Blood Price at Telos

[Nine Lives]

Arrived in: Left Hand (Saotome Envoy)

Wearing: Progenitor's Robes

Armed with: Hundred Handed Giant (http://starwarsrp.net/topic/140489-hundred-handed-giant/)


Telos.

She had been a padawan, the last time she had come here. It had been to learn Niman, which she was quite good at. Very good.

Things had been slow despite her slowly stretching her feelers out, little by little. She had been loose since Atrisia was no longer under the clutches of the First Order, which had dominated her thoughts for a long time.

But now that that awful weight had been lifted, Nine felt like relaxing, even while keeping tabs on who her daughter Vera killed, and why. A part of her still wrestled with the fact innocent people were dead because she had allowed Vera to roam free, but anyone leading her children had to be unafraid to take the life of even an innocent.

To Vera's credit, she had become more cautious despite her natural impatience. And with her daughters effectively having things locked down on The Morpheus, Nine had decided to indulge in an old hobby of hers.

She loved racing. It was one of her few genuine vices. She had been following them again the past few weeks, with Karlie Destat's issues resolved. In a fit of pique, she decided she would observe a race in person, rather than on the holonet in the castle mess hall, running bets with her children. She loved her people and children to pieces but some days she wanted to be alone. She had topped off so she would not need to eat. It was daylight, where the Race was occurring, so Nine made sure to take her enchanted sword with her while she decided to enjoy a day off. It had been a long time since she had done something normal, like this. She did not wish to waste it. Meier piloted, even insisted on going with her but Nine had refused. Today was to be a day for 'Me-Time'.

The Arch-Psy-Pire seemingly glided through the crowds in the arena, having paid for a private booth where she would not be disturbed. She was clad in her green ceremonial robes with white flower print, a hood drawn over her face, concealing all but the glowing purple dot centers of otherwise pitch black eyeballs. Her hands went crooked as she sensed the prey around her but she forced her body to remember it had eaten. But everything felt so alive in the racing arena, and she was even getting to witness a newcomer...a woman by the name of [member="Zippy Zabelle"] whose races were drawing massive crowds for a new comer. But the fans always sense greatness. Always...

And they always knew a fraud and a cheat, who Nine did not realize would soon strike, albeit with defective timing...

 

[Zippy Zabelle]

“Yag uda'mine, tal-seg ya Telos uda'tonoya – ti'meni hep, soynora tali'beti sep Zippy Zabelle, evani zan'zep Oh'kura!”

The Ubdurian announcer's jubilant cry echoed through the arena as the final screams of strained swoop-engines surfed across the finish line. Behind the alien's voice, an automated female translation in basic reverbed over the cheering crowd, and through the holovids of every spectator.

Zippy's bright blue Nefarious whined as it decelerated, its Bansidhe ion drive finally getting the break it deserved – or brake – as they careened into their designated pit. The giggling driver was quickly swarmed by her crew of Hassk pirates, who crawled over her and the VK bike like a bunch of mynocks. It was a warm welcome. Through the storm of blue fur and manic breathing, Greten's friend and captain, Yayak, stood proud with crossed arms and a long, Shistavanen smile.

“Rah'roo raar ahhg'yak ruur roh!” he barked ecstatically, holding up one clawed finger at the racer.

“Number one, that's right baby! A'rooo!” she laughed.


After the race, Greten walked with her friend, Tac Gore, down the hallways of entertainment module 093. The industrial fabricated hallways in this module were dark gray, giving the neon signs of various eating and drinking joints the opportunity to pull in passersby.

Greten lifted up the high-impact helmet she'd been forced to wear on the circuit, and set it on Tac's head.

“That Suerton at the betting booth – ahh, you shoulda seen his face, ZZ.” Tac said, adjusting the plastoid headpiece.

