Cloak and Dagger

[Defiance]

A crumpled word lay etched across the quivering life among Nar Shaddaa, a red sign smeared across the backs of every low-life and street savages, a symbol that must be borne by them always. Constantly, they itch and fiddle with it, attempting to mask it or pass it on to others like dirty men stealing their groceries caught red-handed.

They toss and turn under the burn it gives them, like a searing fire visible for everybody to see.

Litost.

Dirty sewage dripped from a severed pipe, the rusted metal keeping all but the rhythmic drip into a small puddle upon the floor, mixing with dried vomit and blood. Haughty laughs and the sound of broken glass sounded in the distance, through the thick smoke that expelled from the nearby establishment. Men walked among the alleyway, no filthier than the dishonored coins that jingled in their pockets. A single form lay against the graffiti'd concrete wall, his face obscured by his helmet, hatching above a cloak stained by dark red blotches and soot.

Several eyes strayed to the motionless figure, and immediately looked elsewhere. The few who recognized him were smart enough to leave in the opposite direction. Others ignored him, their temptations of raiding him foiled by the unmistakably silver blaster shining at his waist.

A crude five letters shone through the moonlight, engraved on the barrel.

T I T U S

He stirred, an a twitch of the leg. A strange silence pervaded through the alleyway, the sounds from inside having been ceased, and the noises of garbage suddenly drowned out by the deafening tranquility. And then suddenly—his arm grabbed his gun like a tree stricken by thunder.

"So you are as fast as they say." He was a small creature, too small for a normal man. Stealthy, yet agile. He hung from an empty window above, no more elegant than a beast scaling the foundations made from the bones of innocent men. Felacatian. "I've been sent to kill you, but you are a hard man to find. I admit it comes with the job—you are the Titus, after all."

He paused for a second, and titled his feline head. Titus still lay frozen, his hand on the blaster, blocking the moonlight with a glove of black leather.

"Not much of a talker, are you?"

…

"You woke me from my nap."

And he drew.

 

[Butler]

"That isn't gonna cut it with me, pal."

"..."

"I'm gonna win. No matter how many times we go round in circles, buddy, I'm gonna get what I'm after. So you might as well just-"

"..."

"Ho-ho. Don't give me that you little-"

"..."

"Listen puss-bag! I want my treasure! By the fat side of a Hutt's ass, I'm gonna slap you till you remember jumpin from your mother's-"

"..."

"Shut up! Shut up! You stupid piece of crappy garbage dumping ...butter bitching ...mother monking ...BLEHHHH!"

Lev spewed out his one-eyed hatred for the arcade game with an adolescent tantrum of flailing and smashing and cursing until melting his utterly spent gesticulating posture onto the table of plastic glass riddled with colored light-bulbs and dancing girls depicting a pirate's journey across the universe for the 'Hutt's Booty'.

"Hutt's Booty, blahblahblehhhh!" he moaned with greasy chin stubble flicking straight under his strain as he drag his stressful skin from right to left, as if the pain he were inflicting to the table with his chin somehow made things right and realigned the cosmos for his injustice here today.

Bare knuckles tapping across the table, his fingers searched for the mug of ale next to. But finding the empty glass only reminded him of their lonesome purgatory.

"Krull almighty, I could hear you from the other side of the bar, Marksy."

"Hey! I'm not payin you to hear. I'm payin you to listen."

"What?"

"Ah. Exactly."

"Here. I got you another beer."

"Selena?"

"Yes, Lev."

"If I hand-cuffed you to the chair, would you still marry me?"

"Wha-? Uh, I don't remember ever..." *sigh* "... Sure, Lev. Of course I would."

The weight of his bloated head rolled over onto its side, demonstrating his drunkenness to the fine young woman in black leather thigh-cut dress. It wasn't often that she escorted men of Lev's echelon. But when the money was there, how could she refuse? Of course, Lev didn't often pay for such fine escorts either. In fact, his standards often sank well below sea level. But how odd that he checked his watch just then, pretending to drool onto the game table in this adult's playground on the glorious trash compactor that is the Hutt's backyard.

He was late.

