Underworld

[Oshin Jantu]

Spoiler: Music OOC

…A woman…has a face…it is…cold as death…
…An ocean…in outer space…and silent cries…
…In space…you can scream…your last breath…
…Not personal, just business, Oshin closing eyes…

Amid the ships flying the airways between buildings.
Something watches them, up high in the sky they fly.
An eye, two eyes, they never really blink, neither sleep.
Ever searching, ever hunting, is the predator so hungry.

Before a moon, pale ghost in the welkin, the circle so round.
Stands a figure, garbed all in black, lithe, and leather-bound.
Pants hug her thighs, platform boots give rise as a coat flies.
A black jacket, rippling in the wind, fitting, for a lady of liquid.

On the ledge of a clocktower, the woman stands still as a statue.
Like a gargoyle, a frozen bat beneath moonlight, casting shadow.
She has pale skin, milky like that lunar eye, her blue eyes like ice.
Motionless, frozen ocean, time too, but long locks of hair billow.

Black as crow, draping collar, her hair is shoulder-length.
Strands of snow, white highlights, streaks of wintry night.
It is cold, the wind is unrelenting, but this woman likes it.
Boots on a ledge, watching a city that never really sleeps.

She is Oshin Jantu, a Codru-Ji assassin, but you would not know it of her.
Her two arms are evening’s witness, two more arms hiding within her coat.
Her gaze sweeps across the sky, beneath the clouds, like a bat about to bite.
A wind blows, air traffic whipping within, engines burn, and the shadow flies.

And the wind takes her breath!
The air resists, beating her chest!
She spreads her arms from her head!
Flying, gliding, a woman’s wings spread!

Limbs of six, her legs curl, bend at the knee as if wrapping around the gale.
Four arms like the wings of a wasp, though she’s no insect, no bug, but bat.
A rodent, but no rat, the assassin is just as much a raven, feasting on fallen.
No wolf but a hunter, a predator, a woman dark but pale, white black Oshin.

And her timing was perfect as she falls to her death.
Oshin, though, does not really feel like dying tonight.
Death, it is hers, for it sends her to deliver its message.
To the souls whose time is up, like a passing moonlight.

Beneath her feet, speeders weave, racing every which way, left and right, flying by, forward and backward, latticed in the sky.
Trying to ride this traffic is madness, will lead to a gory end unless you’re an assassin named Oshin who has planned for this.

She doesn’t fall far, just far enough, and suddenly there’s a thud.
First there’s a burn, as repulsorboots keep Oshin from getting hurt.
She lands safely in the passenger seat, driver to her left and up front.
She doesn’t miss a beat, blaster at his head, isn’t grinning. “Hiya, Buck.”

“O-Oshin!?” The male Nautolan sounds frightened and that’s understandable.
His expression makes Oshin finally smile while she keeps his life on the table.
“Don’t worry. You’ll live as long as you listen to me. So you better take the next left.”
Buck licks his lips, terror in his breath. “So it’s true…you’re after…all…all of them…”

“Yes.” Oshin speaks as though simply mentioning, but it’s no simple thing for this woman.
“Every last one. Whether you become one of them, Buck, is up to you, my unlucky friend…”
He shakes his head. “I don’t wanna die! I’ll comply!” Takes the next left. “You’re a smart one.”
Oshin’s free fingers pull hair away from her face, naked in the wind. “Remember…I am death.”

 

[Oshin Jantu]

Spoiler: Music IC

They thought they could win.
Her enemies.
They’re idiots, she thinks.
Die on their knees.

She’s coming after them.
Oshin Jantu.
The women, the men.
Any pets too.

One by one.
“Changed my mind.”
Thinking aloud in the ride.
“I’ll spare the pets. You, Buck?”

The Nautolan looks left, looks right, poor guy.
Her eyes are daggers as he takes the right.
Speeder zooming by, other speeders beside.
“Get me to Club Blue…then I will decide…”

Not a moment to lose, not a moment too soon.
I’ll kill them all. Every. Last. Mother. Kriffer.
This one, that one, everyone, one by one.
She would start in a nightclub, called Club Blue.