Greten could see Tac fanning out the creds he'd earned through betting, and it was rather flattering. Normally the two of them would be racing together on Mandalore, but this was a big game for Greten, and he'd come to watch and celebrate with her. Now, the two of them were headed to the official racers' banquet at the 093 Cantina. Unfortunately, Yayak and the Rooor'Grrr crew were packing up the Nefarious and preparing for their own, personal party in orbit once Greten was finished on the surface. Telosians were a bit too... sterile when it came to parties, for the likes of those brigands.

“They all look like that,” she replied.

“Yeah, well, I'm convinced that their faces get stuck that way from being so damn lucky all the time,” he said. “Oh yeah, and another thing – I saw some aaangry niktos near there too. Who were they racing?”

“Angry Niktos?” thought Greten, rolling over the roster in her head. Though, there wasn't anyone she could think of.

“Were they collecting bets?” she asked.

“Uhh, no, now that I think about it – no.”

She was silent. Could be the Neo Vulkars were scouting competition, or something – though she couldn't name what. They rarely ever left Taris, and that's what she found strange. Of course, could be they weren't vulkars at all.

Both Tac and Greten stopped once they had arrived at the cantina entrance. The soft thump of music and cheering of patrons could be heard from the other side. Greten raised her “racer id” to the scanner beside the door, and the light blipped green.

“Now, don't get carried away,” Greten said, looking at Tac.

He scratched the back of his head and gave a sly smile.

Tag: [member="Nine Lives"]

 

[Nine Lives]

Nine glided without sound through packed passages, others giving the tall woman whose face was concealed a wide birth. Since she had paid so much for a private booth she was allowed to walk around with her sword and no other weapons as she at last found her booth.

It was here, away from the Morpheus, away from the constant chatter of her daughters, the seeding of her people into Atrisian society, that Nine finally had a chance to be alone and think more on what she had turned into in this era.

Bottom line: Amoral. She didn't get her own hands dirty if she could help it, like a true mad scientist, instead preferring to let her experiments do the work. She personally did not kill innocent people yet did not stop her daughter Vera from doing it. Part of it was the desire to have Vera come to a natural realization about constantly satisfying her thirst to kill, the other was a need for a very ruthless heir once she was gone.

She was a fry cry from The Jedi Consular who had only wanted to help people once. Sometimes she was sad about that. But the horrors of this new era she was in demanded a proper defensive response. Only the crazy and badass made it out ahead, regardless of morality. Nine had immense amounts of both crazy and badassery within her.

The booth was dark, with tinted windows to keep out the sunlight and allow Nine to enjoy the race without nausea in the sunlight. She had bet money on [member="Zippy Zabelle"] (In Doctor Evil voice: One million credits.) and she had a feeling she was gonna get a massive payout. Besides, seeing so many people, even able to celebrate with them was a massive reality check, made her realize just how long she had hid aboard the Morpheus.

And then the race began. Nine watched it on the monitors, the tribalism of a Mandalorian Soccor Hooligan taking route as she started trash talking all the other racers she had not bet on. Nine was an epic trash talker, and several utterings too dirty and filthy to be repeated graced her lips while besmirching Zippy's rivals. Go Zippy, go zippy, Momma needs a new and expensive laser focusing array in the labs for high energy experiments.

Nine practically leaped out of her seat when Zippy crossed the finish in an incredible win. She was rich! Well, richer, but still...

The Arch Psy-Pire was intrigued at how Zippy won, almost seeing danger and obstacles before they occur...yes, it seemed Nine's money had been very well invested.

Nine was not planning to stay long. She actually half figured to stalk the streets of Telos after the race, slum it, eat the memories of a few hobos and signal the Morpheus for pickup afterward. But the way Zippy won...Nine had a theory but wanted to confirm it. So she began the journey to the entertainment module, sizing people up for feeding later, and easily reached the cantina. She could drink nothing, but she was not here to drink but to meet Zippy.

One guard, there to make sure everyone was who they said they were stopped her, instantly regretting it when he realized how tall and unsettling the woman was.

