Broken into pieces...[Isley]

[Devorah Verd]

The mirror in the bathroom was cracked. The gash on her temple could attest to how her head had been propelled into it at some speed.

Dark eyes were shot through with broken blood vessels, and they could only partially focus on the reflection. Today…today was bad. She’d upset him too much…she should have known better than to be late coming home from work. He had been waiting at his accustomed spot at the table, the space before him stark and empty of the dinner that should have been warm and prepared in time for his arrival.

There were just some days that she couldn’t get out of her own way. He couldn’t be faulted for disciplining her when she’d clearly made the mistake.

She flinched at the sound of his voice, soft and warm, threading through the air. Calling her to bed.

Gods, did she know better than to keep him waiting.

Hastily, she wiped the blood away from her skin, keeping a firm grip on the edge of the sink as dizziness threatened to send her toppling over. Maybe she’d hit the mirror harder than she thought. As if in response, the crack spidered out in several more directions. She clapped a hand over her mouth as it repeated the process again and again until it finally shattered apart.

“No….nononono….” fingers hastily tried to gather the pieces together, heedless of the cuts and scrapes they inflicted. So preoccupied with picking up the little pieces was she, that his footsteps eluded her, and she had no idea he was looming over her until his fist tightened painfully in her hair.

He was quiet…too quiet, and she felt the fear wreathing its way around her heart and holding it in a vice grip. It was always worse when he was quiet. He shook her until the glass shards fell to the floor from her hands, and then dragged her into the bedroom. She collapsed into a heap as he threw her onto the bed, struggling to catch her breath. Looking up at him, she shifted and backed up, backpedaling until she hit the headboard and could go no further.

“You broke my mirror, Devorah. Have I not always asked you to respect my things?” Rhys’ voice was deadly quiet, his motions slow and deliberate as he unfastened his belt.

“You-you have. I’m…I’m sorry, Rhys…it was an accident. I can have it replaced…I get paid tomorrow at the casino….” her voice emerged sounding frail and fearful.

“Oh, now you know that’s not good enough. If you hadn’t forced me to discipline you, this wouldn’t have happened, now would it.”

“N-no.”

“That’s right…” he reached for her ankle and slowly dragged her back down the bed, a decidedly sick gleam in his gaze. “…and we’re going to start with a new lesson this evening…”

His belt wrapped around her neck faster than she could scramble out of the way, giving him a way to control her tiny form with a single hand. Tears streaked down her cheeks, panic and bile rising in her throat as fear forced her to struggle and claw at the belt and even his hand until he pulled it tighter and she mercifully blacked out.

------------------------------------------------

When she woke, she had no idea what time it was. Rhys was passed out beside her, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. Her petite form slid out from beneath his arm, fingers removing the tatters of her clothing that remained. She slid into the bathroom, using the rags to pick up the glass and throw it away.

She was glad she couldn’t see her reflection just then. She hurt in places she didn’t want to think about, and had trouble breathing. The welt around her neck was so prominent she was going to have to choose her work outfit carefully.

There was one small mercy…the shower had hot water. She stood there under the scalding hot stream until her shivering stopped, and then she scrubbed and scrubbed until the water began to cool. No amount of hot water was going to help her feel clean. But it would have to be clean enough.

Once she’d dressed in a pair of soft leggings and a soft, fitted sweater, she pulled her boots on and slipped out of the apartment. Careful, quiet steps took her up to the building’s roof. While there was no sky this far down on the surface of Coruscant, she still curled up against a heating grate and pulled her knees into her chest.

Rocking back and forth, she closed her eyes and tried to remember what it was like to breathe without being in so much pain.

@[member="Darth Metus"]

 

[Darth Metus]

Underworld...

That was a fitting word to describe the steaming pile of poodoo that the Mandalorian now found himself wading through. The word was often used to describe a place of the dead and damned; a world unseen by the typical eyes of man. Such a word could not have fit the sordid underbelly of Coruscant better, for those who frequented the streets of the cesspool of filth were either damned, dead within, or dead in the gutter. To say the least, Isley Verd was not especially comfortable in this particular part of town, but the allure of a fresh heap of credits inspired many men to do things they were not comfortable with all the time. Isley was no different. Today, the prospect of adding one more body to the gutter in exchange for a pretty heap of coin was more than enough to bring him down, down, down into the shadow of Coruscant...