Buck’s hunk of junk called a Refaffi had nothing on her Dacillad but hers was back at the garage as he parked his ass at the back of a building. Blaster trained at his skull, one wrong move and the naughty Nautolan’s brains unfold. And it’s bite the dust, Buck.

A woman’s gaze is silent, eyes into eyes. “You’ll live, I’ve decided.” Leans in. “For now. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Don’t leave and don’t fall asleep. Tonight’s gonna be busy.”

Removing the blaster, she hands over a comlink. “If you don’t answer when I ring then I’ll make you count your teeth, capisce?”

He nods. Things move along. Toward the nightclub, quiet as the night, a shadow in the light, black as dark, a woman with four arms. An idiot at the back entrance, bouncer business, looks like a cross between a Human and a Gamorrean, whatever that is, and every definition of ugly, thinks a woman.

“Ah ah ah…” Bouncer quacks, holding up a hand for her to keep back and can’t get past. “Do you have...invitation?”

A woman’s grin. “You don’t need to see my invitation.” Waves a hand. “Move along.”

“I don’t need to see your invitation.” Parrots the Humorrean. His earpiece had confirmed what the camera had seen. “Mr. Borghini is expecting you, Oshin Jantu. Move along, move along.” He waves back.

“Thank you.” Past the dumbass, through the backdoor, from duracrete to durasteel floor and into a corridor. Music greets her before strobe lights, vibrant blue midnight, slithering synths, drums thumping by bass burning bright.

Oshin in an ocean, amid the denizens of the nightclub, a sea of swimmers, gliders, dancers, lost in soundwaves and waving like water, liquid limbs, hers and his, like this is all just surfing. Club Blue, a fitting name for it too.

Hands and hands, knees and elbows, hips in a mist as smoke rises from the dancefloor. By this point, Oshin finds herself negotiating her way throughout the crowd, hugging the edge despite being an invited guest as more or less expected.

This could be a trap. The assassin knew that. For now, she had to play the game. Bodies shifting lateral at her back, at the bar is where she’s at, given her position is collateral. Eyes upon the bartender, ready to offer, waiting for her employer.

“Tears of Liara.”
“Coming right up.”
Bartender turns.
Serves her tequila.

She knocks the shot down.
Empty glass, a circle so round.
The faintest reflection of her countenance.
No smile, no frown, a woman without a crown.

 

[Oshin Jantu]

Spoiler: Music IC

Tequila. She took one. She took another. But she isn’t drunk. No time for fun.
At the bar, one track takes a step back, trades this for that, lyrics in a tit for tat.
Glass in hand, eyes roving, dancefloor but the dancers aren’t raving, not much.
Not that kind of beat for these feet in this club; they’re bouncing, moving mad.

She watches, like a shark in the sea, hiding two fins, two arms are otherwise open.
Oshin, just a woman, just a patron at the bar, watching the fish swim in the ocean.
Waiting to strike, waiting to bite, and they would never see it, would never know it.
Tequila, Tears of Liara, even water can cry. She knows and can close eyes, our Oshin.

Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Eyes are alive, alight, they glow, cyan lights, by the piano.
Catch a target by its toe. Him, her, it, them, whether the best, fly like all the rest.
Fish, each one is, trapped in a pond ruled by liquidators like her, liquid in throat.
Liquor, bloody, she can break bones, can silence life, shark swim, a quiet death.

Not you. Not them. Not tonight, my friends. Lethal lips wrap around glass rim.
She had made more than one morsel wrap their mouth around four pistols.
She would do that again, paving the way for fireworks; even death celebrates.
She will kill, but not here, not yet. Full of murder, a kiss for him, her, and a refill.

