Kaas City Down

[Marf]

Cigarette held casually in one hand, the other grasping the microphone in a passionate embrace. Fingers carelessly stained with the remaining drops of blood, dark cherry like her lips still brandishing slowly drying shine. Lola sang unabashed, voice harsh and smokey. She sounded like the small cabaret smelled, of gin and nicotine. No restraint held her voice, she sang without thought or consideration, only the visceral emotion she felt watching her Juggernaut's head explode.

The small nightclub housed only a few patrons, located in the slum sector of Kaas City where the Sith segregated their alien populace. Sith Juggernauts who failed in battle escaped here, too ashamed to face their comrades, not quite ashamed enough to take their frustration out on a poor woman of ill-repute. Obscenely large men in ridiculous black amour covered in cybernetic devices they didn't even need, "phrikheads" the sorcerers called them. All looking for their own lavender twi'lek to live out their fantasies of unattainable power. In the corner, a young man in robes shook with convulsive vigor, toothless and emaciated, lost in a psychotic trip through the cosmos.

The tortured cybernetic beast, the depraved Sorcerer and the ill-fated woman. Simplistic clichés played time and time over in a seemingly eternal saga splayed against a wider galactic backdrop. Predictable, recognized and so easily organized, the true account never so conveniently formed into three romantic little pieces.

People like to believe that it is, so they cherish them.

Lola sang for herself tonight, and for the imminent fury of the Kaas City guard, should her anonymous contact fail to arrive beforehand. Either way, a voluminous amount of Sith paraphernalia and esoteric drugs sat idly in Miss Day's ship.

 

[Kaeb]

The filthy boot strikes effluvial grime, flowing out from a crack in the alley floor, the ripples in the water send dark insects scurrying into the haven of nearby filth. It belongs to a man in retiring years, struggling to steady himself on his military issue footgear, tracing the contours of his dimly illuminated attire up to his head, one would see it buried in the groin of a local, their gender and their species indiscernible. A light rain falls to greet their rendezvous, muffling the sounds emanating from the narrow alley, interconnected with a web of exposed wiring and questionable plumbing. Suddenly, the thundering clash of echoes reverberates throughout the grimy laneway, the sound of glass crashing against concrete. The boot slips, sending the old veteran cascading into a broken dumpster behind him, paper and other garbage swirls around him as chemicals and other unmentionables seep out from the dumpster, drowning the man in smut. He weeps as he calls out the shadow of his companion beginning to scurry away into closest exit into the city streets, when suddenly a glass bottle flies into the back of the droids head, sending it tumbling.

''Beautiful night!!''
​

As a shuttle gradually travels over a sliver of open air above the alley exterior, flickering white lights illuminate the visage of a man in dark clothes, a dagger in one hand and a broken bottle in the other, he wears a maniacal smile but strangely, despite the grime on the alley floor, he wears no shoes to speak of. The old veteran still covered in stinking slime and smatterings of other pre-existing stains, looks up at the man before him and rather than a look of fear or disdain, his brow finds it's home in a dance of annoyance and frustration. Without hesitation, he drags himself to his feet, slipping a little as he does it, which is met with some snickering by the man with no shoes. A hoarse sigh escapes the bearded mouth of stocky uninformed elderly man as he pats himself down, flicking bits and pieces of grime off of his poorly maintained attire.

''What the hell do you want? Who are you?!!!''

''Quarry isn't with you old timer, though, as an aside, I think doing the nasty with a droid in
this kind of setting should be a crime unto itself, for shame man, for shame.
My business is with the hardware. Do me a favor and split, or
I'll holler at our friends in cleaner uniforms.''
​

The old timer curses to himself as he trots off, falling flat on his face multiple times, as he does this, the man with the knife stands in mock salute, flattened hand to forehead dripping with rain. His eyes fall to the chrome chassis now recovering itself on the alley floor, attempting to get back up, which can be difficult for protocol droids, especially ones with rewired programming to satisfy old veteran vagrants. The man moved with a purpose, flipping the chrome droid onto it's back as it begins thrashing about, exclaiming in an alien language the man clearly either didn't understand or refused to engage in. Using his knife, he pry's open a compartment secreted into the back of the machines neck, opening up a small cube container, some red dust trickles out, of which the man sniffs a little and smiles. Finally, a small datachip falls into his palm, looking more carefully, squinting his right eye, he sees it marked with the symbol of a local cabaret. He does a mock dance to himself and no one else, grimy water splashes around the alley sending more insects scurrying. Suddenly, a voice emanates more clearly from the droid.