Damn that Beaver, Bailey. Where was he?! Lev figured he'd have to stall even longer to keep this plan simple. And how simple it was supposed to be; pay the girl to sit and wait, unbeknownst to her, until she was picked up by the merc ship that payed for her bounty. Borga's man is happy, thereby making Borga happy in some capacity. Done and done. Well, it was supposed to be done; by now.

Lev liked his bounties like he liked his women, easy...

 

[Bee]

All Vi wanted was a night to herself. No Jedi trying to drag her back, kicking and screaming, to their temples; no frustratingly attractive spacers getting under her skin; no staying up late watching holo-films eating junk food, either. Not that a little trash in her diet wouldn't do her some good - she'd always looked a little lean and hungry, like a racing dog passed over at meal time - but she'd wanted to be social. See some people. Ones she didn't know, and with any luck, probably wouldn't see again. More and more the people who entered her life were becoming less than disposable, and commitment - to a way of life, to a single person, to a group of friends, a brand of shampoo - wasn't something she particularly enjoyed. Bad experiences, and all that.

Lev and his lady friend weren't a subtle addition to the bar. Everyone knew they were there, and Vica was no different from the drunk masses, save for her terrifying sobriety, and was content - more or less - to leave them be. She had her game, a shooter where you were tasked with ridding an old spaceport of various undead extraterrestrials - and a beer too, though it would take a dozen more before she approached the levels of obliterated that he'd ascended to. But at some point, blowing holes in the faces of holo-baddies just didn't cut it anymore. Vica was a troublesome, jealous creature, and it was all she could do to drop the plastic gun, grab her drink, and move closer to where the poor, bored escort was standing, closer proximity making it clear that she was not his date. Not in the traditional sense, anyway.

She was being paid.

And while Vi was certainly in no position to judge, some knotted up part inside of her relaxed, relieved. A hand on Selena's shoulder, she moved her face close to the woman's ear, though her voice wasn't a whisper but a hushed tone she was sure that Lev could hear. Hell, she even fixed her blue eyes on him, even as she leaned down to fake some kind of conspiratorial conversation between her and the working girl. "Be careful with this one, yeah?"

Her eyes flickered to Selena's face. "Last girl he came here with.." Vi paused, just long enough to make the woman wonder.

"Security droids had to pick bits of skull outta her teeth before running the dental records."

It had the desired effect. Selena frowned, eyebrows furrowed, and in a swift - if somewhat awkward movement - ripped the drink back, tossed it on the floor, and stormed off. She was saying something, none of it particularly ladylike, but Vica had blocked it out before she even knew what it was. Leaning against a nearby game cabinet, Vi folded her arms and looked just so self-satisfied it was almost a crime, malevolent and lovely as ever in her black slacks and slightly too short white shirt. Save for the lack of distinctive blue tattoos that had once covered her arms, her stomach, and her collar, not much had changed.

"Having a good night so far, Lev?"

 

[Defiance]

Gunshot.

The heavy bang resounded through the streets, a powerful blaster behind its genesis. Nearby bystanders knew well enough to leave, for a beast had been awaken from the depths. A monster unbridled. A thud as the small body slumped from the window, into the puddle, a wisp of smoke snaking from a hole in his gut. He struggled to get up, his face contorted in pain. "Ple...please." Titus pressed the barrel against the feline's temple, still hot from it's last shot. "Wait."

"I know something. Something important."

He pressed the gun harder against the kneeled Felacation. "That's not going to cut it." Titus' voice behind his vacant helmet replied, a deep gravelly growl retaining seemingly limitless fury. "Wait! It has to do with Killswitch."
The cat-like mercenary fearfully looked back at his own ghost-lit reflection. Titus had froze. For a moment the two had a moment of silence, as the potency of the words began to kick in. The Felacation clenched his burnt flesh in pure pain, and slowing Titus lifted the gun away from his head.

"What do you know about Killswitch?"

"You'd be surprised…" His ear twitched. "I've heard things here and there. And then my employers: they're sending out very specific hits. To the inexperienced eye, they'd just be vagabonds. But you—you confirm my suspicions."