Oshin Jantu, but you wouldn’t pin her for a murderer. She’s no Fennec Shand.
An assassin, paid by the caliber, by the mark, but her name doesn’t go very far.
Far enough, of course, to bring her to this bar, Club Blue, where others dance.
So graceful are her hands, finger-tapping glass, hiding homicide, and two arms.

Hurry it up, Mr. Borghini. He liked to make even his best employees wait. The creep.
He was that too, Jantu knew, doing things behind the scenes too rude for Club Blue.
The hand that pays was dirty, throat thirsty, coat it, another sip, not too early, no sleep.
She thinks, she waits, plays, predator for prey, leg-swapping, crossing, gyrating the boot.

She watches, she’s watched, she doesn’t give it away like some hooker you forget to pay.
Peripheral vision, her eyes of ice are like scopes, both like a sniper rifle, ripe for the trifle.
A guard at the corner, another at the door, bordering the dancefloor, bouncer boys. Hey.
A stool to her left, right, two lecherous men, eyes on her thigh, leathered leg, an eyeful.

-Bzz!- It’s not whatever’s in that Ithorian’s pants. Forgetting that, she whips out her comlink.
It’s Buck. Fuck. He wasn’t the most patient of chauffeurs. This early, already, was texting her.
[“I really have to pee, O.”] So rolls her eyes. Guy on the right thinks it’s for him; scared, he turns.
One less fish to swim with, but Oshin still has to deal with dipshit. Texts—[“Wanna pee bloody?”]

He gets the message, takes the hint: shut the kark up, dipstick, or your head’s next on the block.
“Another one?” Asks the bartender from behind her. Gestures a hand. No thanks. Legs crossed.
Waiting, that’s playing the game, half of an assassin’s time is spent aiming at them, at her or him.
Still, she can’t take much more of this, Mr. Borghini and his shitty business, maybe not worth it.

“Miss?”
Speaks a bouncer beside her, entering beside vibrant synth string street beats, she blinks.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Borghini will see you now. Second floor. VIP Suite 4.” Big man, but a dumb ox, she thinks.

Head tilt, Liara’s swill, tequila’s kill. Bet. Drinks her fill, what was left, empty glass is the rest. Time to book and cook, O, put ‘em to bed.

She gets up, Oshin Jantu, motions hands through the flaps of her leather jacket, into pockets, and walks the distance, beneath viewscreens with their speeders racing, past shot glass, red black show glass displaying, listening to music pumping, hearts thumping, four arms coming, at the click-clack of black boots, Miss Jantu, on the move. O yes.

 

[Oshin Jantu]

Spoiler: Music IC

Up the stairs, players beware, because here is a player of the game who doesn’t easily scare.
Whether there is danger above her, it doesn’t matter, because she knows who she is—a killer.
An assassin, has the hands and the ass to back it up, or something such, unafraid of the flare.
Has to have it, an advocate of being a badass in any situation, drenched in black trench leather.

Tweedle Dumb leads her along, that bouncer that had found her amid the throngs beyond a dance floor.
An idiot, if she’s being realistic, given he didn’t check for weapons; then again, mentioned she’s expected.
Weapons, Oshin’s employers knew, were her; Oshin was the weapon, and it took effort for her to forget it.
Tweedle Dee, here I come. The slug wouldn’t last long in her presence when she made her entrance. Roar...

She might’ve, like a lion, smiling while firing blasters once the bouncer opened the door before her.
Instead, she doesn’t give in, keeps her arms at her sides as she strolls in beside her target’s guardian.
Target, that’s what he is, Mr. Borghini, that Ithorian who sits in his element surrounded by his women.
No guns on Oshin, no cause for alarm; to them she’s just an agent, an employee here to get a job done.

Not wrong. Save that her employer is the job, the mark, the contract and piece of shit Ithorian to get shot.
Music in her ears, this Codru-Ji giving nothing away as to her species’ identity, enjoying the reverb beats too.
Counting her enemies, guards galore, envisioning the gore, spilling blood and more, with gun or with sword.
They’re nothing more than obstacles, blockading the way in this VIP room between Borghini and Oshin Jantu.

