First Reply A Hunter, Hunted

[Scherezade deWinter]

The hunt had been efficient, or so she'd thought. Everything had gone predictably at first; she'd tracked her target across three systems and at least one minor war that she was aware of but had chosen to completely ignore. Her target ran the way most of them did, trying widening circles, thinking being constantly on the move would make him behave strategically. It might have worked with someone greener in hunting people down, but Scherezade was anything but.

So here he was now, kneeling at the edge of the platform, his breath ragged, his hand on a blaster. Scherezade knew he wouldn't be able to draw it fast enough, so she needn't hurry. She stepped through smoke and scattered cargo, her green armour reflecting slick and oil-dark beneath the failing lights.

A shot was fired. Not from her target, but from somewhere else, taking Scherezade by surprise. Her senses flared. She had taken in the scent of the area as she'd made her way towards him, not spotting anyone else. And now… Her senses flooded. There were dozens of them, and many were firing at her. She turned back to her target, ready to grab him like a kitten by the back of the neck and make it out, but he was gone.

Had her hunt failed, or was this a problem to overcome? She turned around to deal with the newcomers, ready to break each and every one of them for information, when an unfamiliar pain spread through her body.

The Sithling looked down, where a slug of some sort had pierced her armour, right in the lower abdomen. Blood was pouring out.

"What…" she murmured, trying to touch it, her fingers coming away slick with her own blood.

Smoke filled her vision. She couldn't see anything more than a foot from her. Was it the blood loss or were the newcomers doing something? She wasn't certain. The Sith, who had spent her younger years being known as a human pin cushion, found her brain not braining.

A moment ago, she had been standing, ready to strike, and now she fell to her knees as the blood continued to flow out of her at a worrying speed, smoke she only now realized was laced with something that pressed against her bond, smothering her reach into the Force.

Crap.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Scherezade deWinter​

Smoke curled from the platform as he advanced, unbothered by the haze. Shadows swallowed the edges of his frame. Lights overhead cast erratic glimmers on the chaos beneath. The floors were filled with upturned cargo crates, scorched durasteel, and a smear of blood across the floor.. more than enough evidence to suggest recent violence. Control on a map meant nothing when the ground was compromised. And this was precisely why Lysander had been dispatched. For weeks now, this hotspot had resisted order; now, its reputation was becoming clear.

He arrived accompanied by six acolytes; now, only three remained. One slipped away into the curling smoke, a strangled gasp trailing behind; another fell before he could even lend aid; the last crumpled, struck down by slugs. The Sith Knight didn't register any of it as surprise.. or tragedy. This was just a constant in the equation of survival.

Then a streak of light flashed near his right side. Muscle memory took over; a red saber snapped to life. Another shot glanced off the blade. There was only one direction he could accept.. forward. So, he pushed deeper into the veil, closing the distance. A foe lunged from the left, met with a twist of his wrist and a brutal arc of his blade. For a while, all he heard were slugthrowers, blasterfire, the hum of his weapon, and the thud of bodies hitting the ground.

A trained ear still listened to patterns through the chaotic symphony. More sharp bursts of gunfire erupted. Clearly, there was more than one battle through this hellish maze. The figure was revealed, kneeling near the edge. She was not one of the Covenant's, not one Lysander recognized. A Sith, sure, but a stranger.

A single pace closed the distance enough for his dissecting stare to land. Words were filtered through the vocoder of his helm; they were flat and glacial.

“You’re not one of mine. So tell me why you’re bleeding on my platform.”

One step to the right was enough to block an escape route, though he doubted that would be the case.

“And choose your answer carefully.”

Another volley echoed past him.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Blood continued to spill through her fingers in a warm and steady rhythm. No matter how she positioned her hand, she couldn't keep the crimson inside of her body. Still, even through her feeble movements, her glowing green gaze did not avert once it had fallen on the stranger, on Lysander von Ascania .

Her mind, already blurring in the edges, still insisted on taking him in. Red blade. Controlled stance. Lackies… No, she couldn't tell how many or where they were, not in her current state. Slugs were still being shot all around them. That, she could hear, even if her sense of direction was already gone.