"You are a fool, John Ronin. Chasing ghosts. It is illogical.''
''First of all, you say ghosts, I say large amounts of valuable illicit substances,
that will make some poor stricken folks very happy.
Second of all-''
​

His bare foot clatters into the droids cranium as sparks and bolts fly through the air, landing into the puddles of mud and fluid surrounding John. He wipes his mouth for no apparent reason, breathing a little heavily. He looks at the datachip again, seeing the symbol of the cabaret, and marches forward.

 

[Padmé]

No Mandalorian armor. No medical scrubs. In lieu of either of her usual two attires, Dr. Jeyne Merrik opted for a more casual, but yet sophisticated look. Underneath her outfit were several strategically hidden weapons. She saw no need for the weapons, however she could never part from her proper Mandalorian training.

The night was still young, and Jeyne took advantage of every moment. It was unusual for the famous surgeon to mingle amongst the lower parts of the city, let alone entertain company at a cabaret. To Jeyne it wasn't because she deems herself far too highly, nor does she cast judgement upon those who fancy such lifestyle. No. Jeyne merely finds life more fulfilling in service to others. Perhaps tonight could be such a night, given the abundance of needs before her. Need for love; want of sustenance and need for all manner of illicit and illegal activities. The former perhaps is the chief reason Jeyne found herself outside of her comfort zone.

Small red handbag strategically placed under her tiny arms, the Mandalorian Doctor took several long look at the various signs for she was yet to make her final decision. Meters away yet, stood a cabaret unlike any other. Between that and Miss Day's ship, Jeyne felt both places beckoning her.

Not too far away from her was a man. His entire demeanor spoke volumes. Although Merrik had no recollection of the man, there was something peculiar about him. Jeyne watched him wipe his mouth while almost immediately holding out his hand. Judging by the looks of things, he was making an observation of something. Small at that. Seconds later, the man entered the same cabaret Jeyne was contemplating on entering.

With an air of sass, the good Doctor entered the cabaret; it was then that the woman noticed the man's bare foot.

"How peculiar"
Merrik thought silently to herself. Seconds later the raw, but yet soulful voice of the young artist voice momentarily captured her attention.

"No, the main bar would suffice."
Jeyne said upon being approached by a rather dashing host. A few minutes later the Doctor found herself behind a bar with a glass of whiskey on rocks.

 

[Kaeb]

Fists and boots made awful music as they hit all the wrong places, with John's coughs and splutters hitting all the wrong notes, as they thrust into his gut and groin, his centre of gravity lost, his body met the ground with an almighty thud. He reached up with a shaking grip as he pulled at a brightly coloured trouser leg, rough fabric caused his fingers to tremble as they met its touch, thrust aside suddenly as the cabaret bouncer kicked his reach aside. The bouncer spat on the ground and grunted, gesturing to the others around him with an outward hand, as if to say, 'Look at this pile of bones and dark clothes trying to move past real men, does it think itself worthy of our might?', or something dim-witted to that effect. The strange smuggler slowly rubbed his forehead into the crimson carpet in a circle, his hair drenched in sweat, his hands struggling to find purchase around him, his legs quivering. A light, hoarse chuckle escaped rose-stained lips, fluids trickling from his mouth as his knee crept across the floor, steadying his ground. Confusion darted between the surrounding brutes, their stances changing, fists to thighs, shoulders back, resting on their preferred footing, like beasts readying to thrust themselves on weakened prey. John brought his head up suddenly, his quivering reach from before transforming into a speedy lunge, as he yanked at the belt buckle of the guard behind him, his brightly coloured trousers falling abruptly to the cabaret floor. John bounced to his shaky feet.

"Of all days...you chose today to go commando? Well... if that ain't proof of destiny..."
​

Four bouncers now stood around him - not counting the poor lad trying to recover himself as his 'co-workers' pretended not to notice - one at John's rear and three ahead blocking the entrance to the cabaret. Acting quickly, the smuggler whirled around, driving his elbow fiercely into the ear of the bald one behind him, met with screams of anguish, John laughed triumphantly until suddenly, limbs erupted all around him, a fist to his head and three different arms grappling him trying to thrust him against a nearby wall. Biting down so hard on one arm that he draws blood, the barefooted vagabond starts kicking back wildly with his right leg, he felt his foot make squishy purchase as they accidentally reached the balls of the most overweight of all the guards, sending him flying back into the one he pantsed not a moment before. Three left. John mockingly puts his fists up and starts side step dancing like a cheesy martial arts holofilm. He winks. The guards enraged, charge all at once. He swings around the first, quick stepping, he kicks back, his flat foot driving itself directly into the first bouncers leg, breaking it instantly, sending the muscular man hurtling to the floor. Two left. One scared. The other angry. As John throws himself forward he takes three fierce digs to the face, smattering the other one in his blood and sweat as he nearly blacks out on the spot. As he is completely guffawed, he feels two hands grapple at his belt and before he can recover completely, his own blaster is aimed at his chest. Before he can even look up, the one with the rage pulls the trigger. Click.

