Cultivating friends in high places was one thing. Cultivating them in<i>unusual</i>places was what, in the experience of one Procion Cortenay, Sith Lord and self-styled man of science, tended to make up the difference between the adequate and the exceptional; and he'd always fancied himself rather exceptional, even, or perhaps especially, among peers.<br/><br/>During the outbreak on Alderaan, when THORN had made itself fully and irrevocably part of the public domain, he'd made it his business to cosy up to one of their biochemists, reasoning that where the raks went, so did THORN, and with them, their state-of-the-art equipment. If that wherever happened to, say, have housed a civilisation of space-faring, Force-using, superintelligent species some thirty thousand years ago - giving its relics thirty thousand years to get buried in infinite dunes - only to be dug up by the very things THORN were trying to eradicate, then, how could anyone in their good conscience not tap the possibilities that offered?<br/><br/>Indeed, he'd been quite lavish in congratulating himself when his contact had called, offering all her information on the find in exchange for a hand in the field, collecting samples. It was beneath him, of course; such menial tasks were best suited for hired help, but if it was what Miritsa required to soothe her little heart...<br/><br/>He had long since come to regret that decision.<br/><br/>The suit was airtight, made to block out all but the most ingenious pathogens and environmental hazards; not only that, it was designed to absorb light, granting the wearer a certain stealthiness with not a mote of the supernatural. It ensured that his scent would not escape and alert the rakghouls, and enabled him to breathe in most atmospheres as well as water and even the void of space, to a limited degree. In addition to all these delightful functions, it also chafed like a motherfucker, made breathing even the sweetest, purest air a chore, and drained every drop of liquid out through his pores. He was amazed it wasn't sloshing, yet. And lightning - channeling lightning while wearing the suit felt like being roasted alive.<br/><br/>That, and the damnable Jedi was here somewhere. Miritsa had told him the moment he'd landed; Master Findolan had somehow caught wind of the find and assembled his own team, and he had a head start.<br/><br/>Drawing a deep breath, he held it for a moment, and then exhaled a stream of muttered Ancient Sith swears, casting out his senses. Chaos... The rakghouls had minds, strictly speaking, but they were a seething, unintelligible kind, everywhere in the surrounding tunnels except Northwest. In that direction, all he could feel was a vast, cold silence; likely the underground lake Miritsa had indicated. Except that there was someone else there. A mind with clarity and focus.<br/><br/>He swore out loud. Had Master Findolan made it this far ahead of him? How did the old man have all this information? No - he wouldn't have it. A plan formed in Procion's mind, a hasty, reckless plan. Skulking ahead through the winding tunnels, he slowly peeled back the skin-tight hood-helmet cross, allowing himself a sigh of relief at the chance to breathe normally for once. Feeling for the nearest concentration of rakghouls, he headed straight to them, letting them catch his scent. Then, he turned for the life sign, picking up Force-enhanced speed.<br/><br/>He'd draw them to the old man, corner him, force him to fight. Forswearing technology, the Master would be ill placed to follow him into the water.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>