“Oshin Jantu!”
Spoke the Ithorian.
And his droid translated.
“Welcome back! I speak truth!”

Some cultural thing like an Ugnaught’s bragging about ‘I have spoken’?
Maybe, but ultimately Oshin’s hands are what she allows to speak truth.
“Looking healthy as always, Mr. Borghini. That little Zeltron a new woman?”
He only kept a few, given their guile, but she’s just making minor conversation.

“The last one took a tumble off the roof.” He shrugged.
“Too much drink. But enough of that. I have a job for you.”
You sure do. She cocks a brow. I can squash you like a bug.
“A bit of a mission…to take out our rival in one single swoop.”

‘Our rival’. Oshin took in note of it, standing hand on hip, one of three amid her jacket.
Four hands, that is, with two hidden, the other by her thigh, beneath a holstered blaster.
You are the mission, you slimy little shit. I’m gonna take out your guards with just my two arms.
“I have a few. Not to be rude but who the kriff are you referring to? Which piece of shit?”

“Haha, your tongue does give me an itch…”
His tongue slithered, making her finger twitch.
Lecherous slug. “I want you to go to Club Helix.”
He took a swig and a whiff of a cig. “You will fix—”

Unfortunately for him, Oshin had run out of patience, was sick of this shit.
The moment he flicked ash from his cigarette, she advanced, and danced.
Arms spread, like a bird, and she’s flying, crying murder, like a crow, so dark.
Pistols in hands, -blam!-blam!-, guardians down, as that assassin is destined.

Others in the corners, poor attempts at warriors or soldiers, they’re gunning for her.
She twirls, firing more shots than twin pistols permit, but they don’t see hiding hands.
Two other blasters at her hips, hiding behind the flaps of her jacket, as their bolts burn
They fall, that karkhead and this one, and past the bystanders comes that lady in black.

Before Mr. Borghini can flick his cigarette, let alone a switch, a muzzle is under his chin.
Oshin isn’t really concerned about the motion beneath her, where other music is pumping.
Distracting dancers and patrons from the noises above them, leaving just her and just him.
“Twitch. Flinch.” She dares. “Before you do, best tell me who set me up, who tried to cut me.”

Mr. Borghini barely blinks, fearless, hands up, but doesn’t give up, not really. “Well, it isn’t me.”
Is there a lie in your eye? Her eyes search, her weapons on her surroundings, but none budge.
“That’s one reason I want you to go to Club Helix, Oshin. You see, your assassin is my target.”
Fancy that. “Mazzo set us both up. Stole more than my women. About time he is put to sleep.”

For a rival businessman to want another one whacked was no rarity in this line of business.
“And how do you know that?” A muzzle lifts his chin. “What is his connection to marking me?”
“He hijacked my shipment, a supply of spice for another system, hiring Pykes to do so for him.”
Pykes. Oh my. “Pykes are who came to kill me.” Borghini isn’t lying. “So…what is Mazzo doing?”

“Trying to take over the city.” The Ithorian shrugged. “He’s more of a slug than me.”
That’s a reach. “Then I’ll simply kill him the same way I am about to do to you, I think.”
Finger on the trigger. Borghini blinks. “Good luck. Only strippers gain entry to his VIP.”
Oh really? “Can’t be as difficult as this was, love.” He grins. “He hides behind the Pykes.”

She leans in as if to kiss but she sure as shit doesn’t.
“I’m good at finding little pricks and breaking them.”
“As you wish, Oshin, but safer to fake your way in.”
Unlike you, he’s expecting assassins? “How, then?”

Borhini looks left and looks right, disappointed to find few bouncers left alive.
“Ehh Mazzo does love his women more than me, maybe, given his is a strip club.”
That a droid was translating this felt awkward. “More than credits is his love.”
Oshin’s turn to shrug. “He won’t expect this one. I’ll come back if you’ve lied.”