"I should probably get that fixed.''
​

John bursts out laughing, swiftly taking the malfunctioning blaster out of the bouncers hands, whirling around again he drives it's grip directly into the nose of the one behind him, spinning back once more to face the man who had the audacity to take his blaster in the first place, he just spits in his face. He bursts out into laughter again, but before he can throw his shaking fists into the bouncers quite unfortunate face, a whistle rings through the air. Towards him, a respectably dressed woman approaches, smoking a long thing pipe instrument, walking over the bodies of her compatriots, she walks right up to the last remaining bouncer and spits in his face again, right on top of the blood John just smeared all over the man's face.

"Idiots. If you can't take this vagrant, then let him through. I don't want to
have to disturb our paying patrons with a raid from the city guards
because you can't take on one man. What am I paying you boys for?"
​

With a smirk and a shrug, followed by a wink and a nod at the last remaining bouncer, John steps behind the employee of one of Kaas City's more reputable cabarets, he looks around, seeing if any other trouble was brewing.

 

[Padmé]

Being a medical professional meant Merrik has to analyze everything; the medical aspect being chief reason. Tonight was no different. The decision of ordering the alcoholic beverage was an impromptu, swift decision. Now that the drink has arrived, the Mandalorian Doctor contemplated whether or not she should a) consume the drink b) let the drink sit there and gather condensation c) drink the bloody thing and be done with it.

While she mulled over the final move, the woman at the center stage continued to dazzle her audience with more songs. Dr. Merrik ran through a vivid analogy of the effects the alcohol in front of her would have on her tinny frame. The obvious one being slight intensification of her mood. As the alcohol intensifies, feeling of warmth, relaxation, mild sedation and exaggeration of emotion and behavior would be noticeable. A slight decrease in reaction time and in fine-muscle coordination; impaired judgment about continued drinking would soon follow. Given Jeyne's sex, her body has less liver enzyme that breaks down alcohol, meaning the alcohol content in her body will break down more slowly. All of the above would not only effect her mental faculties, but leave her emotionally, and physically impaired for the time being.

"Oh sod it."
Her decision was made. The whisky will continue to sit on the counter untouched.
A sense of triumph overcame the woman, knowing that she'd made the right judgement tonight. While inwardly applauding herself, the faint, but yet soft voice of a woman interrupted her thoughts. Judging by the looks of the woman, she as the owner of the cabaret. The woman wore a look of annoyance and moved with haste. Merely minuets later, Merrik saw the peculiar fellow she'd observed earlier on in the night. One look at him spoke volumes. He needed medical attention. Dare Merrik offer her assistance? For some rather strange reason, she froze. Albeit momentarily....

 

[Kaeb]

"You got any sugar? Levels get low after a fight."
"Any other strange requests?"
"Can I get an empty jar? I'm a man who prefers to mix his own poison."
​

Puzzled, the well-dressed woman who just dragged John's feet away from a whirlwind fire, stepped behind the main bar to personally gather John's request. Her flowing white dress clung to her midriff but dangled over her arms and legs like wispy mist, it matched her ghostly hair and eyes, which had no retinas to speak of. Her voice was melodic and inviting, John recognized it quicker than most would, this was an incredibly dangerous creature who was used to holding power over those that stood before her. And yet, here she was, spooning sugar into a mason jar for a smuggler battered bloody. He began to appraise the room that surrounded him, trying to block out the symphonic resonance slipping into his skull, emanating from the graceful tones of the singer about to leave the stage, a Twi'lek with poise, he could see her soul at the edges of her eyes, they drank in the dim lights like tiny black holes. Something clung to her, something she needed to shake but couldn't. He'd seen it before. Ghosts playing at shadows.