"Pass please."

"Why of course..." Nine uttered in her typically deep contralto, showing it again in utter silence of her movements, the robes hiding the movements of her legs, making the walk look all the more unnatural.

"H-here you go..." the guard said nervously, getting out of her way immediately so she could enjoy the entertainment and meeting the woman who had won her a million legit credits. By legit, she meant credits not earned from pilfering what seemed to be endless tombs or war profiteering from her gadgets or even the occasional assassination contract she put Vera on. Zippy wasn't blood money.

The tall woman with purple glow dot eyes watched as the door opened. Zippy was with a friend. The entire Cantina was abuzz, and with good reason. It had been a monster of a race.

Nine was the only one who did not engage in cheering. In fact, most of the guests in the cantina did their best to avoid the unsettling tall and quiet hooded woman, still armed with a katana, an out of place spectre in the festive environment, merely studying Zippy as she entered, unaware a terrible danger was ready to make itself known...and was minutes away from doing so...

 

[Zippy Zabelle]

“Now what do you say?" The Twilek bartender asked, arms wide and a smile, “Twenty-thousand creds, and I'll hang that blue chassis over the bar.”

It was a good offer – more than she'd ever get anywhere else for the homemade racer, more than it was worth its weight in materials. But to Zippy, it was worth much more.

“I just couldn't,” she started, looking down on the bar's counter, “Ya see, I made her myself – she's basically family... but I do appreciate the offer.”

The twilek gestured, as if to say he couldn't win them all, and brushed the offer to the side with a drink, to which Zippy happily accepted. Just a couple, and then she'd head back to the Rooor'Grrr. There, her crew would likely treat to a wilder cortyg brandy and netra'gal. A tastier menu worthy of pirates. Of course, by the time she would arrive, she was sure the Hassks would be lain about. They were a species much too impulsive for the concept of “party time” – as that was all the time.

“Speaking of species,” thought Zippy as she sat upright in her bar stool, looking over the laxed cantina crowd. There were a few Nikto, joking and drinking merrily through the light haze of indoor-smoke (that which was permitted on the station). None that seemed angry, as Tac had described. Was she really that suspicious?

Just as she was about to shrink back down into her seat, she noticed someone that did stand out. A tall, fancifully-robed woman with a sheathed blade at her side. Definitely not cantina wear, it was far too outlandish and formal – not to mention, a weapon at a government cantina? On Telos? Was that permitted? Zippy leaned in toward the bartender, hoping to ask rather discretely about the strange woman.

Suddenly, the soft music and celebration was cut in half as both the north and west cantina doors rocketed open. The bright, white light from the module halls beamed through the shady cantina interior; the shadows of two dark figures bearing rifles in ready-fire stretched from each of the openings. There was a brief jostle among the patrons and a few angry grumbles before the movement began to slow still, and the groans turned to gasps – at that moment the music might as well have been turned off.

Zippy, being the foretelling, quick-responding racer that she was, had poked herself behind a few standing drunks at nearly the instant everyone had grown quiet. And no later, darted through the kitchen door beside the bar. She knew well, no one got through security with blaster rifles, and the TSF didn't walk around poking their blaster-barrels through doorways. So that left only one question – what in hutta was going on? She asked herself that as she sat on the cold, kitchen floor, her back against the leg of a durasteel storage table.

One of the assistants looked her way, their big Duro eyes looking quite surprised.

“Ko zali treta?”

“No I aint the hostess!” Zippy whispered, though she did so in alarm, “There's a mad barfight going on, and ya can't make me go back out there!”


tag: [member="Nine Lives"]

 

[Nine Lives]

Nine felt a now vestigial stomach growl at the smells of food and drink went past her nose. She could eat thoughts, and emotion and memory, but food, actual food, was but a bitter recollection, to be enjoyed only through others. She'd have cut her arm off to eat so much as on roll of moldy bread, if only so she could truly taste more than the phantom sensation of taste consuming the food thoughts of others.