A blaster’s blast, into an Ithorian’s thigh, he roared and his droid translated it.
A shout across the floor, bouncers rushing to help their master, as others fire.
Gunning for the assassin bursting through a window, flying beneath the spire.
If Mazzo is well guarded, no matter, for Oshin, the assassin, can find her way in.

 

[Oshin Jantu]

Spoiler: Music IC

A blam, a crash, blaster bolts into her handler’s thigh and again into a window at her right.
Sure, Borghini might hold a grudge, but he had more to gain letting an assassin get away.
Take care of his business, do a mission for him, and get better guards to guard his side.
Maybe he lied, might know more on the Pykes, but time is an ocean in a shark’s game.

That one escaped, curled her legs up the same way she did when she had first flown.
No roof’s ledge, knees bent, arms like wings above her head, flying from the window.
Her little slave didn’t fail to deliver, hovering beneath her, that Nautolan named Buck.
A speeder’s roof opened to Oshin, diving deep into the sea, a bit like a speck of dust.

She could be seen if she wanted to. It wasn’t Borghini’s time to die if he provides.
If he lied, different story, but keeping him alive worked in her favor, for the night.
For now, more like. Picking her fangs with a fingernail. “So...you…uh…survived....”
“Disappointed, Buck?” Oshin shrugs. “Shut the fuck up. Drive. Take the right.”

She briefed him on the least of her business, that they’re going to Club Helix.
He told her a nervous story about how he had a cat, died, her name was Felix.
Oh. Who gives a kriff? The city lit up, bright signs, guiding toward purple light district.
Boot up on dashboard, securing the dagger in her boot. “Stop here. I’ll walk the rest of it.”

“Main entrance?” Buck the Dumb Fuck thus blinked. “No, dipshit. Whether Borghini is lying.”
Oshin sighed. “I’ll be seen coming in and this time I can’t afford to be. I’ll sneak in silently.”
Buck’s turn to shrug. “Eh, ya know what you’re doin’, Oshin.” She grinned. “Just sit still.”
With that, she exited, ever strapped, and rounded around to the back, hungry for a kill.

Bouncer at the back door, big Herglic, would potentially make her and otherwise interrupt.
Window a storey above, open for the outside air, that city street scent of sweat and sex.
Of piss and shit. Oshin agreed with herself, moved like the night, as silent as held breath.
Scaling wall, spider and all, she paused, leaned, peeked and looked up at the strip club.

“Candy Pop’s up next. Hope she doesn’t fuck up this time.” Spoke some nameless bitch.
“Heh, if she does, I’m comin’ in. Ain’t none of these suckas seen a Bothan like me spin this.”
Bothan. Hmm. Furry. In no real hurry, Oshin spied woman after woman, none technically ladies.
Then again, society was a dying breed, and she’s just in this for the credits, revenge, life-trading.

Whatever the kark that means. Movement below her. Someone might notice her. So she moves in.
“Isn’t Binkberry coming in tonight?” “I heard she quit. Zephyr too.” “Poor girls.” “Bink was a bitch.”
Through the window, a shadow in the light, Oshin Jantu squats low behind clothes and curtains.
Outfits of silver fur, others of yellow leather, as the bitches talk and jog on off into the distance.

Save one. “I’ll catch up with all ya’ll in a minute!”
She’s busy putting on her makeup in the mirror.
Something appears behind her. A black figure.
Snaps her neck. Hides her body. Dons a wig.

Perfect. No, the moment could not have been better suited to it.
No Force-sensitive, but the Force seemed to serve this woman.
The stripper had two arms, and two more, which made four arms.
No one knew Oshin had that number. Mazzo will. As I eat his heart.

 

[Oshin Jantu]

Spoiler: Music IC

Mazzo. The woman licked her lips, but not in a grin. It wasn’t yet the moment for it.
The name of the idiot settled well no less. Her target. The man who targeted Oshin.
The owner of this strip club, Club Helix, and this would be this man’s very own grave.
If Oshin Jantu had her way, and she always did, while she moved, if with a hidden face.

