Caleb Dexon

[Sjet]

Name: Caleb Dexon
Code name/Alias: Moniker
Allegiance: Rebel Alliance
Age: 29
Place of Birth: Corellia

Physical: Wiry and seemingly loaded with springs, he has an impressive metabolism that might do away with a Hutts feast and yet abandon him to a terrible hangover. His hair has changed colour a dozen times on a dozen worlds, so it’ll be the colour you see when you see him. It might be bright blue, he’s not done that shade yet.

Species: Human
Gender: Male. But there was that one job with the floral bonnet...
Height: Average, if a little on the short side.
Weight: Depends on how full his pockets are.
Eyes: Grey without contacts: with contacts the skies the limit.

Distinguishing features: A Dathomir witchwork tattoo on his left bicep and three knife wounds, one of which is in his back.

Manner of dress: When in polite company he's not trying to work his magic on, he is often seen in a fencers shirt with tailored pants with many a pocket sewn into them from hem to belt line.

Weapon of choice: A fencers vibroblade, a civilised weapon best suited for parting the civilised from their mortal possessions by one means or another. But when civilization is a hyperspace jump in the other direction, he has a pair of small hold out blasters in his boots courtesy of a rigged Sabbac game.

Current Occupation: Brevet Commander, 7th Alliance Special Operations Group. (Basically means he has a rank, but not the pay...score.)
Previous Occupation(s):
Wickstaff Firstson Second Order, Kauti Business Administrator for Imperial HoloCom: wanted for grand larceny and embezzlement of Imperial funds.
Darrick Haloden, Bondlawyer for the Sullustian Twevvek Clan: Suspected abuse of legal standing in service of the Kerggi Hutt Cartel.
Mor Ferdo, Mon Calamari Real Estate Agent: larceny on account of selling beachfront property to Imperial Officials...on a planet completely covered by oceans.
Prince Harrick Do’bara of Alderaan: HoloNet fraud and bank detail mining.

Psychological:
He always has a plan: an exit at the back of the room, a airspeeder in a back alley and a line of half truth that sounds just right. Even in moments of surprises his improvisational skills are something awesome to behold, but one day a quick word and slight of hand will be nothing but sound and motion. You’re never sure if your talking to Caleb, or some character he’s concocted for the conversation. All that is known of him is his fear of water.

Personal History:
Caleb Dexon was, supposedly, born on Corellia. We know this because there are records of a birth, school transcripts, and a list of juvenile crimes that look more like a ‘Scoundrels Life For Dumbies’ manual. The problem is there was a similar wholesome data trail of information for a Wickstaff Firstson Second Order of Kuat, and Darrick Haloden: both of whom were persona used in the commision of crimes. When that old Bothan with the grey whiskers found Caleb and recruited him for ASOG, he did so by uttering two pieces of information.

One was a place, and the other was Calebs real name: and for a con man, like those tales of ancient Jedi Knights, knowing his real name holds a power over him.

So now he’s not just a thief and a false facer, but he is also a counterfeiter, spy, occasional propagandist and one time shadow puppet actor. So why not add Rebel Agitator to the plot line?

[Sjet]

Caleb Dexon sat down heavily in the padded chair across from the fat man, and looked at a half year of his life that meant nothing…

The fat man padded his oily brow with a silk handkerchief, and waved the silver plated protocol droid over. The droid waddled slowly over, carrying a gilded tray carrying a variety of drinks in a variety of glasses. His pudgy fingers dickered over them for a moment. He licked his lips as though he was tasting each one before moving to the next. His final selection was a tall and elegant glass of a startling bright sapphire wine, an Alderaani vintage.

“Would you care for a tipple to take the bite off of the evening’s economic recesses?” he asked, sipping his wine with a childish slurp. Caleb blinked slowly, his hand slowly moving of its own will to the offered tray, eerily finding a glass of Corellian whisky. He took a long pull of it, the Wyren’s Reserve aged perfectly, and tapped the glass down harshly on the desk.

“I would prefer that you tell me why these…these priceless antiquities are-?”