"They're hunting the former Alph—"

He suddenly stopped, choking sounds beginning to flutter from his throat. Foam began to form, frothing from the corners of his mouth and spilling down his chin. Convulsions quaked on his small chest, and he promptly collapsed with a splash into the sewage. Titus snatched an object embedded into the Felacation's neck, a poisoned dart. Another heartbeat began to increase in speed yet fade in volume, followed by heavy footsteps. Male. Human. Titus' feet began to move, as he leaped onto a nearby window, ejecting himself into a balcony and climbing onto a roof. He could see him, a dark form sprinting off from roof to roof. He lacked finesse and stealth.

Titus growled, he would be easy to track.

Corruption at it's finest, a miasmic web of a lie, another lie, and more lies. The spawn of filth never learned to be better, they simply learned how to multiply. They begged to be challenged, the chaos that they summon suffocating even the most formidable of law enforcement. As if they existed. The few men that brought justice became overcome themselves by a legion of demons and malevolent beings, by a conflict that they never bothered to remedy within their thousands of years of existence. A bad joke.

Titus slid down a canopy into the street, keeping the shadows as he followed the moving figure. He watched as he entered another bar, almost desperate to find people to slip into and disappear. Paltry. He succeeded him into the bar, entering just to see the man turn back towards him. Blue eyes were evident, piercing through bush of his eyebrows, above a thin beard. Titus growled as he drew, but the man already had a submachine gun. He smiled and raised the weapon in the air, loud shots firing through the bar.

And then chaos.

 

[D.C.]

(OOC: Editted the entire post.)

The sound of gunfire woke her from her nightmare. She blinked a few times, and slowly the dreamscape faded before her eyes and transformed into the back room, which was located behind the bar and right across from the main entrance. She clutched her head, gritting her teeth, as if she could make the headache go away by doing so. She looked up then, and saw the round pazaak table in the centre of the room, but her companions were long gone. She was alone for the moment, sitting in that chair in the corner of the back room.

She turned her eyes toward the door, leading into the bar area, and wondered if she'd really heard gunfire or if she'd just dreamed it. After all, the gunfire had almost immediately ceased again.

Shannon slowly got up from her chair and put on her hat, and then, with her hand on the butt end of her pistol, she slowly moved toward the door. A few seconds later she stood in the doorway and beheld the common room in all its miserable, reeking glory. She saw some truly frightened faces in the crowd, and then some who seemed hateful . . . or perhaps even greedy. Faces of bounty hunters, or thugs, or any kind of villainy. Faces of persons who seemed to think that there was something to gain here. But what? Had a wanted man just walked into this bar? What else could explain those faces?

Then she saw him. The armoured man. He wore a helmet, and so she couldn't see the man's face, but the armour and helmet did seem familiar to her. Had she seen this person on a wanted poster? Or maybe seen a picture of him in the chronicle? She wasn't sure where she'd seen the picture, but as she thought about it some more she did recall the name that had accompanied the picture.

Titus.

She narrowed her angel-blue eyes and fixed them on him. She could already feel tension building in the room. She knew that it was totally possible that a real gunfight would commence. It could happen any moment now. She glanced around the room once more, but wasn't sure who might have fired that shot. Could it have been Titus himself? But why?

What the hell's going on? Damn, I shouldn't've drunk so much . . .

But she did want to find out. She remained there in the doorway, just so she could slip into the back room if she needed cover. For now she decided to just wait and see what Titus--if it really was him--would do next. He was a wanted man, after all . . . and she was a gunslinger. She just had to be careful. She wasn't exactly sure if she would be a match for him, and considering he was wearing that heavy armour, she guessed not.

 

[Butler]

Lev's eyes flicked up with surprise to the sound of that familiar sultry voice. His spine snapped straight up, chills streaming up his neck hairs.

"Vi-Vica!"

He had to catch himself in his stuttering dishevelment, the foreshortened and affectionate two letter 'Vi' no longer in his vocabulary; unless spitefully applied. 'Vica' was the new informal echo that exaggerated the hollow gap that was once filled with hot and heavy emotions.

"Selela! Wait!"