“Our next guest is one you might never imagine!” Spoke an announcer past the curtain.
“With long legs, begging breasts, skin smooth from cheeks to asscheeks, she is deadly…”
Oh you’ve no idea, buddy. Oshin thought behind that purple curtain. “Oh I do beckon thee.”
Beckon who? Me? Oshin tucked panties, shifted bra. “I give you…the Codru-Ji…VIOLET!”

The curtain opened. Let’s do it. Oshin, Violet, moved in, footsteps inward, hips swaying.
No dress, bereft of many garments, but no argument as she played the party, teasing.
She entered the walkway, high heels pearl pink, leading up to purple panties, legs bare.
Like the rest of her flesh, pale skin permitted, purple bra on breasts, head of purple hair.

A long gold pole was erect at the center of the stage, bright and bulbous, with white light.
However, amid her, strobe lights dance, violet as Violet, as the dancer shifted, lifted thigh.
A Codru-Ji? Most definitely. Oshin Jantu? No blue ocean, mind you. Lavender face mask.
Concealing her countenance, lower half, while eyes bright as cyan gaze past her dance.

Wrapping her leg around the dance pole, those eyes gaze, at him and her and everyone.
Searching for Mazzo, that scumbag, and she found him in the audience amid other bugs.
Surrounded by bodyguards, drink in hand, Oshin counted grunts and exits as she danced.
Twirled around the pole, landed, hands overhead, buttcheeks between, arching her back.

Hello. She squatted low, legs bent, gazing in Mazzo’s general direction. Big dumb Bothan.
But his guards did have blasters and then some. In her show, Violet ran a hand up her leg.
Trailing fingers up her thigh, standing, dipping rear end backwards, only to swing upward.
Spreading her legs in either direction, hands on railing, upside down, just gazing forward.

 

[Oshin Jantu]

Spoiler: Music IC

Assassins. They assassinated, naturally. Assassination was always the name of their game.
Death. Murder. Terminator. Exterminator. And this one considers herself a badass assassin.
Famous? No. Known in her own circle. Limited to certain criminal elements. Better that way.
She doesn’t want to get targeted by greater players or galactic authorities. Bad for business.

Yeah she’s a killer. One with killer heels that moment. Pole-dancing beneath her? Just a job.
Part of it. Dance for her target. He’s targeted in the audience. He doesn’t know it. Dead dog.
She isn’t a Mandalorian. Not a Sith. Just a vicious bitch with a grin behind her lavender mask.
Oh she knows she’s gifted. Have to have confidence for this shit. To be an assassin with an ass.

In the end, she was dancing for idiots. For grunts who grunted at her. Throbbing. Silly things…
They’d get nothing from her but the show, though that’s how it goes. Heyo, Mazzo. Watch me...
Get his attention by dipping her hips. Legs around the pole while she’s still hanging upside down.
Hands grip it, firmly squeezing in, as she slowly twirls. Curls her leg in, curved thigh. How they wow.

As excited as her audience is she is indifferent. This is just another objective in her mission.
She begins to slide down now. The pole is cold against her pale skin. Hard steel on soft flesh.
Pink heels reach the floor but her hands are still sliding. Her fingers wrap around, up and down.
Ready for this, you little shit? Give a casual walk around the pole, one hand holding it, craning neck.

Other hand trailing down her chest, a lone finger snaking between breasts, arching back again.
Holding pole with one hand. Other is at her stomach, fingers curl at belly button, as legs spread.
Knees bent. Need both hands on pole now as she squats low to the ground, begins to bounce.
Up and down, as lazy and leisurely as getting out of bed after sex, or like riding a man all night.

Of course, that’s what she wanted him to think.
Bothan licks his lips as the song begins to shift.
Mazzo can’t look away. She is coming. For him.
Gazing at him through cleavage. Your last sleep.