As his eyes casually scanned the room, his hands reached out behind him, thin skin wrapped around bony fingers like flimsy gloves. They wrapped around the jar left on the bar by the white-haired hostess, with his other hand he casually slipped behind the bar, grasping some oil used for cocktail mixtures and a long thin spoon. He mixed the oil and sugar together in the jar nonchalantly, as his grey eyes darted to a small red bag close by, sitting next to a woman of considerable stature. She had years on her, not in her look at all, but in her demeanour. This was a woman who had seen it, the thing most don't, the thing you don't notice in others unless you've seen it too. Then he noticed something else about how the casually dressed woman carried herself, and he decided some objects were definitely hidden upon her person, weapons or not, he couldn't figure, but he made note of it regardless. With a smirk and a polite nodding wink in her direction, he chuckled to himself, before he suddenly whisked around the saliva in his mouth and spat into the jar as he mixed the strange chemical together. There was a reason he was rustling this particular recipe together and that reason was now slowly exiting the bar, it's eight yellow eyes darting around as it stepped past the bouncers now giving John some bitter looks as they strolled back inside. The suspicious creature quickened it's pace as it reached the main exit to the cabaret, as John began whipping the mixture together more intensely. Making note of other exits in the room, he looked to the woman with the red bag yet again.

"Good evenin', unfortunately, our lady on stage here is only opening tonight.
I think the main event tends to wear uniforms,
they prefer blunt instruments. I'm sure you know the type.
Looks like they'll be here soon.
Might want to sit this party out, don't know if it'll be your style,
if you don't mind my saying so."


​

 

[Marf]

- - -​

The sultry lullaby ceased with the scream of the microphone, held vigorously in Lola's pause. Drunken patrons averted their attention elsewhere. Sounds of violence outside heightened her eyes, triggered every motion of her body into action. Abandoning the stage with a sprint, Lola disappeared behind the curtain. Dark and grimy, sad lighting barely illuminated her lavender figure and kept her hidden. One of the managers attempted to stop her on her tracks.

"Lolly, what the hell are you doing?!"

"I'm not myself tonight!"

Hand already unzipping her black dress, high heels kicked off with careless vigor, Lola entered her tiny dressing room and slammed the door. Her weapons and casual clothes waiting ready. The manager cursed her, unable to retrieve any attention. Undressing in swift haste, she swapped her evening dress for tight black pants, knee-high boots and a midriff-baring top underneath her favorite leather jacket. Casting a glance over to the filthy clock on the ever peeling wall, a hand barely gracing the hour.

Five minutes.

Dark head-scarf wrapped around her lekku, covering the gift her terrible lover so graciously delivered, lips deep cherry on lavender skin, Lola checked hr twin blasters and attached to her belt. On her hand, a fearsome looking scattergun affectionately named Daru's Revenge. Marching echoed dully in the distance, the fascistic sound of steadfast Sacred Band guards storming over any lick of justice or freedom left in the sordid place. To think that if her Juggernaut had killed her, not an eyelid would have been raised.

"The twi'lek, lavender!"

Strolling nonchalantly down a corridor to meet the stage, the sight of black uniforms and glistening boots meet Lola's gaze. Her skin color and race the dead giveaway. They readied their weapons only after she did the same. This was Sith space. A Jugg kills a woman, he is praised for his strength. A woman kills the Jugg, she doesn't get taken prisoner. There were no second chances. A visceral explosion of plasma ignited the dead cabaret. The indiscriminate group of Sith regalia blasted in a fire of smoke and a sanguine mirage.

 

[Kaeb]

The beat of military grade boots stamped out the echoes of fading music as the lavender woman dissolved behind the crimson curtain, the remnant of her sounds still reverberating inside the minds of the cabarets few remaining patrons. The essential molecules in the air itself appeared to shift before the Sacred Band even entered the building, as if a mutual unspoken understanding tethered the patrons to one another. They had seen this song and dance before and they would see it time and time again, until eventually, they all finally faded behind that final grey curtain call. The white haired hostess still stood behind John, palms outstretched upon the main bar, shoulders pushed forward, chin high, staring down the city watchmen with absolute contempt, worn like a stiff unflinching mask. John slowly crept from his seat and gracefully stepped around the bar to place himself next to her as the gruff authoritarian elements began questioning the attendees through the all too common languages of intimidation and fear. He calmly placed his chin on her shoulder, pressing his still bruised mouth right next to her ear, through strands of glistening hair.