He cringed to the shattering of his glass on the floor, depicting a much less inebriated Lev than was formally played for the palace of people in order to catch that sexy catch worth a few pretty pennies. So Lev sprang up onto his feet and followed two slippery steps after Selena before completely losing her to the crowd and almost sliding over the glass and onto his boney ass.

"Goddamn-it Vica! What the hell- What are you doing here?? You just cost me two thousand chips. Not to mention her ridiculous six-hundred an hour..."

Lev paced in front of Vica, dragging his sweaty shaking palm down over the back of his shaggy aggravated head, and kicking the leg out of his chair. In truth, his hands were shivering because of his unintended seven hour detox. Alcohol could never replace his need for chemical substances.

"And what was that shit about dental records? You were the last girl I came here with."

He stopped pacing, realizing he just recognized the meaningful song that came on over the ambience through the bumping ceiling speakers. It was a mixed club version, but still the same song. He hoped she didn't hear it. As she could likely tell, he wasn't his usually smooth self. He needed his fix.

BANG!

Lev spasmed with a cringe to the loud gunshot from outside. Everyone heard it. And heads were turning towards the open doors, letting the cool air spill in; yet now carrying a creeping fear with it into the establishment. It was felt by every paused foot, idle even under resonating bass beat that continued regardless. And Lev's itching hands hovered over his side pistols.

Then in barged the very large brute, unleashing a spray of intimidation into the ceiling; followed by another man.

"...Sable?!?" Lev questioningly blurted out the call-sign of whom he thought he recognized, after reeling from yet another needless shrugging duck.

Bushy eyebrows, thin beard, and all - the guy heard the familiar handle that certain circles knew him by and peeked a quick look over to Lev. Sithspawn - it was him.

"Bad news..." he skittishly muttered under his wavering breath as his hand reached for Vica's arm to follow his instincts and pull her to safety.

He hadn't yet recognized Titus, farther back from where Lev stood, but he knew this baby killer sure as a supernova on a hot summer night.

 

[Bee]

Maybe it wasn't obvious from her rather harmless appearance - tall and willowy and, of course, freaking pink - but Vica had a knack for intimidation. Not the kind you'd find coming from a bouncer at a club, but the straight-faced and seemingly honest kind spoken with complete sincerity, not even a hint of humor showing through when she warned Selena of her date's supposedly homicidal intentions. It was all a lie, of course. But Vi knew how to zero in very basic fears - getting chopped up into a dozen pieces was pretty high up there on anyone's list, especially if they were a working girl - and insecurities, and bending the truth was about as easy as breathing. Sometimes, she didn't even have to think about it.

Watching as the woman faded from view she offered a little shrug, her smile sweetly understated. It was the kind of look that twisted the knife, and her darkly playful tone was no different. "Sounds like you were getting ripped off. I didn't think you were so down and out as to start paying for it, now." Some people made bad enemies because they were bigger than you. Some people made bad enemies because they were smarter than you. But Vica was manipulative, with a cruel streak as long as the kessel run, and when her feelings were hurt she had a hard time letting go - or playing fair.

"Oh." She feigned surprise, taking a step closer. He looked like hell, but it was the kind of infernal abyss she'd been awfully fond of, once upon a time. "Maybe I'm thinking of someone different." She hadn't come here with anyone else. Not ever.

The gunfire had been unexpected. But true to form, Vi offered little more than a slight tilt of her head, looking more inconvenienced than afraid. The tug on her arm prompted her to move, and she remained close to Lev even after wrenching herself from his grasp. "Sable?" She asked quietly, following along. As much as she hated to admit it, Vi trusted his judgement - almost implicitly.

 

[Defiance]

Clusters of gasps and awe staggered through as the sound of gunfire attracted gazes to Titus' lustrous form. The argent glow reflected across his armor, a gleam among the dimly lit bar. Infernal whispers spoke his name, greed piquing within their narrow minds. The runner stumbled past the entrance into the mass, disappearing among the many. The faceless helmet leisurely gyrated form side to side, observing his surroundings. The cowards struggled to escape through back, while the observers watched to see what happened next. Many slid their hands towards their weapons, an act of stupidity. What evil must of spawned such a group of apocryphal wretches. Titus stood, complacent, gloved hands concurrently grabbing his katanas and drawing them out of their sheaths with a resounding grate. Quadanium glimmered at it's awakening, coated upon finely tuned durasteel.

