Private Bassline

[Amea Virou]

The bass kick seemed to hit with a slow rhythm that was just one step ahead of a drugged out spiceheads heart. Each snare felt like a bullet to the chest, each stroke of the hi-hat like a snake’s tongue to the ear. The harmonic synthesizers held on to a simple pattern of notes that seemed to extend and grow deep into one another and soothe the otherwise painful sensory overload of the drums. In the middle of the chaos there was the bass that tickled the skin unlike anything that could be described as natural. The crowd was loving it and it showed in the way they seemed to move with the torpor of a sickly turtle.

Must have been something they added to the fog machines, Amea figured. The effects were there, but beyond an increase in sensory function it seemed to do her very little. The fog that swept around her legs as she wandered towards the back rooms had started to reach for her knees at this point, yet it was nothing compared to the cacophonous dead center of the noise from the club.

Located down a small flight of stairs in a square-like pit there was a dance floor that changed shape and color with each beat that passed the occupants by. Though it was hard to tell through the fog it was stuffed to the brim with enough preppy kids to fund a reconstruction of Coruscant’s heart twice over and that was including both a Sith and a Jedi temple. Some dancing solo, most of them with a companion, others enjoying a more intimate connection while they cupped each other’s faces to ground themselves between reality and their shared fantasy.

Opposite of the dance pit there was a door guarded by two guards in black suits, a hefty lock, and another dozen souls with guns on the other end who would be displeased should Amea simply come barging in. She should have played it smart, tried to get at them from an angle, but quite frankly she had tried this tactic so many times before and it had always been more trouble than it was worth. Someone always got away and the problem resurfaced later.

With one swift move Amea lifted the gun on her belt from its holster and shot it at the man on the left. There was no flash, no gunshot or noise as she fired. Just a man, a good chunk of electrical current, and the twitch of his friend that stood confused by his side. He crumpled over, shivering ever so slightly as his consciousness slowly drained away into slumber. The guard on the right tried to reach for his own gun but found himself stopped. A hand latched onto his wrist before his head was pushed back against the wall with enough force for him to topple over and join his friend in an impromptu nap.

Pleased with the direct route having worked Amea knelt down to pick up one of their keycards, her eyes shooting over her shoulder and into the clueless crowds one last time before she opened the door and stepped into the back of the club.

Crime rested for no-one, but neither did the justice due either.

 

[Cei Kyros]

Blood trickled down Cole's swollen face. His heart was thumping in time with the club's thumping rhythms. He tasted copper and iron. Another fist, this one shattering the bridge of his nose. His vision swims and he can feel his hold on consciousness beginning to slip. Surroundings fade in and out. He grunts but doesn't groan.

"I don't like rats," that hateful voice mewls, "Especially not filthy street rats who should know their place."

Two shots to the stomach. Merrill doubles over, but doesn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him do much more than wince and spit blood back in their faces. His tormentor merely laughs and wipes the viscera off on Cole's swoop jacket. It marked him as one of the Dark Star Hellions but he was way outside his territory. Cracked lips curl in rage.

"Are you working alone or did someone send you?"

"Your mother," he snarled and lashed out.

Hip tossing one of the thugs restraining him in a feat of strength for a man so badly beaten, Cole broke the other's jaw with his palm and was two steps away from the voice when a stun baton ignited the small of his back in liquid agony and he lost all control of his lower extremities. Merrill crumples in a heap, but strong arms lifted him back into his kneeling position and more fists rained down on him.

His vigilante career was off to an auspicious start.

Amea Virou

 

[Amea Virou]

Cole Merrill

Calm and methodical steps carried her deeper into the backroom of the club. From above she could hear the sounds of a body hitting the ground repeatedly yet with each hit there was a sense of anger and defiance that only grew with each strike against its owner’s skin. It was a struggle, and one that Amea wouldn’t have expected to encounter.

Taking up a spot by the door Amea listened in on the conversation. They thought he was working with someone. They were wrong, but she wasn’t exactly about to give them any reason to believe that. With a swipe at a nearby lockpad she forced the door open. Draped in shadows she entered the room to the surprise of just about everyone therein. With a determined stride Amea set off towards the man closest to her.

“What the- who-” The club owner tried to shape a question, yet he was cut short by the sudden flash and bang of a slugthrower that had been raised and held at the ready. The head of the man next to him arched back, their body growing stiff as they toppled over and into the back accompanied by a wet thud.

Chaos ensued as the rest of the thugs dropped the man that they had held still for their friends to gang up on, each of them reaching for the guns at their side as Amea continued her approach, gun pointed at yet another thug before she squeezed the trigger yet again. She ducked, got down on her knee to avoid the incoming fire and retaliated with a shot of her own before she ducked behind cover to catch her breath and pick her next targets.

“Who the kark is she?!” Someone yelled.

“I don’t know, just fething shoot her already!” Yelled the club owner.

For now, it seemed all eyes had indeed fallen upon her. What the beaten man made of that, well, she really didn’t care.