Private Bow

[Mercy]

DENON
Malcoma Hesse

Her Darkweb page binged her an alert. Another sentient in need of her services and Mercy was only too happy to oblige. The details were sketch to say the least, but apparently the meeting would be at a local bagnio so to speak. There were two possibilities- either the prospective boss was gross or... well, they were most likely gross. Mercy didn't mind. If that was the case (and it probably was) it gave her the opportunity to cave a face in.

That would be nice.

Either way, she sent off an acceptance and set-up a meeting. About fifteen minutes late and smoking a cigarette, but Mercy walked into the bordello regardless. Before she could even approach the desk a pretty boy walked up with a bright smile.

"Ma'am? You are expected, please... come with me?" He was about to touch her elbow to guide her. One look was enough to convince him it would be a bad idea. Even then Mercy followed after the soft boy. Looked like the contractor was most likely the owner of the place or at least someone with a vested interest. The chances of it being a gross guy worth breaking was increasing with every step she was taking.

She dragged a bit more fiercely from her cigarette in anticipation as they strode.

Until the attendant left her in the waiting room.

This was where Mercy casually plopped down in a chair, legs propped up on the table, magazine pulled from the rack. "Woof." Mercy whistled as she turned the magazine around to see it from a different angle.

"These architecture designs are something else."

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

make war, not love
Mercy ​

"That's Wayland marble. Please don't put your feet up on it."

The polite pleasantry scratched up Malcoma's throat as she walked into the waiting room from the opposite direction Mercy had been led. She didn't want to offend her help away considering she had paid a pretty price for mercenary services from the woman.

"Mercy, I assume?"

Wynter, wherever he was, better be hoping that she lived up to her preceding reputation. If she didn't—well. Perhaps he thought he had seen the madam mad. He'd find out he'd been dead wrong.

Malcoma sat down across the table. "I'm Madam Hesse." She motioned around her, generally indicating the establishment that they found themselves in. "I'm not an employee here. Or even a local. I simply had business here and Madam Irard was nice enough to host me for its duration." If Mercy caught her drift, she did; if not, it didn't matter enough to warrant further explanation.

"Still, I find myself at a disadvantage with a problem I can't solve myself. A..." a pregnant pause, "friend tells me that you do well for yourself. Perhaps we can help each other?"

 

[Mercy]

Malcoma Hesse

As a rule Mercy did not allow anyone to tell her what to do.

In fact, she was about to scruff up the marble on purpose by shifting her feet. Until the golden orbs hidden behind the trademark shades caught side of the voice's owner. Brows rose UP. "Maybe," Mercy drawled as her feet slowly slid off the table and rested on the floor instead. She didn't even notice it because her attention was entirely transfixed.

"...but there ain't nuthin' merciful about yar gorgeousness is there, darling?"

Then a blink and Mercy smiled as she relaxed once more. Okay, yeah, this was going to be better. She had been betting on some lousy arsehole and instead got a little pearl commanding her attention.

This was a change Mercy could adapt too.

"Problem solving be mah number one business, babe." Mercy continued as she leaned back, one leg crossing the other and arm settled lazily on the chair's back.

"An' I never mind helping a fellow enterprising lady with some burgeoning problem." Lots of big fancy arse words from a woman that did not look like a lady at ALL. But it was easy to slip back into the noble routine when you were trying to impress someone. Mercy hadn't felt that need in a long time, but this was an exception worth making.

"What can Mercy do for ya?" Then a smirk. "And what can Madam Hesse do for Mercy?"

Since she talked about mutual assistance.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Mercy ​

Ah.

He and she'd make fast, actual friends with puns like that.

Malcoma smiled despite herself. She listened until the questions came. What could Mercy do for her? "She can show a John a little respect, so she," one of Malcoma's hands fluttered to her chest, indicating that this she meant herself, "doesn't have to break a nail." She held up her other hand to show off her dark red, almond manicure, hopefully making the distinction even clearer. Yes, they were songsteel, but they hurt worse to break than natural keratin.

And what about vice versa? Malcoma leaned forward to her chair. "You already named a price, Ms. Mercy. But if you mean to see about a less material bonus..." She paused to stand, pushing off her thighs and stretching her back to straight real slow. "Well, perhaps you can earn it."

 

[Mercy]

Malcoma Hesse

Bemused expression there.