A bartender brought up a miniature holoprojection, a bounty, on his table. The iconic, featureless helmet shown among the blue projection—and underneath burned itself into the bartender's eyes—100,000 credits alive. High price for one man. The cumulative tension began to swell, and several hunters began to step forward, blasters already drawn. They raised them towards the idle Titus, the leader beginning to smirk. He was a dangerous man, but surely, this was just a man. "I think you and me are going to go on a little trip." This was the dance that they always performed, a charade of aggressive steps and a sour taste in your mouth. Titus doesn't dance.

He stepped forward and then—

—Blood.

An agonizing roar echoed through the dumbfounded bar, the leader on his knees as blood sprayed from his stubble onto his sundered hand, still gripping the blaster. In one instant the lackey anxiously fired, missing the silver blur that was upon him, and then the next, he was left impaled in the heart by Titus' blade. The last also fired, yet the blast hit Titus' blade, singing a mark upon the resistant alloy. His eyes widened as he knew it was already too late, before his head was dissevered from his head. In a mere moment he had dispatched three armed men. The leader still screamed in pain, smoke sizzling from his open wound.

"It's burning, help me, please, a—"

Mid-scream, Titus slid his blade straight through the man's throat, instantly silencing him. A waterfall of crimson spilled from his mouth as his eyes glazed over, stuck even through death in his horrified face. Titus kicked the man in the chest, causing him to fall off of his katana. A pool of blood was quickly beginning to form, and the smell of death was beginning to pervade through the smell of alcohol and smoke, the sickly scent of violence.

A silence began to fall under the bar, not a single sound uttered by the entirety of the bar as they all watched with horror at the scene that had just witnessed. Titus took a couple footsteps forward, evading the puddle of death he had made. The nearest man beginning to shiver in fear as he came closer, shrinking back from the man. He could not run, for pure panic made him freeze in his place. Titus lifted his blade up to the man's chest, to which caused his trembling to escalate. Chilled whimpers crept out from his throat as he wiped the blood on his blades on the man's shirt and sheathed them.

And then his voice, a low, growling voice emitted from underneath the helmet. Loud, yet cold. This was they way he spoke, and he never masked it with enthusiasm or inflection, nor anger or rage. Just as his ideals, he was either speaking or he wasn't. Black or white, there is no gray. And when he looked at the room in front of him, all he saw was black.

"Don't bother."

And then—

"Get out of my way."

 

[D.C.]

First chaos, then silence. Cold, intense silence. Shannon watched from the shadowy doorway, staring at the armoured warrior in awe. She had witnessed other great warriors dropping foes as easily as he had, many times over. In fact, she had been there herself. But that didn't make Titus' actions less powerful . . . less . . . amazing? She wasn't sure whether that was the right word for it, because how could the act of killing be amazing? She thought about this for a moment, and then she knew how. It wasn't the killing itself--it was the sheer image of this armoured fighter, fearless and true. The patrons here, all witnesses to his actions, would talk about what they had seen here for months, maybe years, to come. Yes, this was Nar Shaddaa, and murder was part of every day life. Yet this was different. The armoured man had taken killing to a whole new level, whether that was something to be admired or not.

And then suddenly a figure leapt from the crowd right in front of her. He ran straight at her, still carrying that gun of his, and although Shannon hadn't seen this bloke before, she instantly realised this guy could've been the man who'd opened fire initially, disturbing her sleep. Before she knew it, he was right in front of her, and then a firm hand was on her shoulder. He shoved her aside, just like that, and dashed into the back room. Shannon then heard some noise behind her, as if he had ran into an object, followed by a cry of pain.

Quickly, she turned, and pulled out her revolver. She entered the back room again and saw the gunman just getting back to his feet. By the looks of it, he had accidentally ran into one of the chairs by the table in the centre of the room. He evidently hadn't seen the chair till it was too late, and hadn't been able to run around it--it was conveniently placed right in front of the door to the back room, after all.