The Sithling exhaled slowly, trying to maintain a body language that did not betray the fact that it was costing her so dearly.

"Your platform…" she repeated, voice quieter, just barely over a whisper, but it sounded steady to her. She hoped it really was. "So your problem…"

Another burst of slugfire cracked somewhere behind him. Her gaze shifted only briefly to the smoke, then back to him. He had not been here when she had arrived, when she could still scent blood. But now he… And whoever the others were, seemed to be everywhere around her.

Her fingers tightened slightly against the wound, blood still slipping through regardless.

And whoever he, whoever they were, seemed to have come prepared. Scherezade tilted her head a fraction, studying his helm, the vocoder, the way he had positioned himself to cut off her escape. The blurring in the edges was growing. Time wasn't on her side.

"You can ignite your blade," she whispered, her voice noticeably hoarser than it had been moments ago, "You can cut down what you see." Yes. She knew how to fight with lightsabers. Probably better than most of those she had come across. And that meant that she knew how they operated too. "Can you cut what you cannot feel?"

The smoke thickened around them even more, curling low, clinging to the platform. She drew in a breath and felt it press again against the place where the Force should have been with a suffocating absence.

"Frakking smoke is laced," she explained, falling lower on her knees, her behind resting almost entirely against her feet now, "Suppresses… bond..."

Another step of blood loss caught up with her. The world narrowed briefly, lights streaking at the edges of her vision. She refused to allow herself to fall more than she already had, refused to greet the ground with her cheek.

Oh, there were more things she wanted to say. Even through the fog that was overpowering her mind, words sharpened, ready to hit him with a horribly ridiculous monologue, but her lips refused to cooperate. She couldn't tell him. Couldn't tell him that someone, something here, had been prepared for her, which in turn, meant that it had prepared for him as well. That someone was trying to make sure there were no witnesses.

Her fingers slipped in her own blood as another wave of dizziness struck. This time she did sway, just a fraction, entire body threatening to give again.

And somehow, by the Force, somehow, she maintained her gaze on him. Her body looked like it would fall over soon, but her look was the only part of it that remained steady through it all. One sentence. She had to get only one sentence out, a few words. She knew that was all she could manage before-

"Question me when this is finished..."

And not even a breath later, Scherezade deWinter's body slumped to the floor, right into the pool of her own blood.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Just as the other Sith began to speak more slugs cut past his helm in arrhythmic bursts. One whined past his left ear, and another sparking off the crate behind him. Blasterfire was constantly stitching the air. The heat from one skimmed the edge of his shoulder, another ricocheting off durasteel at his back. But.. none of it altered Lysander’s place. Whether it was the arrogance of those who walked the darker path, or following the battlefield'ss pulse, it was hard to say.

But something did tug on his awareness, a thread of intent. His saber snapped up in a clean arc to intercept a bolt that would’ve taken him in the chest.

A year ago, watching someone bleed out like this might have felt cruel. He might have paused, felt something twist.. wondered what kind of person he was becoming. But that was before the Covenant, before the sieges, before the months of attrition that carved the softness out of him. Now it was.. expected. A daily occurrence, really..

One more bolt followed. This time he pivoted a fraction and sent it screaming back.

“If I can see it, I can cut it. If I can hear it, I can cut it. If I can predict it.. I can cut it.”

Then his gaze dragged over her. “I don’t need to feel my enemy to end them. I only need them to exist.”

A slow breath through the rebreather.

Behind the visor, his brows pull together in an involuntary furrow. Smoke coiled around him, but the filter hummed softly. "Someone wanted you blind. And now I'm supposed to choke on it.."

Lysander’s gaze shifted to the remaining acolytes, assessing the situation. “Cut off their angles. Drive them toward the haze. If they make a move, pin them down. If they flee, shatter their ranks.” Without hesitation, the trio sprang into action. One scrambled up a stack of crates, seeking higher ground to oversee the pursuit. Another swept along the left flank, scanning for any sign of escape. The last pressed forward, closing the distance to plunge into the chaos of close combat. They were green.. but they obeyed.