"When it starts, you take me to see Raws. I know he's here. And I know that IT'S here too.
I also know. you're not wearing that lovely gown for comfort, and if it comes to it,
you could kill five of these monkeys before the rest even know they're standing next to corpses.
Help me help you."
​

The white eyed, white haired hostess allowed herself a solemn nod and whispered reassurance, the smuggler hardly felt assured but it was better than one of her high heels in his groin. His eyes caught the woman with the red bag once more, and as he looked in her direction, more guards were entering the building. There were suddenly more than thirty of them now and that's when the disheveled smuggler in dark clothing realized something. They weren't here because of his disturbance entering the building, they were here for something else, someone else. He cursed to himself under his breath, realizing he was still next to the hostess' ear, he quietly apologized and then clicked his tongue in the casually dressed woman's direction, throwing his chin up towards her. The woman with the crimson bag appeared to turn, John aggressively motioned his head for her to come behind the bar, waving his hand a little as he did it. He didn't much care if she caught his gesture or not, either way, it was his turn to play some music. Gracing his arm slowly past the white gown of the hostess, his rough hands bracing past her midriff, causing a shiver, he fished a match out from an exposed cocktail box, quickly igniting it across his own stubbled jaw. He made note of the exit out of the main bar into one of the buildings behind the scenes corridors. Suddenly he whistled as loudly as he possibly could, every single eye in the bar was on him.

"Can I offer you boys, a drink?"
​

Without hesitation, John flicked the lit match into the concoction he had just been mixing and in one fluid movement he flung it directly into the crowd of Sacred Band. A sudden thunderous explosion of fire and gleaming shards billowed outward in all directions, like a sudden tidal wave of heat and glass daggers, engulfing almost all of the guards in its flaming tendrils. The ceiling itself appeared to crack open as debris began crashing down upon some of those who were not affected by the initial blast, as the whole cabaret was instantaneously engulfed in a storm of dust and calefaction. The smell of burning flesh and charred uniforms met John's senses quickly, as he took his blaster from his hilt and pressed it directly against the same ear he had just been cursing in. With his other free hand, he pushed the hostess by the waist into the corridor behind them and into the buildings offices. Moving with a purpose, he motioned for her to take the lead to his destination. His whole reason for being on this cesspool side of the galaxy in the first place. The same reason he always had for pushing forward, for mocking life's absurdity as he did. His job. As he heard more screams echoing out from the cabarets main hall, he cursed to himself.

"I hate Sith."​

 

[Padmé]

The night was still young and the Mandalorian Doctor felt something brewing. Exactly what remained a mystery; one which she was certain will be answered in time. As the night slowly dragged on, the vagabond Merrik noticed prior to her entry of the cabaret showed up. Much closer to Jeyne's preference. Nothing about the man spoke of sanity.

"Good evenin'
Naturally, Jeyne wanted to ignore the man, however, given the fact that he not only made it a point to make an eye contact, and there was no other patron in close proximity, she had to at minimum acknowledge him.

A slight nod was all the Doctor could express.
"unfortunately, our lady on stage here is only opening tonight.
I think the main event tends to wear uniforms,
they prefer blunt instruments. I'm sure you know the type.
Looks like they'll be here soon.
Might want to sit this party out, don't know if it'll be your style,
if you don't mind my saying so."

"Thanks mate."
Said she in response to the warning.
If only the man had the same insight as Jeyne, he would have known that the woman was not only capable of handling a fight, but anything life throws in her direction. As it stands, the hint was well meant, thus Merrik thought nothing more of it.

Both moved on; Merrik to drink, and the man to the bar tender (whom one could naturally assume to be the aowner). Merely minutes later, the main event on stage ceased. A fish out of water. Merrik thought upon catching the the look which betrayed the sassy singer's eyes. Being Force sensitive naturally affords Jeyne extra insight, and in some cases leverage over situations that would otherwise take others by surprise. Tonight was no different. She felt a certain queer disturbances about the cabaret. Said feeling was confirmed the moment the singer left the stage in haste, and all hell broke lose in the cabaret.

It turns out that the disturbance in the Force Dr. Jeyne Merrik felt was in fact trouble brewing. The swift appearance of the Sacred Band confirmed it all.
It wasn't a surprise at all, Jeyne after all was on Sith space. What surprised her, however, was the sheer number of Sacred Band present at the cabaret. Whatever, or whomever they were after had to be an important element to their cause. "Certainly it's not the Vagabond"
Merrik surmised shortly after taking a quick reading of his lips. For some reason, the man had the owner cornered. The substance which Merrik assumed would be consumed by the man turned out to be a weapon. A good one at that!

In the process of the concoction being prepared for action, Merrik summoned the Force around her entire body; creating a thick wall of Force bubble. She could see the only apparent exit blocked by the Sacred Band. Quickly scanning the room, and using the Force, she discovered a different exit- through a corridor by the man known as John and the owner. The second John set the concoction aflame, Merrik Force jumped away from the concoction, thus missing the blazing explosion which followed shortly after. Landing close by John and the owner, Merrik swiftly grabbed her hidden pistol and quickly moved into the corridor behind them and into the buildings offices.