She lifted her revolver and pointed her pistol at him as he ran on toward the back exit of the cantina, leading to a back alley. No doubt this man intended to flee the scene to avoid being captured by Titus.

As a pre-caution, Shannon pulled the trigger and blasted the gun out of the man's hand. The man stopped immediately, knowing that if the woman behind him was capable of doing that, she would be capable of blasting his head off as well. He must've been afraid she would indeed drop him if he decided to run on. For a moment he stood still, but then turned around in a flash, reaching for a concealed gun inside his jacket while turning, and immediately returned fire at Shannon.

She moved to the right and was just fast enough to avoid the bolts. She didn't like killing, but the gunslinger inside of her knew that she didn't really have a choice. Kill or be killed. So she aimed her revolver at the man's chest and pulled. The hammer struck the firing pin and the bolt escaped the chamber; it bore through the guy's chest, and as a result he was thrown backward. He crashed against the wall behind him, right beside the back exit that led out of the building, and then slid down along the wall to the floor, leaving a trail of blood on the wall. Then he sat there on his backside, his legs spread and his chin on his throat. Lifeless, like a rag doll. He was dead.

Shannon looked over her smoking barrel at the dead man, who had almost managed to escape (and perhaps still had managed it, if death counts as escape). Her heart beat in her chest rapidly, and slowly she brought the barrel to her lips. She blew the smoke away and then lowered her weapon, turning her eyes to the door leading back into the bar area.

That was it, now she was part of it. She had killed the armoured warrior's quarry.

"F#ck . . ."

 

[Butler]

Lev wrinkled his nose to her retrieval of her own arm, quickly hiding his dissatisfaction before she could see; not to mention being distracted by all hell that was breaking loose around them. He barely gave her the satisfaction of his attention.

"Sable. Worked with him two years back. We had to ditch him when he chose a family over our mission," he explained, distantly, as his eyes trailed Sable's retreating ass into the back room.

Lev turned a sad look to Vica to add the punch line.

"A family of women."

He turned away, ashamed to have left the women to be raped by Sable. But it wasn't the first time he'd left others to their fate for the sake of a mission, or rather for himself. It was just better that way. Just me and me, he tells himself. And yet, he often finds himself attached to Vica in a way he's never been; grabbing her arm like so without thinking normally, all about Lev - just for Lev. There always seemed to be room for a little Vi in between the lines. And when she had no room for him, he still confessed these things to her; painfully honest.

"...I wasn't paying for it... like ...for it," he grumbled with returning venom to his teeth. "You cost twice as much," he smirked with a stab into the body of their memory.

"Now where do you think you're going?" Lev watched the woman follow after Sable with much curiosity.

Creepily crossing passed Vica, Lev turned back around for one last act of heroism.

"Stay. Here," he ordered with a stabbing finger-point to her feet. Real smooth. All he wanted was her safety.

After, in all likelihood, fumbling over the bickering banter, Lev snuck passed and skirted the crowd and towards the back room. He wanted no part in the slaughter ensuing near the entrance. But something personal was going down out back he just had to see. And when he reached the still swinging door, rocking in and out from those come before, he peeked through the gap with a hand on quick-draw pistol. Lev looked just in time to catch the hammer strike the pin and splatter the man's chest once he knew.

"I don't know whether to shoot you or thank you," he announced himself to the gunslinger's backside. It was a pretty nice backside too.

Lev had snuck through the sway of the door in the heat of the moment, now reclined against the inside of the door with pistol in hand laid flat on its side upon the stainless steel work-station in an intimidatingly off-kilter aim. An inch or so off its mark, all he had to do was clench his bicep with a pull of the trigger and his aim would correct itself towards the girl. But he didn't like shooting pretty women. He just liked pointing things at them.

"He worked for the Hutts..." Lev slyly justified with reason to retaliate. But, in truth, he was more than happy to see the bastard squashed. Anything to make a girl all weak in the knees for him. And yet, his own hand subtly shivered the gun in hand; unable to hide the pain without chemical imbalance.