He turned back to her just in time to see the final unraveling. Lowering himself precisely, he was soon eye level with her. Gently, two fingers found the curve of her neck, searching for that steady rhythm beneath the skin. A pulse fluttered under his touch.. unmistakably alive. The wound was marked by blood, but it was not a death sentence at that moment. That was enough..

With the press of a thumb, the crimson blade retracted. Secured once more to his belt, he eased an arm beneath hers, another carefully hooking around her waist. Dark streaks stained his gauntlets as he lifted her smoothly in one motion. It wasn't exactly gentle, but the leverage was there. Nearby, by the far wall close to the entrance, another crate offered shelter. The smoke would not reach that area. Gently, Lysander settled her against it, adjusting her posture to keep her from slumping. Her head sagged slightly, but he cradled it steady. “Stay alive. I’m not finished with you.”

His hand slid down to the utility belt, he retrieved a solitary bacta patch from within a pouch. Barely enough to make a difference.. but there was nothing else. The Sith doctrine didn't waste resources on keeping people alive. There were answers he needed, and that was enough to outweigh protocol. For now. After peeling back the protective film, it was pressed against her abdomen.

"You obviously didn't fall here by chance. Someone wanted you. And someone wanted me. Whoever engineered this, might've misjudged both of us."

Her consciousness might have been a distant thing by now. He wasn't sure.

"When you wake, you're going to tell me why."

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Lysander von Ascania

---

There was a morbid sense of comfort in the darkness. It wasn't 'the Darkness' that often held her prisoner when she lost consciousness against her will, but just… darkness. Cold and unfeeling for certain, but also not hostile. How long had she been in here? Time meant nothing in these situations. And so whether it was minutes or centuries after the darkness had settled in, she could now feel something trying to pull her out. Pain, precise and sharp, in her abdomen, right where…

Right where the slug had pierced her armour and she had begun to bleed to death. An unhappy moan escaped her against her will, the bacta patch trying its knots in her wound as it began to fix it. She had gone so long without ever using one of those that she had utterly forgotten how uncomfortable they were. During one of her younger adventured she had felt a needle going through her eye, and the bacta patches were too familiar of a feeling. Still, she had no complaints. Better needles in her wounds than death in the smoke.

Though the moan had been an actual sound made by her body, her eyes had remained closed. The darkness was gone, replaced with a blurry fuzziness around everything and she wasn't ready to open her eyes. Her body felt strange, and not just because of the patch. Someone had moved her. Someone… The stranger? Scherezade internally checked herself, trying to sense her limbs and understand what position she was in. Definitely moved, and leaning against a wall or something like that.

And the… No, there was no smoke here. She was breathing something that felt a lot cleaner. Followed soon by the cold sensation in her lungs. The bacta. The fluid in it had reached internal organs. Easier on the inside than on the out, that was for sure.

That was good. All of it was great. It meant that the stranger knew at least basic triage.

So that was all her information; someone had moved her to safety, someone had attached a bacta patch to her abdomen to fix the life threatening wound, and someone had kept her alive.

And though her thoughts were clear and sharp, regaining control of her body wasn't such a direct thing. She wanted to move her head, but all she managed was to raise it by an inch or two, the pain from the back of her neck shooting down her spine and her mind to go swimming, forgetting about everything for a handful of seconds before it cleared up again.

She tried to listen. Was the person still there? Were they alone? Was there movement? She could hear something, but her physical senses weren't yet sharp enough to know exactly what. She counted slowly until ten inside her head.

It was time to open her eyes. Annoyingly, it was still a slow and groggy movement, almost as if her body just preferred to sleep this entire thing off, despite knowing it was on a mission and not anywhere really safe.

Blurry swirls of dark colours flooded her vision. Scherezade blinked several times, just as slowly as at first, waiting for her sight to manage to focus, doing her best not to move her head again just yet. It looked like she was either still somewhere on the platform, or another one that looked a lot like it, and she was sitting against a crate. In movement, she only noticed one person.

Of course it was the stranger.

Now came more questions. How long had she actually been out? Was her prey still anywhere in the vicinity? Who were the other buttholes that were shooting? And was the stranger still useful, or had the time that passed manage to turn him into a lethal enemy?