"I never saw the sense in having long nails, but..." One look at the songsteel attachments and she was reevaluating some of her preconceptions. It would make a pretty good attack vector. But... taking them on and off all day would be annoying. "...guess ya making them work. I will make sure them lil' pieces of art remain intact, darling, worry not."

Mercy blinked when Malcoma rose up and floated that particular offer.

Made her mouth dry. It also made her amused at herself. As if she was some fethin' teenager impressed by every skirt in town. It was one thing to identify how silly it was, entirely other thing to actually push it off however.

"Well, madam, I will jus' have to make sure to leave ya entirely sated, dun' I?"

With that Mercy rose too and tilted her head one way, then the other, setting tendons and stretching bones to crack. "So, where do we begin, cus' I am sure ya got a location for me an' are ya gonna be following me closely? To... evaluate my performance?" A grin now. Dryness gone, Mercy was getting into the swing of it.

One thing to note?

There were no questions asked about what the John did wrong. She was entirely fine with beating the chit out of someone without asking any qualifying questions.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Mercy ​

Malcoma hummed assent. "I'll keep up," she assured. She was shockingly lithe on her feet even in high stiletto heels. "You do your thing. I'll only be there to, let's say supervise.

"I've been apprised that he is hiding out in District 3," she continued. "Waiting in the shadows for this to blow over, I expect, but you are going to ensure that doesn't happen. I don't care how you do it, only that you stop short of killing him." She wanted him to be able to spread the word that no one cheats the madam of Eve Escorts, if only just barely.

Quickly, Malcoma glanced Mercy up and down. "Is that going to pose me another problem?" She hoped not. It had already been a few weeks wrapped into a single day.

 

[Mercy]

Malcoma Hesse

District 3, huh?

Funny thing that. It was the district her own workshop was in. Of course, these places were positively huge, so Mercy doubted she ever accidentally rubbed elbows with the guy. But... it did mean she had a few more contacts to rely on. People she could tap for it. Which was markedly better than just being dropped on-site and be expected to figure things out from scratch.

"Sure, I can do that." Bemused expression when Malcoma offered a hint of concern about the man's fate. "Didn't realize yar were in the business of worrying about yar Johns, Hesse."

A shrug there.

"Believe it o' not, but not all mah contracts end with the other side dead."

Usually, yes, since people didn't hire Mercy for her sterling personality or shining smile. "If ya dun' need 'im dead, I will leave 'em to the inch o' his life, that good enough for ya?"

Mercy couldn't promise anything more than that. She knew herself well enough to know she'd most likely have to extract at least a pound of flesh.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Mercy ​

She crossed her arms across her chest and looked up at Mercy. No, Malcoma wasn't in that business, but another where tales meant everything. And dead men told none.

Unlike Mercy, Malcoma wasn't looking for reviews either solicited or not, and she surely hadn't asked.

Still, she didn't say that. Don't offend away the help, remember?

"I'm not being merciful," she began. Dear Force, that was disgusting. "Sometimes life is crueler than death. You can quote me on that, darling." She nodded. On the brink of dying sounded perfectly like what she needed. Something to put not the fear of the Force, but the fear of Madam Hesse, into a thick skull. "Yes, that'll do.

"His name's Centon Braste," Malcoma added, "and he's either human or near-." She had gotten embarrassingly little from him as she had been entertaining. Not the best look for the info broker.

 

[Mercy]

Malcoma Hesse

Mercy grinned at the pun.

"True, but by hiring me, yar definitely not being mercyless either." Deadpan and enjoying the wordplay. It was all silly jokes, of course. Nobody could ever accuse Mercy of being soft on her targets. Too hard maybe. Like they were toys instead of sentients with full lives. To Mercy... it didn't matter. Thankfully as a Sith she didn't need to have empathy.

"Oh, yeah, nah, yar right." Mercy nodded there thoughtfully. "If I snap all his bones an' make sure he can never walk again? Def gon' be more a pain in the arse to live than to just die."

That was the disturbing part maybe.

The large woman wasn't talking about it with relish or hesitation. Just... apathetic reflection. As if she had snapped so many legs in her time that it was simply not that interesting anymore.

"Oh, wow, a name an' the fact they are most likely a member of a species that be represented by the vast majority of Denon's population." Biting, sharp, but a grin plastered on her lips. It didn't seem to do much to cloud her attitude. The reason of which became clear only a moment later. "Since ya be payin' me by the hour, it dun' matter to me, sugar."

