Sorel eases into the chair, the cracked leather of the seat creaking softly. Her wounds are still fresh, and she tries her best not move much until EM-3 can address the blaster burns etched across her torso. She closes her eyes, and reflects on how she got into this mess.

She supposed it must have started with the Camp. She’d never known if it had any other name, or even if there were any others like it that might necessitate a real identifier. The instructors and staff had been quite careful when it came to security, not that it had helped them in the end. Still, there was no doubt the Camp had made her what she was, for better or for worse. It hadn’t been much of a childhood, but she couldn’t complain. After all, she could have ended up like the rest of them.

-- Training Facility F43740, planet Mirial, used for the preparation of special operatives for the former Confederacy. Noted in Imperial Records as destroyed at the end of the Confederate uprising. No survivors. --

She’d never seen real combat before the slaughter at the Camp, of course. Too young and too green, the instructors had said. They’d been right of course. She’d hid while her friends and mentors fell around her, waited until the purge was over and the troopers were gone. She’d felt ashamed then, though she knew now that that had been a foolish feeling brought on by her naivete. No, the true tragedy she had not learned until later. Her family told her when she arrived home. The war was lost, they said, and her twin sister, Merrim, had disappeared and was presumed taken by the Imperials, rounded up along with hundreds of others identified as dissenters in the ensuing take over.

She had known then, as she did now, that she could not stay there. Her family had begged her to, saying that they could not lose another daughter. But there was nothing for her there, she knew it and they knew it. So she’d left in the night, the good-byes too painful to bear, and stowed away aboard a transport vessel bound for the Outer Rim. There she’d plyed the skills she’d learned at the Camp. Those on the Outer Rim hadn’t much cared about her youth as long she got results, and she’d made a reputation for herself as a bounty hunter and assassin by her twentieth birthday.

The work kept her living comfortably, but she’d never quite been able to leave the past behind. Some of every payday inevitably went towards private investigators and shady information brokers for anything on the whereabouts or fate of Merrim. And yet, the revelations that should have arrived from this never did. Every time, the investigators and brokers came back with little or nothing, and the years continued to roll on. And then she’d heard that Teemo the Hutt had some information she would be interested in. A few bounty’s later and she was standing in his palace. Well, that had been the real start of this particular mess, since Teemo had refused to tell her what he knew. So she’d stolen it, broken out, and was now on the run in a stolen ship with a xexto and some droids. How things had changed...

Suddenly, Sorel’s reverie is broken by the wailing of klaxons...

Sibling: Merrim, my missing identical twin sister, who I can't forget.

Freedom: Nothing and no one will hold me down. Especially the Empire...

Family 20
The Missing Twin...

Bounty 10
The Teemo Affair...

A tall, athletic female Mirialan, boasting a powerful, wiry physique and green skin, on the darker side. Has yellow eyes and a crown of black braids with metal rings. Usually held back in a ponytail. Has the geometric facial and hand tattoos of her culture.