 

[Bee]

Truthfully, Vica wasn't sure what the hell was going on. Lev was acting weird - weirder than usual - and while the chaos was inconvenient, she wasn't exactly ready to lose her head over a few indiscriminate shots fired into the air. Since when did blaster fire necessitate such ridiculous dramatics on Nar Shaddaa? In Hutt Space? Robberies, murder, they happened on a daily basis, and Vi didn't exactly lead a boring life devoid of all violent confrontation, either. Maybe she was desensitized, maybe she was crazy, but when Lev pointed at her feet she shrugged, hands dropping from her hips to her sides, rolling her blue eyes as though he'd done something supremely annoying. "Sure. Whatever. Tell Sable I said 'hi'."

Don't get killed, she wanted to add, but he was a slippery guy - if anyone was going to get shot in a cantina and forget to stand up afterwards, it probably wasn't going to be Lev Marsky. (Which kind of sucked for her) As for Sable, she didn't know the guy from any other stranger, and wondered - as she made her way toward the front of the bar, hidden in the crowd - whether or not he was even real, having missed the scruffy man bolting through the bar through the crowd. Maybe he was one of her former lover's junkie hallucinations. Maybe he was a cybernetic hoojib. Frankly, she didn't care. She'd wanted a night left to her own devices, one where she could get a little drunk and forget about her problems long enough to be happy for a while, and then.. shit got weird.

Making it close enough to the action in time to see Titus and his armor take out a handful of middle-aged goons, Vi's mouth twisted some, thoughtful and unimpressed. Working for the Cartel definitely hardened her to the grislier stuff the galaxy had to offer, and when the strange man ordered the patrons out of his way she took the opportunity to slip out the front door, washing her hands of the situation.

 

[Defiance]

Muted footsteps creaked through the worn wood, the faceless man sauntered under the weary eye of the bar. Smell of blood, a projectile through the chest. A woman and another man. A man began to pull a blaster from his holster. A yell of pain escaped his mouth as Titus grabbed his throat, his iron fingers clasping his exposed esophagus, and slammed him against a bar table. Sputtered gasps snaked from his throat, a dying animal in the grasps of a hunter, waiting to be put down. The fornication and obscenity of this place itched his skin, its corrosive influence batting itself against Titus' iron will. He crushed the man's windpipe and tossed him into the door, which collapsed with a cruel crunch.

A woman and another man. The runner was dead.

Titus stepped past them, crouching down to examine the body. High-powered rifle, submachine uzi, combat gear. A dirty attack hound caught writhing among the worst, choked by his own kind. Pathetic. He grabbed the hilt of one of his katanas, his body beginning to get tense. A rumbled low voice escaped from underneath the helmet, evoked from his own mangled throat. "One of you knows." Two people at the scene of a death, weapons drawn. One fired, another didn't. Retarded children screaming at a playground, almost ready for an abattoir. Illegitimate children of sin and taint wandering among their drowning relatives, only waiting to be dragged down with them.

"Who."

There was no request, no question waiting for an answer. It was an instruction to be followed, with consequence.

Gloved fingers searched the bloodied corpse, an object buried within the runner's pocket. Sliding it from underneath the dead savage's attire, Titus looked upon the TranspariPad, its image reflected off of his nebulous visage. Two words lay neon upon its surface, bolded upon its etched screen.

Ermine.
BYZANTIUM

Underneath it manifested a rendering of the Felacation. A hit. Another thread among a web of wrongdoing, entrapping and feeding off of its own slaves like a miasmic beast eating its own children. Titus ascended to a stand, tossing the device to the side. To Byzantium, the vile capital of iniquity. And it was time to burn it to the ground.

 

[D.C.]

((OOC: Right, sorry for the delay. Please know that I won't forget about this thread even if I don't show up for some time. I'm just busy, is all))
----

She tilted her head slightly and looked from the gunman to Titus, her luminous eyes shimmering with a strange curiosity.

"Well, go ahead, baby," she told the gunman (Lev) in her pleasant, drawling voice, gesturing toward him. "Tell the knight in shining armour what you know. I merely shot the man in an act of self-defence."

