some would argue the Bajau's current situation was anything but lucky, but Kajara loved her people fiercely all the same.

Which is how she found herself here, high above civilization. Completely out of her element.

She reflected on her conversation with the Prime Minister before she left Bajau. He called her to his office in the capitol building and gestured for her to sit in one of the overstuffed leather chairs in front of his massive desk. "Please," he said. "Get comfy."

He retrieved a bottle of whiskey (possibly one of the remaining few on the planet) from a glass bar cart and poured them each a couple of fingers. The crystal glasses probably cost more than her entire home.

"I need your help Kaj," he said, placing the drink a little too deliberately on the desk before her.

She took a sip and relaxed instantly as the burn gave way to a sweet aftertaste, mingling on her palate before she daintily swallowed. A warm buzz materialized at the base of her skull almost immediately. The Bajau weren't genetically made to hold their alcohol well, but a few sips here and there almost always hit the spot.

The Minister's gaze lingered on her a beat longer than it should have before he leaned on the corner of the enormous desk. "Good, right? I've been saving it for a special occasion."

Now Kajara began to worry.

"What do you need my help with sir?" She asked, reclining in the leather chair, legs crossed.

"The Kaladorn problem," he said soberly.

Kajara was a soldier, and in this day and age of idealism and peace, soldiers were celebrities of a bygone era. They enjoyed the heroic personas of great warriors, leading their people to battle and emerging victorious, but bloody hands and a dirty conscience were no longer required.

While many of her peers very publicly displayed their rank and enjoyed their time in the spotlight, Kajara preferred to toil in relative obscurity. There's security in anonymity, and a measure of peace she didn't want to lose.

The downside? She was the one called to these clandestine conversations in the middle of the night with rare whiskey and bad news.

"Why me?" She asked, taking a sip of her whiskey and leaning forward. "You've got plenty of other options, many of them younger and better suited for an assassination mission."

"But they lack experience," he said, sighing heavily. "Everyone's either too green, or too slow."

"And not quite as expendable." She thought grimly.

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