The target of this "daring" escapade was a dealer. Now, of course, when Isley had received this bounty and heard that he was seeking a dealer of drugs in the MOTHER of all drug dens, his eyebrows shot to the ceiling. The mission, at a glance, was much akin to seeking a single needle in a mountain of hay. However, the details provided by this bounty allowed the Mandalorian to breathe a sigh of relief; for finding the needle was as simple as following someone who had no business frequenting these streets. Apparently, one of the Senators had a certain craving for Spice and regularly sent an aide down in order to purchase from this particular dealer. However, one of the most recent batches of Spice had been tampered with and the dealer's head was on the chopping block; for angry wives had the affinity for getting even for a sick husband.

And so, the beskar-clad Mandalorian simply stood atop the rooftop of one of the apartment buildings, playing the infamous game of waiting. His form was laid out flat upon the roof, with a shiny new CZ-838 Sniper Rifle set upon a bipod before him. It had been far too long since he had played the role of a sniper, and to be perfectly honest...Isley enjoyed the kark out of it. There was a certain thrill that came from playing the role of Death itself, looming over a crowd of "innocents" with the finger upon the trigger. Whilst his eye stared through the scope, watching the crowds go by, he played with the idea of this...A couple walking by, blissfully in love. One pull and the romance came to an abrupt end. Oh! A family: two parents and a child, roaming hand in hand down the sidewalk.

One shot, and an orphan could be made.

Of course, the Mandalorian did not send any unnecessary lives to the afterlife, for that would just be playing right into the hand of the endless abyss which desired him so badly. The Dark Side of the Force had already corrupted him to the core, staining his very eyes and essence with its presence. It made him think the most evil of thoughts and act in the most...uncharacteristic ways. Isley was once a man of honor and pride, a man who would not stoop so low as to even consider extinguishing innocent lives for no reason. Yet, the Dark Side corrupts...Hard. Upon recognizing these thoughts for what they were, Isley gave his head a shake and resumed focus once more, diligently seeking out the rumored cloak of crimson that was to be the sign...and after a few minutes he found what he was looking for.

The Senator's Aide strode briskly along the sidewalk with her hood up and came to a halt beside a shady-looking Trandoshan...noticeably more shady than the rest of the crowd walking by. She deliberately faced him in such a way that exposed the scaly being's form to Isley's line of sight; and the moment his aim was true, the Mandalorian began to whistle. The tone was one that he had heard numerous times before, sang by his father Raki since the time of his birth. Apparently it was a lullaby that he had put together for all his children, legitimate or bastards, and made it a point of sending a holo-recording of him singing this song to all his "baby mama's" across the stars. Isley, however, did not take comfort in the tune...it simply reminded him of a man that he despised and steeled him for the kill.

With the lullaby echoing as a whistle from his lips...the Mandalorian pulled the trigger.

A perfectly silenced slug then erupted from the barrel of the rifle and soared through the air in the blink of an eye. It burrowed itself right into the temple of the dealer, causing a rather oozy splatter of brain, bone, and blood upon the wall behind him as it exited. The Senator's Aide could not help but scream, but Isley did not care in the slightest. A bounty was a bounty; perfectly legal and all, so he calmly rose to his feet and dusted his beskar'gam off. As he then turned upon the rooftop, the tune still playing as a whistle upon his lips, he saw a woman upon the rooftop adjacent to his own. She was curled up on top of a heating grate and seemed to have her own ocean of troubles, but seeing a "murder" would probably inspire her to freak the kark out.

So, Isley quickly jumped from his rooftop to hers and raised his hands in a non-threatening manner. The tune came to an abrupt end as he landed and he addressed her with a calm tone. "There is no need to be alarmed ma'am," he said softly, "just a bounty hunter doing his business...Are you...alright?"

@[member="Devorah Sains'Cyr"]

 

[Devorah Verd]

The melody threaded through the air on the current that seemed ever-present between buildings. It took her back as she huddled there and rocked herself back and forth. Back to a time when she had been but a tiny little wisp of a child, all of four years old, clinging to her mother’s hand.