She kept looking at Titus, wondering what he might look like beneath the helmet. At the same time she was fully aware of the gunman to her left, seeing him in the corner of her eye, and since she didn't quite trust him, she decided to hold onto her pistol a little longer rather than putting it back in the holster at her side.

For now she decided to remain silent and observant, only speaking when she really had something to say. She wanted to find out what was going on here herself, but perhaps Titus should do the questioning instead of her. He seemed to be rather adept at it, after all. And since she was a good listener . . . well, what do ya know? The two of them complemented each other like a team.

She almost smiled, yet somehow managed not to. Smiling might be unwise now. Dangerous, even.

 

[Butler]

Lev's other hand rotated onto his hip just over his other pistol when Titus entered next. Lev's eyes flicked to the back of the man's head, but still did not make enough of the picture to link a face to the name. So his eyes returned to stripping the lovely redhead and deciding which type she was, cotton or lace.

"Alright cotton," he cooly quipped in high pitched return, "Keep your stirrups on..."

The one, Titus, was obviously unnerving. Yet the other, the lady, offset that intimidation factor with arousal. And Lev still hadn't seen his face.

"He's a dirty, double dealin, virus. And all the suits love'm cause he never asks questions so long as he gets to rape and kill to his heart's content. Call sign's Sable, but I never wanted to know his real name. Nearly killed him twice myself. Now I wish I had."

Lev kept deceptively relaxed, controlling his breathing and trying not to shake. But he was sweating bullets, dried dehydrated bullets that he considered licking off his face to suppress the throttling urge to scramble back inside and search every coat and jacket for a syringe or a bag of powder; a smoke even. Something, anything, to get a hold of these shakes.

"Don't suppose any-a-you got a smoke..?"

 

[Defiance]

Crude bass crawled from the turning mask, addressing the man. "No."

Byzantium, the pool of weathered buildings infested with crime and filth, where junkies go to die and where predators look for rape, like simple beasts writhing around in a tangled abortion that no one wants to clean up. Men wake up dead on the streets, the only thing keeping them from piling across the cursed boulevard is another day in hell. Hallucinogens and depressants fill their pockets, their shaking fingers bending under their corroding minds already lost among the sea of insanity. That mutated growth continues to suppurate, surviving off the grasped ankles of the next crippled wanderer looking for a purpose. That evil strip swims with mercenaries and hunters who only have an eye for their jaded desire, and a mouth only to taste their greatest addiction—money.

Titus could not venture Byzantium, such was like walking into a void of darkness, burning indefinitely until the the end of time. Byzantium could not be destroyed, it's doomed soil lay waste to a continuous hive of scum and villainy. Yet a crusader, still, could bring a temporal stop to it's madness. The luminary would require a sinner, or perhaps two, to enter the gates of a hell. These simple souls, too, could learn goodness for what might be the first light in their corrupt upbringing. They were born among the cesspool, a definitive truth, yet the darkness had not dragged them to Byzantium's jaws yet.

"You two are coming with me."

His gloved hand clenched, the leather wrinkling.

"To Byzantium."

He shifted on the angular, unevenly worn wood. A growing urgency was building up within the man, for if he were a man, clearly visible from the moment he had entered. A strange effect was in place.

 

[D.C.]

"Don't suppose any-a-you got a smoke..?"

Shannon produced a pack of cigarettes and took one out. "Normally I'd roll em myself," she said, "but right now this is more convenient." But instead of handing it over to Lev, she put it between her own lips and then lit it up. She took a deep drag and let the smoke escape her lips slowly a few moments later.

"Can I offer you some, hotshot?" she asked Lev, holding out the pack of cigarettes to him now. "Ain't got much left, but sharing is caring. Ain't that what they all say?"

Suddenly the armoured man told them that they would be coming with him. Shannon turned her gaze toward his shimmering helmet again and wondered for a moment where exactly they would be going. But just when she was going to ask, the answer was given to her.

"Byzantium? Why? And why exactly would we tag along?" It wasn't that she didn't want to, she just wanted to know what the kriff she was getting herself into. "Why don't ya explain what's going on, Titus? You really suppose peeps are just gonna follow ya for no real reason? Look, I reckon chances are you actually wanna do something good . . . but tell us about it first. Can you do that?"