Several patrons, and employees alike, crying out for help emanated behind her. Sadly enough, said cry did not stop the woman from reaching back. She moved with purpose- alongside John and the owner.
"I hate Sith."
"Yeah, no kidding."
The Doctor uttered while passing the pair in haste.
Using the Force, she discovered an entry way out of the soon to be burned down building. With another leap, the woman Force jumped through a thin glass of window, finally landing on soft gooey pile of feces.

"Shit!"
A rather undignified response to an uncivilized act.
Red purse still in her arms Jeyne moved with haste, locating her speeder and driving the hell away from the cabaret.

 

[Marf]

Finger imminent on the trigger, Lola readied her weapon in preparation for a second round. Before another wall of bullets could tear through the Sacred Band forces, a small inferno erupted before the stage. Moving backwards with haste, Lola bent down to shield herself from the worst of the explosion. Like a nova, the establishment disintegrated in a fury of heat and flames.

Rising from beneath an overturned table, the lavender skinned Twi'lek emerged to greet the features of the man who threw the Molotov cocktail. Scruffy, bare-footed, a misfit lost against the scale of a galaxy divided by factional nonsense. His eccentricity and lack of placement transparent. A sense of relation tugged her, standing before him to pause for the moment, the large weapon held before her thighs.

"I think I owe you one..."

Accent harsh, syllables lulled over one another. Lola brushed the debris off her clothing, eyes glancing over the wreckage for any straddling enemies.

"I gotta ship full of drugs and the whole of Kaas City down looking for me, and now you it seems. I have to get outta this shitshow called a civilization."

Striding past the lone man, each step avoiding the mess, Lola stopped where the door used to be. Pausing for the moment, in slight hope she might hear his name. A smile reached into her cheeks before she took to her light feet and walked away.

"Another time yeah? Name is Lola Day."

 

[Kaeb]

"....Lola Day."
"John.
I'm trackin' a horse of a different colour.
Old Hutt, names Raws, been selling 'cures' for plagues on the frontier...
...only after awhile, it started making folks sicker.
Turned them into walking time bombs.
Not often one wakes up to showering their loved ones in innards.
I'm here to smuggle back a solution.
Figure this joint is one of his fronts. Old coot still uses droids as messengers.
You're right about owing me one.
You help me see this through,
and we can die together tryna grow wings to fly off this
glitter spoiled toilet these angsty tweens call a planet."
​

If even the most subtle of facial twitches were provided in response, John wasted no time in standing around to witness the display. His unpredictable blaster still pressed against the temple of a woman, he urged her forward with a clasped hand on her slender waist, making no pretense towards chivalry. John determined it the moment his weary eyes rested upon her shining silhouette, she was a spinning wheel writhing in hot white flames, this was a creature with a single enormous strength that was the downfall of all organized criminals, she possessed ambition. And it rolled off of her like smoke,. As they continued into the deeper recesses of the building, he felt as if the corridors themselves were beginning to narrow, but as his focus on his hostage widened, he realized the reason. All around them, protruding out of the foundations of the floor, walls and ceiling, were webs of electrical cables and long winding tubes of a viscous and unknown liquid, slightly transparent but with a hue of cold blues and greys. John felt himself beginning to fracture psychologically as he had in the past, seeing objects and people and events that were never there, itching sensations that were entirely within the mind. Don't look. Don't look. Don't look. He looks, and the strange display of cables and tubes remained. The hall was in fact narrowing. And for the first time in awhile, John felt a small yet ever-present fear induced from a reality rather than a figment of his own wildly unimaginable imagination. As he walked on, the halls continued to narrow as they descended into the basement floor of the cabaret but as they entered, John felt his knees buckle, his ankles weaken and all the gravity in the universe drag him to the floor, he was overwhelmed.