And then Mercy offered her arm to the madam.

"Shall we then... darling?"

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Mercy ​

Malcoma nibbled on the side of her tongue behind her perfect teeth.

If she had to choose one thing to be thankful to her slavers for, it would be the dentistry they had paid for: not how the doctors had done it, but that they had.

She stopped actively listening after the mercenary just continued the wordplay. It was a mercy, that, because she entirely missed being chastised for caring enough to share. What wasn't was how the intonation of a question and the offering out of an arm brought she back into reality.

Lovely, really.

Still, the madam linked her arm around Mercy's. "The sooner the better," she replied, wishing that she had brought Damris to Denon after all.

_____
​

The Moonfall District was actually disgusting, not just lowest-form-of-wit disgusting. "I expect you have eyes down here," she said to rather than asked Mercy as she stepped over the side of something sleeping—or dead. If she didn't have a plan, Malcoma was going to kill Wynter herself whenever saw him in person again; she wouldn't even mind breaking a nail.

 

[Mercy]

Malcoma Hesse

"Sure do." Mercy murmured calmly as they strode through the district. She didn't even notice the filth anymore. Automatically and with keen reflexes stepping over puddles of mud, or oil, or maybe dark alien blood.

"I live 'ere mahself."

Was that surprising?

On the one hand... not really. Her thuggish attitude, lack of manners and accent certainly put her squarely in this bracket. On the other hand... she was karking pristine otherwise. Finger nails clipped and neat. Hair slicked back. Smelled nice. Expensive rings and shades. There was nothing particularly blue collar about everything else around her.

She suddenly stopped walking.

Which probably would make Malcoma bump into her. "Careful, babe." Murmured softly over her shoulder. "These places... mm. Ya be a pretty target sadly."

Something told Mercy that Malcoma could defend herself however.

A moment later she started walking again. Whatever danger lurked receded and spurring her along again. Until they reached an unassuming building. "Dry-cleaners." Gesturing with her head towards it. "Bit of a neutral place, cus' even killers need their laundry done, eh? I am gonna go schmooze a bit an' see if we had any new arrivals lately."

She looked Malcoma up and down.

"Maybe wait 'ere an' have a smoke, huh? I dunno how talkative the folks gonna be with such a fancy lil' lady tagging along."

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

"Careful, babe. These places... mm. Ya be a pretty target sadly."

The Hapan kept tight-lipped that a maze of alleys just like this one used to be her home. The memories were still unsettling though temporally distant, enough to have driven her to the high life, trading one extreme for the other. No volume of alcohol could wash out the street smarts that she had picked up. In this way, there was no such thing as the past. There was only the present. So, yes, of course she could fight, but she could also blend in surprisingly well. After all, it wasn't about your appearance, not really; it was about your attitude, and Malcoma had plenty of that—not just uptight and easily annoyed but determined to survive and get her way while doing it.

But she wasn't one to turn down a smoke break. A madam had to have her vices too.

"Fine," she huffed instead, not sounded particularly put-out but rather physically staining as she swung her right leg up onto a nearby bench. She leaned over to take a durasteel pack of thin cigarras out of a shin garter hidden inside the lip of her boot. A lighter, stuck to the side, came loose with a slight magnetic clink. Soon after, Malcoma had a lit cigarra between her pointer and forefinger.

She waved the embered end towards Mercy. "Go on, be clever," she said just as dismissively before taking a long draw of smoke into her lungs.

She was long free, but one of the few things she could still not stand was being chastised. Even if she could, she would still let Mercy go into the dry cleaners herself; better to let the so-called professional she had just hired pull her own weight, or Malcoma would be out of both a John and a hired muscle's payment. She could explain away the first, but the second? If that happened and the Family caught wind...

Well, they might be breaking more than Malcoma's metal nails.

 

[Mercy]

Malcoma Hesse

Mercy was not aware of the effect she had on Hesse. She was barely aware of herself, much less others outside of her, especially if they were quietly wrapping-up their feelings in a bow and plotting for the future. Maybe that was a flaw of hers. Mercy wasn't sure. She kinda enjoyed the ignorance and not having to worry about other people's emotions.

"Oh, I am always clever, darling." responded instead with a smirk and a wink, before she disappeared into the building.

It took a few minutes.

Enough for Malcoma to finish off one cigarette and start another one.