Tiny legs struggled to match her mother’s pace and failed utterly at approaching the speed with which the woman worked her way through the thick street crowd. The shifts were changing over here in the factory district, which meant there were even more people than normal that made navigation inherently more difficult. Fear rose to engulf her tiny features, and made her cling even more tightly to her mother’s hand.

She was tired and she wanted desperately to be carried, knowing somehow that she’d be safer that way. But no matter how much she tugged and begged, her mother just dragged her along, and muttered. Mostly things the little girl didn’t understand. Cursing a man named Raki with a blistering series of words she wouldn’t know the meaning of for a few years yet.

Eventually the woman relented and picked the little girl up, yet still somehow managed to remain distant and frustrated with her. For her part, the little one knew to remain quiet and still. Even held, she still knew fear.

Tentative and slow, she rested her little head on her mother’s shoulder and sighed, the sound as tiny as anything. Absently, her mother began to hum, a soft lullaby the little girl knew note for note. She had only just started to hum along when her mother suddenly put her down.

Little eyes of dark chestnut blinked up in confusion, searching her mother’s face, not understanding the abrupt change. Her mother simply shook her head, muttering about a burden she had never wanted before melting into the crowd and leaving her alone.

The whistling had stopped, and at the same time, the footsteps began, approaching her tentatively. The memory let her go and Devorah shuddered something fierce in spite of the warmth from grate she was perched on. Blinking, she opened her chestnut eyes and looked up to find an armored form with hands held up as if to be unthreatening.

But she still reacted, scrambling back off the grate and sliding unceremoniously into the dim pool of light cast by the lone bulb dangling nearby. She shook her head and wrapped her arms around herself as she slowly stood up, feeling particularly tiny beside his tall frame. She flinched, gazing up at him, and gradually nodding.

“I’m fine…” she said, her voice raw and barely above a whisper. “…I didn’t…I didn’t see anything. I didn’t even know you were there until I heard you whistling…”

She swallowed hard and coughed, pain assaulting her senses for several moments. Devorah quickly masked it, straightening though she shifted from foot to foot with unease.

“…I know that melody...but…where did you learn it?”

 

[Darth Metus]

There were many things that could be hidden from the naked ehrough sleight of hand or simply stifling a cough, but hiding them from the Force was another matter entirely. The Mandalorian, being especially in tune with the ebb and flow of the enigmatic entity, could feel the pain reverberate from the woman before him. It characterized her every movement, as if a fresh wound had been inflicted upon her. Taking a cautious step forward, Isley then attempted to inspect her with a discreet look up and down; so discreet that he was certain it would evade her notice. He then contemplated the words to say in response to her question, for simply thinking on the origins of the song he had whistled took him back...way back...to the years of the past.

The day was a special occassion and the humble home of the Verd family was decorated with streamers. A modest stack of presents was laid in the corner, the fireplace roared beside them, and the entire family had gathered for this special day. Though she was not the woman who bore him, kicking and screaming, into this world, Isley's stepmother had pulled out all the stops for his Name Day; going so far as to bake him a cake decorated with the Mythosaur symbol and procuring him a special hat to wear. She was the only mother he knew, however, and treated him like her own; despite the fact that he was a reminder of her husband's infidelity. "Is'ika," she called, beckoning the young boy into the room, "come take a look at your cake!"

And come he did, rushing forth as fast as his little legs could carry him. His arms flung around her leg...and then the front door burst open. A man, tall, muscular, and smelling of various types of liquor and women stumbled into the living room. 'Twas Raki, his father. With a bottle of Corellian Whiskey in hand, he entered the dwelling with quite the commotion and sang a boisterous song into the air. "And whoooo, are youuuuu, the proud lord said, that IIIII must bow so looooooow?" he began, slumping into his "favorite" chair. He then continued to drink...and drink....and drink...

The Mandalorian shook himself from the memory, refusing to allow himself to dwell on that crummy day. Looking to the woman, he said simply: "My Old Man, Raki Verd, made that song up. Been humming, whistling, and singing the damn tune since I was a kid." he then took another step forward, allowing himself to look upon her closely. "And fret not, you don't have to worry about anything from me...but you are hurt, I can tell. What happened to you, miss?"

@[member="Devorah Sains'Cyr"]