More seconds ticked by as she maintained her silence, waiting for more details of the stranger to become sharp. When they finally did, she let her glowing gaze follow his body from head to toe and back.

"We were expected."

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Scherezade deWinter​

Lysander remained exactly where he had planted himself amid the surrounding chaos. Sweat furrowed beneath the helm, a salty line running down his jaw. Beneath all of it was the Dark that had been programmed into him, tempered by siege and attrition.. a molten river moving through his veins. Heat that was patient. Though the helm masked his visage, it would have been an indifferent mask as always There was a micro tilt of the head when a sound did not match what he expected, and a half curl of the fingers near the hip, forever attuned with everything unfolding.

The remaining acolytes succeeded in carrying out orders that left no room for improvisation. Extensions of Lysander’s will. A sniper who had been trying to melt into the rafters was picked off next. Then, another who had been using the crates as cover was snapped against durasteel. Several plunged forward into the smoke, where the mercs tried to form a counter line. So, he watched the choreography of it. Of course, it ended in more death that was anything but theatrical.

They would also retrieve a more specific item. A datapad.

The spoils of battle, some called it.

A contractor they hired would meet his end today, intentionally caught in the crossfire, unprotected by loyalty or ideology.

Not moving to join them, Lysander instead looked back to the bacta patch at work with detached interest. Mercy was something he would not allow himself to consider. Eventually, when eyelids fluttered and green shards returned, there would be no pity either. The language for it was gone from him. What remained was the simple awareness that a living witness was worth more than a corpse.. at least depending on which Sith you asked.

The silence stretched only for a breath long, enough to be a sentence, maybe two, before a voice that was sharper than a vibroblade spoke.

“We were expected by who?”

He wasn’t one to enjoy cruelty, but sometimes this was the only language that bought information in worlds where there was no patience for sentiment. The Core was becoming just as treacherous as the Outer Rim..

“Tell me the codeword for the manifest here, and then I’ll decide if you live.”

A test.

The three acolytes approached. “Hold her where she is. One on vitals and the patch; keep the bacta in place and monitor for shock. Jam external pings – now. Overwatch to the rafters; one of you takes the high ground and watches the approach vectors. The other sweeps the service tunnel and the tram line for any trackers. The case stays on me. Broker’s datapad goes for immediate copy and burn; we keep what we need and we deny the rest. Primary route is the service tunnel. Secondary is the cargo tram. We move in five minutes. If her pulse drops, inject stim. She’s coming with us for now.”

The Sith Knight looked down at the bacta patch again as if to confirm that the small miracle of it was real, then back to the others.

“Plant the broker’s ID at Dock Three. Forge a manifest and leave it where a cursory search will find it. Let them chase the story we want them to chase.”

The transport was back en route.. and while it was not ideal it was the most likely boarding point they had, the chances of ambush during evac were probably fifty‑fifty at best. Which meant they would have to make the odds bend in their favor with speed, misdirection. And if that wasn’t enough.. back to the cold and efficient violence he was forged to deliver.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Lysander von Ascania

---

Her gaze remained on the stranger, glowing green eyes focused almost entirely on him while the rest of her senses remained somewhat blurred and swirly around the edges. He was in the centre of her field of vision and she followed closely, still unable to speak normally, but her mind as sharp as it had been. His armour and weapons… Not interesting. But his command of the people around them… Authority without friction. Orders given without hesitation, obedience granted without the smallest question, and evidence being shaped into his desired objectives to tell a different story before corpses had even cooled. It was clean.

Now her attention shifted, ever so slightly, to the datapad being handled, the motions of his acolytes, and the absence of frantic internal noise in reaction to the violence that had unfolded. No one was wasting emotions, no one was bleeding emotions, and…

Scherezade blinked. Memories were resurfacing in her mind, memories of a pattern. Contractor placed exactly where they needed to be, of assets burning the second they'd outlived their usefulness, extractions timed in a way that bordered on arrogance. Just removal. She knew this pattern. Had gone through it more times than she could count. Yes, this was different, but it was also… Exactly the same.

Her fingers pressed faintly into the durasteel beneath her as the bacta pulled at another torn tissue, a reminder that the hand, not hers, but of the one behind it, had come very close to closing around her throat for good. And that could only mean… The game had shifted.