About halfway through that second one? Mercy stomped out again. Grinning wildly and with a sandwich in hand. Where... the kark... did she get that sandwich?? It wasn't even a snack bar!

"Found the guy," By way of greeting. "-new lad showed up disheveled a few streets north. Put himself in an abandoned apartment and hasn't been out since."

Frown there however.

"Got himself a scatter-rifle and a defense droid though. So... it's gonna be interesting." Frown made way for a lazy grin again.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Mercy

It appeared that Mercy was clever after all. Just, a little too clever; Malcoma didn't even have time to finish her second cigarette in the time in took her to ascertain the information that they were after, and to grab a snack?

Weird priorities, but okay.

Malcoma sighed at the news. This was the last time she let a client sample her services before paying their fees upfront. "I'd better not have any more holes by the end of this..." she mused as she flicked her cigarette down onto the asphalt and stomped it out under the pointed toe of a stiletto. She started to walk past Mercy, but then stopped astride her, appraised her comically overstuffed sandwich, and reached out to pluck away a piece of salami. She folded the deli slice and slipped it against the inner side of her cheek like it was a piece of chew instead before continuing on her way. She glanced down, then up, the street for any hovercars before stepping off the curb and heading north. "I wouldn't mind that defense droid though."

Centon probably had bought it with money owed to her anyway.

They passed a few street signs before coming to the one Mercy had been tipped off to. Malcoma leaned against the pole with crossed arms. From this vantage point, she saw a particularly run-down apartment. Windows both up- and downstairs were boarded up. Plasma marks littered the rest of the exterior, suggesting a reason this property might have been abandoned in the first place: maybe it had be some kingpin's safehouse once upon a time that had gotten made by his rivals.

"That the place?" Malcoma asked, pointing. "I doubt he'll open the door if Mama comes knocking, so what's your play?"

 

[Mercy]

Malcoma Hesse

In fact, Mercy got herself a snack first and only after that began seeking out the information they needed.

Malcoma didn't need to know that however.

"Don't we do phrasing anymore?" She drawled cheekily when Malcoma started talking about holes, while quoting a famous animation show. "But dun' worry, lass, I will keep ya safe s'long as ya stick close by me." Just as flirty once Hesse grabbed a little piece of her sandwich. Mercy didn't mind that, sure she was hungry as feth, but she already downed one sandwich.

Something had told her her current employer wouldn't appreciate her showing up with two buns.

And eating them both in front of her.

"Hm?" She was kinda distracted with her sandwich while they were walking, but- "Uh... I guess I can try an' salvage da droid for ya. Gon' be extra tho, so hope ya ready to dig deep, babe."

It wouldn't be a big issue, but once you allowed your employers to start adding chit to the duty list mid-mission? Well, that would never stop, so you had to make sure you at least got paid extra for your additional expenses. She'd probably have to... tackle the droid somehow. Did she have any EMP 'nades on her?

Checking her pockets Mercy came out negative. Okay, so maybe not a little issue, maybe like a medium issue.

"Yeah, that's the schutta."

Mercy finished the last bite of the sandwich and cleaned her mouth off with the paper piece that wrapped the meal. "Hm? Oh, I wouldn't worry about da, he will open for me." She yawned and gestured to Malcoma. "Ya can sit 'ere an' smoke another cig or watch me work." Didn't stop to see which Malcoma would pick.

Instead she just stepped into the elevator and Malcoma would join or not.

She lit herself a cigarette either way.

If Malcoma did join however? "Gon' kick the door in, so I wouldn't stick too close now. I can tank a few shots, but I doubt ya pretty face can."

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Mercy

The madam knew exactly how everything that came out of her mouth would sound, including that under-her-breath innuendo. She was in the wrong business to stay blissfully ignorant of wordplay just as much as foreplay. Both could be used equally to accentuate her natural wiles, and to more easily gets her what she wanted while in turn giving a patron what they wanted.

Thus, she rarely censored herself. She was seeing a possible exception to be made here however.

"Why? Are you going to offer him some of—?" She looked over her shoulder and stopped talking when she noticed the sandwich she was about to refer to was gone. "Oh."

Like hell she was going to sit here twiddling her thumbs and getting lung cancer, not when Mercy was going to let her tag along and tackle her nerves more head-on this time. In the elevator, Malcoma folded her hands in front of her. "No," she agreed simply. "It's not a business write-off unfortunately." As their lift came to a stop, she turned towards Mercy. "But do take some care not to tank too many shots. I don't share blood with clients."