An antechamber stretched out before them, twice the size of the main cabaret floor, gone were the warm red and golden tones, mixed with a myriad of violet shades, coldly replaced with a clinical display of grey stone, silver steel and blue datascreens. Aligned in rows, like cattle to a slaughterhouse, where operation tables surrounded by metal grating on all sides. Each metal contraption riddled with unspeakable instruments covered in the stains of bodily fluids from dozens of different species. Scalpels, drills, bone saws, incubation tanks and all kinds of other instruments of torture and experimentation. It wasn't the instruments that reached the smuggler who had looked far into the abyss before and had seen the galaxy show him it's horrors, it was what he saw lying on those operations tables and what they were leading to. On every single metal device, was a bleeding individual, some human, others not. All of them connected via multiple tubes bursting out of contusions in their skeletal, sickening and emaciated bodies. Every tube, every wire and every stint led to one form, a gargantuan, deflated and skeletal beast, the decrepit body of one Raws the Hutt. John had never seen a Hutt so drained of its essence before, he looked more akin to a snake made of trembling bones, with skin stretched over it, to give it the illusion of being alive. The vagabond smuggler could see all of their bodies pulsating, as the fluids passing through the old Hutt ended up in large incandescent metallic canisters, canisters he had seen before on the frontier. Raws was using himself as a catalyst for some sort of sick experimental enterprise, using living beings as livestock for his 'business venture', whatever conscience was left reverberating in John's skull since his time among the galaxy had recoiled inward into the core of his mind in order to protect it. He got to his feet and began to reach for his dagger, before suddenly -*CLICK*

"He resisted at first. Wouldn't listen. We needed a complex organism to process it.
Otherwise, it never would have worked. He would have put me in that chair...
...but I'm all that's left of his desires now. I'm what's left of the glorious Hutt Cartel."
"Listen, what's your na-"
"He called me his Queen of the Moons.
It's what everyone calls me. I spent so long under his whip,
I don't remember my own name.
That bastard. He kidnapped all of these...
...they're...force sensitive. He's filtering their blood to create
a drug, the ultimate high, he wanted to flood the market, destroy competitors.
But I was sick of only having the illusion of a title.
I will BE a queen. And you can't stop that now."
​

The Queen of the Moons, the white-haired hostess was shivering and drowning in her own perspiration, gone was her calm and collective demeanour, replaced with a beast unhinged, a shadow labouring under the notion that it possesses a self, that it holds within it an attainable dream. John looked down the barrel of his own gun facing him, slowly blinking, he pierced her eyes with his own. He had seen operations like this before. Desperate vagrants possessed and obssessed with their own internal delusions of grandeur. As he waited to see what she would do next, he thought he heard footsteps coming down the steps. A sigh escaped his lips, as he gripped his knife tightly.

​

 

[Padmé]

"Hang on a minute."
Jeyne stopped herself, dead in her tracks. Even with the human feces cleaned off her expensive shoes, the pungent smell lingered in her delicate nostrils. While no one (to her knowledge could tell otherwise), blending in with the night crowd on Sith territory proved to be a problem. Quickly rehearsing the events of the night in her mind, the Mandalorian Surgeon had an epiphany. From the way the three fat cabaret guards man handled John prior to his entry; the late, but swift entrance of the cabaret owner rescuing John; the abrupt departure of the Singer off stage; then finally to the homemade explosive.

The man known as John was not the enemy. In fact, John had merely tried to allude to a grave situation at hand, only for Jeyne to miss it entirely. Manda help me for missing the link! Merrik uttered while simultaneously turning her speeder in the direction of the cabaret. Flames, and smokes could be seen even before the Mandalorian made her way to the narrow alleyway that leads to the back entry of the cabaret. Jeyne quickly parked her speeder knowing that this might be the last time she'd see the bloody thing. Something about sticky fingers and weird Sith territory.

Entering the same way she'd minutes ago exited, Jeyne Force jumped into the cabaret- landing one flight above. Quickly descending down a several flights of stairs, the Doctor was nearly bumped into the man known as John. Under his grip was a knife.

Unintimidated by the blaster in the white woman's hand, Jeyne quickly broke her silence.
"Jeyne Merrik, M.D."
She glanced at the white haired woman, the knife in the man known as John's grip, and then back at to the white haired woman. Quickly summoning the Force, the white haired woman would feel a tight grip around her throat. Soon the blaster in her hands will drop to the ground. The Force around the white haired woman's throat was firm enough to leave her lifeless.

 

[Marf]

"You help me see this through and we can die together tryna grow wings to fly off this glitter spoiled toilet these angsty tweens call a planet."

Brow furrowed in silent frustration, Lola opened her mouth to refuse him. A certain anxiety rattled her nerves, every fiber writhing with adrenaline. She needed to leave, but the man who saved her skin clearly found his own mess in the middle of bastard central. Eyes darted in time with a heaving chest. She never said yes, but a psychedelic mirage unfolded before the scene as the cabaret dispersed unto a hidden antechamber.

"Only in Sith space, right?" Lola said in response to the scene, before quickly following John.