Slowly, the Sithling drew in a breath. It caught halfway, sharpened by healing flesh, and she hoped the slight tightening of her jaw had gone unnoticed. It probably hadn't.

Her eyes shifted back to the stranger, her focus steadier now as she measured and reassessed what was before her. Useful.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, roughened by smoke and blood, yet somehow calm.

"He's surgical."

Silence settled between her and the stranger again, thin but unbroken, as her gaze held his.

This had never been random.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Scherezade deWinter​

There was an irregular stutter of slugfire until it finally ceased altogether. Each sound is a vector; each vector is folded into a decision. For a time, there were no words, no more incisions. One acolyte went to the bacta as order, thumbs steady; the other keyed the jammer before sweeping the rafter with a predator's patience; the third would open the broker's case as someone who knew far better than to fumble.

The datapad finished its buffer, another vibration at the belt; he watched the original disappear. Just more data to process. The manifest was clipped to the crate. The stamp was ugly even, obvious by design; it'd be found by hands that skimmed, most likely.

Next, a falsified ping was sent.

Boarding delayed. Additional wounded to Dock Three. ETA +3.

To Lysander, there may have even been satisfaction in it; the one who would be blamed later tucked the broker ID where a search will find it. Visible spoils were arranged so the scene would read clean. Hopefully..

As he was still learning leadership, control was a tool.

The platform’s lights blinked as the transport arrived, settling into position. Ramps were aligning, and the countdown bled.

60…45…30…

Numbers were always an honest thing. The window only grew shorter. Pressure was felt, and so he moved with it.

The ship’s medic, more a field hand with steady hands, met them at the ramp; Lysander inclined his head once. “Keep her sedated.”

He watched the ramp close and let the platform take the lie like a play.. props set and actors in place. The medic eased her into the medbay. Outside.. someone thumbed the ugly stamp and the manifest began to breathe; inside, Lysander slid the tracker under his glove and tapped his gauntlet once. Abort was still an option. The ship climbed, lights fell away, and he sent one final order.. for now.

“Hold course. Two follow the trace. I’ll intercept on arrival.”

First one in, always the last one out; some things never changed.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Lysander von Ascania

---

He did not waste time on saying words back. Scherezade let the blurriness of the edges grow before they began to shrink back. The bacta patch should've emptied by now, which meant it would be some minutes before… One of the acolytes picked her up. The last thing she heard were his orders, keep her sedated. Good. She was an asset worth protecting. And unconscious, she would not mess with the medical care, as field patients so often did. Scherezade let the groggy darkness claim her.

Time passed. How much? Perhaps a minute, perhaps many hours. But it passed. The treatment given to her body had closed all the wounds, and her body, now that it was no longer severed from the Force, was creating more blood into her system, turning the dangerous blood loss to a minor physical inconvenience before the medics could. The sedation ensured she would remain unconscious as it happened, and even thoughts had no space to form, until later.

When they began to return, Scherezade took inventory of her state. It was a slow process, and her thoughts, though sharp as ever, formed at a sluggish speed. She was lying down this time, and where she could send her consciousness to within her body, she did not feel her blades pressing between armour and skin. But she was too foggy to check her entire body. It was probably safe to assume they were all gone. The stranger had been operating with efficiency and intelligence, and someone like that would not let someone like her keep her weapons. Especially not if she was on his ship, or somewhere where he ran things. Especially not when he had decided not to restrain her.

She had to check her body, to see what it could do. Scherezade took a long breath and tried to move her fingers. Any of them. None of them moved as much as she wanted them to, but they had all moved. Next came her shoulder, shifting ever so slightly. She approved of that. Pain still lingered, but it was blurry and manageable, and most importantly, she could do nothing about it, which, combined with how she was feeling in her mind, probably meant they'd administrated the correct dosages.

She had been warned that her little game with the architect could escalate to this. She hadn't listened.

And then finally, her eyes fluttered open, only to close again almost instantly as the harsh light hit them. Her jaw tightened and she tried a second time, this time opening them slower. Only when her eyes understood they were looking at a ceiling, did she move her head, wanting to see what else was around her.