That was as close to a little compassion as Malcoma was willing to give out today.

 

[Mercy]

Malcoma Hesse

When the realization hit Malcoma Mercy tipped her head back in a barking laugh.

"Gotcha there, Hesse." More and more it didn't really sound like a conversation between an employer and an employee. Even a temporary one. But maybe that was to be expected with someone as irreverent and aggressive as Mercy. At the very least she was getting quick results. It hadn't taken her long at all to get the info needed to track down the fleeing john.

On a planet of billions?

That was some impressive chit.

Her brows furrowed at the warning Malcoma gave her. Bemused there. "Sure thing, ma'am. 'Sides, gotta look good for da reward ya promised me, right?" Eyebrows waggled there at her just above the black shades Mercy wore. The same ones that made it so difficult to gauge where her attention was at any given moment.

Once the lift arrived at its destination Mercy took point.

A glance one way past the corridor, then the other way, before moving left.

Right.

Right.

Left.

It was a certified grimy maze of derelict apartment buildings, but somehow Mercy was making her way through it without too much issue. Until she stopped in the middle of a door. She tilted her head, cracking, back and fro. Rolling her shoulders next. "Ya ready, madame?" Murmured quietly over her shoulder.

Almost intimately.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Mercy

"I did no such thing."

Malcoma also hated feeling backed into a corner, both physically and emotionally. She made a point of never promising anything, even to her girls. Especially not to them.

She shadowed Mercy down the halls, the ding of high heels on wood flooring likewise following—and preceding—her. As Mercy stepped directly in front of the door to Centon's hideout, Malcoma slid against the wall. She rose one foot to lean back on it. It looked like she might cross her arms as one snaked around her torso, but it retracted after reaching under her leather jacket with a golden holdout pistol. "On your pleasure," the madam replied, phrasing questionable once more, but tone muted and serious instead of sensual.

 

[Mercy]

Malcoma Hesse

"Uh huh." Mercy didn't sound very convinced or anything.

It didn't bother her either however.

At the very least she'd be paid. If Malcoma wanted her world rocked, she'd reach out, if she wanted to lose out? That would be entirely within the purview of her own choice.

She glanced back to another sultry one-liner from Malcoma. This time more muted and serious. "Ya really can't 'elp ya self, can ya?" A lazy grin there that glanced her up and down. Then? Mercy switched into gear. Malcoma would see the switch in a way that few others had. From flirty to murder as her eyes went dead and her muscles tensed.

First the flirt, then Mercy was whirling back towards the door, kicking it open in one hard thrust.

The Force pulsing inside of her and filling her with energy.

The door was ripped free from its reinforced durasteel hinges and caught the turret resting behind it in its 'face'. Its barrel dented meant it couldn't riddle them with holes anymore. Lucky break. Mercy did not wait or pause, instead she used the chaos in the wake of the door to march in. Her skin shimmering slightly with the Force.

Things escalated from there.

 

[Malcoma Hesse]

Mercy

The switch was unsettling. It rose goosebumps all over Malcoma's skin, as well as a shiver up her spine. Fortunately, the timing of that coincided with the breech, so when Malcoma flinched away from the doorway it would appear she had done only that. She didn't move any further when Mercy disappeared into the apartment, frozen rigid against the wall herself.

What a bad time for a Mafia associate to chicken out.

The madam blinked quickly through a dozen blinks, then leaned her head back against the wall. She listened for any noise inside apart from the crunching of Mercy's boots over durasteel shrapnel...

Her hearing honed instead to right of her temple: the quiet hiss of a levelling blaster barrel.

"Stay quiet, Madam Hesse," a woman's voice whispered to her, "and this will end easily."

Malcoma straightened up slowly. She heard some new commotion come from inside the apartment. Maybe Centon was making himself known. Maybe he had prepared another booby trap. Whatever it was, it was certainly masking any sound of Malcoma's movements.

The gunswoman reached out and wrapped a hand around Malcoma's upper arm, then yanked her close. The brunt of the blaster barrel in her ribs stopped her centimeters from running into a brunette's golden dress-clad chest. The women exchanged sarcastic, tight-lipped smiles—first Malcoma and then the other—before the last began leading away the first. They retraced one turn in the path Mercy had forged through the complex but then diverted and disappeared down another corridor.