The stairs the pair climbed ceased to unfold a room of the most visceral horror. Lola knew of Sith alchemists and their laboratories, the chamber appeared just like them. A scene of cruelty, of desecration of the human form. Lifting a hand from the gun still in her grasp, Lola raised a palm before her nose to cover the smell. Eyes widened by the sound of sharp click, the hold of a trigger before the imminent gunshot. The white-haired madam who own the cabaret, her weapon readied before John's head.

A word not uttered, the Mandalorian doctor from the crowd before swiftly ended the pale creature's life with a swift choke through the Force. The trio soon interrupted by another presence, the hooded figure of the magic-tripping junkie from earlier, having tracked Lola to collect the drugs she had stolen from the alchemist named Sadeon. A shattering bang deafened the ambiance before Lola's gun held directly before the dripping hole in the dead Sith's head. She doubted he even noticed. Gasping veritably with relief, the uppity Twi'lek slumped back against the wall, breathing deeply, blaster hanging by her side from a lip arm.

"F-ckers are everywhere, we gotta get out of here."
@Kaeb

 

[Kaeb]

"...we gotta get out of here."
"Then let's move with a purpose, ladies.
We just became fugitives."​

Without hesitation, weary hands grappled his gun from the 'Queen of the Moons' fingers as she collapsed upon the floor into a sudden faint. With a heavy sigh, he abruptly got to his feet, patting away showers of dust and grime from his dark, utilitarian clothing and looking again at his surroundings. Grey eyes darted to nearby canisters of unknown chemicals of varying colour and volumes, labeled in obscure Huttese dialects he wasn't overly familiar with, but there was one symbol he recognized. Again his gaze fell upon the dozens of bodies that surrounded them, realizing before long that any hope of salvaging a life for these husks was an impossibility made reality long before he entered this farcical cabaret. His brow furrowed, his jowls tensed and his jaw quivered a brief moment, his blade burst forth from his side, burrowing deep into one of the canisters as it began emitting red fumes throughout the room. As he turned to the others, he spied a data chip lodged into a terminal in the far corner of the room, he crossed the space between him and it as soon as it met his eye line and quickly pocketed the tiny device. He had come for an answer after all, and he intended on making good on his job, as he had always tried to, no matter the odds. Before the two women in the room even realized what was happening, a match reached his fingers from a torn pocket in his tattered pants. As he reached to light the match off of his coarse jawline as he had done before, he noticed the two women begin to exit. A final look at the horrific sight before him was all he needed, before he flicked another match to cause yet another eruption of flames. The red fumes had expanded throughout the entire antechamber before suddenly igniting, the bodies, including that of Raws the Hutt, began scrambling and screaming helplessly. Their muscles had long atrophied beyond reprise, a baptism of fire before they meet their maker was the best these poor souls could hope for. They died to kill a plague that would kill millions. Their demise was honour incarnate.

He coughed and spluttered as he sought to escape the many halls burrowed deep in the bowels of the old cabaret, stumbling upon his newly found companions once more. There seemed to be a silent agreement among them, they would head for the ship Miss Day had arrived on and use it to catapult themselves to safety, to a district where they would no longer be labeled as fugitives or at least a place where being a fugitive was as much the norm as being alive. Noticing a particular Hutt symbol on a large red door, John pointed with his blaster towards the lock while one of the others shot at it before he could even try. Suddenly, they were in the sewers and John took the lead. This was territory he knew. These were his streets, he had walked them enough throughout the galaxy, to the point where he could no longer smell them, he had tuned his senses to a different frequency, fuelled by survival, typically through the catalyst of fear. They scoured the tunnells for what felt like an eternity, until they reached exactly where John needed them to be. Glass shattered, wood eviscerated with a swift boot to the doorknob and suddenly they were in the maitenance office. Blasters raised, the sewer rats thought to scatter but stood to piss their pants. The entire sewer maitenance crew was helpless to watch as John stole desigantion codes from their systems but before they even realized what was happening, the trio had already mounted a ladder, burst through a grating and had scattered onto the city streets. Miss Day seemed to point and gesture the direction towards her ship and John and the Mandalorian appeared to nod in understanding.

"How does being smuggled off-world in your own ship sound?
I'll make sure we navigate the proper channels.
I'll jump ship once we pass a pirate moon, you two can do whatever you like.
Even double back for all I care. Those codes will make their scanners think
your shipping their waste off-world for processing.
Congratulations, you've upgraded from fugitives to binmen.
It was a pleasure meeting you both,
may our paths never cross again."​