“Worthless?” the man smiled thinly, and indicated the four items left on his lavish desk “I admit they do look genuine. The pottery is exactly the same as sort that would have been around during the reign of Prince Pinyik, the colouring too. But it the vividness of the colouration, the supreme lack of any disturbed marks or blemishes. The Pinyik line was renowned for using a single clan of potters throughout their thousand year rule, and that clan prided in providing imperfects in perfect works. This is unblemished work, without a single wrinkle to mark its authenticity. It is a fake, a marvellously detailed fake, but still not genuine.”

The fat man smiled, taking another noisy sip of his wine before continuing: “Might I enquire how much it cost to…acquire these items? To sate my own curiosity.”

In response, the well-dressed businessman with the glass of whisky finished off the glass. He was dressed in the fashion of a man unaccustomed to wealth: the suit was new, but not tailored to fit. The jewellery and pins he wore were shiny, new, but had that glint of the pass produced that spoke of someone used to buying ‘off the rack’. It was the sort of thing that someone who wanted to make the right impression to a particular level of society.

But a crook was always a crook, regardless of how fancily he dresses. And the fat man knew that, and always enjoyed these little interludes in the antique business: treasure hunters, tomb raiders and…enterprising finders of lost items. He smiled, putting the wine glass down, and waved a hand over the small clay items laid out before him.

“Look I don’t usually do this but, judging by your long face there was considerable effort put into find these items. Its not unusual for the right people who own items to place well intentions fake in their places, whilst the originals sit pretty vault. Helps to save from accidents like a faulty cleaning droid or excited younglings.” He compressed his lips, eyeing the items, and then the man who had come to him with big dreams “I can offer you….something for them. A small compensation for their unique value as close replicas. Perhaps, as a generous soul that I am, a finders fee of three thousand Imperials credits?”

“Each?” Caleb asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid that is the price I’m willing to pay for the lot. Were they original Pinyik era pieces, from the royal palace no less, their price tag would be tenfold a piece. Indeed you would be able to command the price yourself. But as fakes there is, as you no doubt know, a market for these things. Even if it is a market that does not share the same buoyancy as its factual counterparts.” The fat smile leaned back in his chair, his pudgy fingers groping for his blue wine “If you like you could try another fence in the city. Nal Hutta is not without its wealth of dealers in the aged and unique, but I assure you my price for these will be more generous and forgiving than many.”

He slurp his wine.

“Do we have a deal?”

+++

Caleb Dexon waited for the air speeder to rise from the pedestrian parking area and rise into the steady arterial flow of traffic that wormed through Nall Hutta’s urban sprawl. The smugglers moon that orbited the Hutt home world was a gamblers paradise and a smugglers bolt hole, fit to fleece the rich and outfit the providers of black market goods with profit. Dexon kept his face dejected until he was far enough away from the antique dealer’s apartment to be sure he was out of sight, and then smiled.

He reached over and tapped the bench seat cushion across from him, allowing the storage compartment to pop open…revealing three other sets of nearly identical and perfectly pristine ‘Pinyik era master pieces’ to appear. The cost of the lot job had been just over a thousand credits for the lot, paid to a Gand who enjoyed his work and had a spice addiction to pay off: the Gand had made the clay cups, and then had gotten so high he’d gone into hyperspace before Caleb had left his apartment.

He reached past the perfect fakes and pulled out the small money pouch, already heavy with coins and credit chits from the last two dealers who had been sorry to tell him his priceless treasures were indeed priceless tourist chic. Those last two had paid more for the chance to fence the fakes off to the newly moneyed than the fat man had, but Caleb had three more meetings tonight to add to his funds.

The antique dealers got fakes they could sell, and the good karma of helping a thief who had ‘stolen the golden egg plant’ and found it not solid gold but rotten to the core. The moral high ground was there’s.

Who was he to disrupt karma by telling them their perfect fakes would begin to fall apart within a day or so? After all Gands were an insect species, and you’d be hard pressed to tell clay pots from hardened pre-digested plant enzymes without thoroughly checking them over with a medical scanner. For now the fat man was happy, and so was Caleb.

After all, he’d just sold vomit to a moneyed duke of antiques: it was a good night to be Caleb Dexon.