The thought vampire looked at [member="Zippy Zabelle"] as she actually entered, giving a slight nod to the racer. Once, thousands of years ago, she had entertained doing some high risk sport, but it would not have befit what little station her human self possessed. That had been the conventional wisdom at the time. Now she regretted not doing it anyway. She was a bad driver, but training could have fixed that.

To feel nothing but the wind on one's face as they went down a track. Nine had always wanted that care free life. That freedom. It was not to be. Her fate was the shadows. Zippy got to be the happy one. And why not? The race had put her on top of the world.

Anxiety over how she was a walking doom magnet began to play out, and she wondered if she should even be here at all. Any time she went near anyone promising something bad seemed to happen, a fear that became real minutes later as she silently loitered in the cantina. Armed men burst in but Nine kept her cool. A lot of Nikto and Weequay, armed with Mandalorian rifles. Not screwing around. Nine maintained her stoic repose as one of them pointed a weapon at her. The Knight Obsidian said nothing as a rifle was pointed her way, her glow-dot eyes merely observing the man as he told her to get on the ground and drop her weapon. Nine was to lay on a filthy floor for her captor? No.

Nine thought of drawing then and there, but instead listened to their voices. There were many, and she did not want to risk hurting the patrons, despite the fact she allowed her daughter to hurt people just like this. It was one of many examples of Nine's ambivalent sense of morality. Maybe she could end this clean, or rather, as clean as a Vampire could end something that way.

Nine had many tricks as a Psy-Pire. One of which was throwing her voice as well as mimicking nearly any sound at the same time. Both of which she did, using her favorite distraction: the roar of a Rancor.

The guy holding the gun in front of her jumped as he thought he heard a rancor screaming from behind just as Nine dropped her sword, her free hands catching him by the head, and twisting it a hundred and eighty degrees to face her, killing him instantly. She was already moving past the panicked blaster fire to the next, man, her fists being driven into his ribcage and throat to break them, flinging him into a group of three, siezing a carving knife with serrated edges from a cut of nearby roast on a banquet table and driving it into the eye of one gunman who was armed with a multibarrel repeater that he barely managed to fire off, a bolt grazing her side extremely painfully, her armorweave sustaining severe burns like her flesh. Nine dropped in pain, but still managed to let off a blast of purple, psychic bolts that discharged like lightning but were non lethal, into the direction of two more shooters before breaking into a run. She was rusty, had been hiding on the Morpheus too long. Even six months ago she would have owned them, dominated them. Now...now her antics could just barely hinder them.

She dove for her sword, cradling her injured side, she would need sleep to recover properly, but she could not do it here, and could not afford to fall asleep. She barely ran past the stunned, now screaming patrons avoiding the angry criminals firing at her, bursting through the kitchen door Zippy had gone through, running barely due to the intense pain, ducking bolts fired from pursuing mercenaries, spotting a giant light fixture shaped like a crystal sphere above her. Drawing her sword, she tossed it like an arrow, shattering it and bathing the whole area in darkness. The men pursuing her soon turned on the flashlights attached to their rifles. They saw nothing ahead or behind them. If only they had thought to look up, because Nine, still in great pain, but managing to use her vampire gifts to crawl on the ceiling let herself drop onto them in one swift motion, cutting a man in half and seizing the other from behind before he could fire. Black, metallic fangs slid into place and Nine bit down on the screaming man, drinking his most recent memories to learn what the hell was going on. She pulled back from surprise, both at the target and the reason, and then snapped the man's neck because she saw his prior, extremely disgusting crimes towards all manner of innocent people. Again, this was an indignant disgust from a vampire who was having no real hangups letting her daughter kill people she didn't know.

Nine then went through the darkness of the kitchen, other workers having long since fled when the shooting started. She had to reach Zippy. The crazy feth who'd hired these creeps had something terrible in mind...something humiliating and awful and petty as hell...