Private Shingaling

[Mercy]

TATOOINE - MOS EISLEY
Lethe Harrow​

These were the kind of jobs that Mercy lived for.

Straightforward, violent, paid well.

Sure, it would be a complete schutta to breach the palace, but once that little hang-up was fixed. Well. Then they could start cracking skulls and that was where Mercy was in her element. At this point she wasn't really sure how they would get in however. It was kind of annoying, really. These moments Mercy wished she had a device that let her walk through walls or teleport inside of complexes. The woman was good at beating things, but less good at figuring out how to make these sort of plans happen.

Presumably this is why it was a two-sentient job.

Mercy the tank that could roll over any opposition.

And... whoever the second person was to actually get them inside. Or maybe their employer didn't really know how many people they actually needed, so they decided to over-hire. Always a possibility. It didn't bother Mercy none. As long as she got paid the big chunk of cash she'd be happy. Hell, maybe an accident happened and she'd be the only one walking away from the job... maybe it would be possible to get both rewards at the same time.

Things to consider.

For now however, she was supposed to sit in the waiting room, wait for her partner and then wait for their employer to call them in.

Gonna die waiting here.

She strode into the waiting room, sat down (the chair whined under the sudden weight) and picked up a magazine.

This could take a while.

 

[Lethe Harrow]

On a planet cursed to revolve around two suns, you had to figure it was unreasonable to drag someone out of bed before either of them had made an appearance in the sky. And yet, with a head still contending with the rumblings of last night’s hangover, Lethe Harrow found herself stalking the dark, lifeless streets of Mos Eisley all the same. Ever the slave to the siren call of credits. Or perhaps just the opportunity to break up the monotony of a planet that was otherwise just an endless vista of golden sand and piercing blue. All one big tragically idyllic deathscape.

And people wondered why crime thrived in such places.

“Miss Harrow! Oh, Miss Harrow!” A voice called as she neared the rendezvous point the message had indicated. A squat, over haired Aqualish stepping out of the shadows a second later to usher her inside an equally squat looking domicile. His eyes alight with an unbridled sense of excitement, one unperturbed by the death laden glare levelled at him by the sleep deprived Tapani following in his wake. “So glad for you to make it, my dear!”

“ - And Miss Mercy , as well!” He slapped his hands together as they entered, doffing a bow of all things towards the redhead. “Why, such august company I find occasion to be in! What a day, what a day!”

The death stare wavered, if only for a fraction of a heartbeat, as Lethe’s gaze shifted towards the other mercenary already occupying the room. Twelve pints of muscle somehow stuffed into a six pint glass. At least that narrowed down her role in the operation. She stole a seat opposite the bruiser, back against the wall. Tactical advantage be damned, the reassuring cool - Tacticool? - sandstone took the edge off the headache; the residual alcohol in her veins was drumming up in concert with their employer’s booming voice.

“My name is Inarek, as you may know!” He was like a wind up toy now. Animated and jerky. Clearly finding an immeasurable amount of joy in his work. “I will not bore you with my particulars, but suffice to say… I work for our mutual employer. A brilliant, brilliant man, I must say - and dare I say, find myself doing so at every opportunity! Haha!”

There was a soft plunk as her head hit the back of the sandstone.

“Ahem, of course! Our employer has seen the wisdom in providing two such upstanding, obviously lovely young ladies such as yourselves with a job… A job, which, if you pardon the colloquial crassness…” There was a whuffle of air from somewhere beneath the mange-riddled wookiee the Aqualish had adopted as a mustache. “Hotter than two womp rats karking in a wool sock under a double noon. Why, so hot I had to check my ears for second degree burns just from hearing it uttered aloud!”

Another soft plunk, followed closely by another. Third, fourth and fifth soon after. Rhythmically satisfying, though not as much as the concern deepening the Aqualish's features at every beat.

“...Ahem,” Inarek cleared his throat again, causing the mustache to vibrate alarmingly. His hands reaching in his pockets, lightly at first but quickly becoming frantic as he tried to carry the one sided conversation even further. “The details of which…. The details of which… Well, bugger. I don't suppose either of you ladies has seen my holoprojector by any chance?”

The plunk’ing stopped to let a drawn out sigh fill the vacuous silence that ensued.

 

[Mercy]

Lethe Harrow

Her attention bounced like a pinball between two things.

The increasingly nervous Aqualish and the other woman doing her utmost best to dig a hole in her own head.

It was a bad day when Mercy was forced to be the diplomatic talkative sort, wasn't it? Something about the Netherworld freezing over, banthas flying, womp rats... in a wool sock, she supposed. But the payday was far too good to get up and get out of here. Sometimes you just had to accept certain indignities, if the paycheck was large enough.

This was a reality that Mercy still had to contend with herself.

"Holo...projector." She shifted in her seat and realized something. Rising up she looked down to her seat and realized something- "Is this what you are talking about, lad?" As if Inarek wasn't several decades older than her.

Something about consistently being the largest figure in the room helped with her ego.

In her oversized meaty paw was a crumbled and broke holoprojector.

If the Aqualish's expression could sink anymore, it would presumably be buried under the sand by now. "Sorry about tha. I dun' mean to make things difficult for you." Mercy rumbled as she passed over the broken projector and dropped back down on her seat. "No, no, it is... um. Okay. I will go... and... find another projector, I suppose. So I can lead you through my plan. Yes! Be right back, ladies, please make yourself comfortable in the meantime."

Before either one of them could say another word the alien already rushed out of the room.

"R...ight." Shades tracked the movement before shrugging and fixing her attention back on the magazine. "So, do you usually try an' dig a hole in yar head before a job, or should I feel special for this occasion?"

 

[Lethe Harrow]

Mercy​

Well, kark, there must have been a circus out there missing a talking gundark attraction.

There was a furrowing of brows as the meat mountain broke in. Quite literally, it seemed, judging from the broken remains of the holoprojector stuffed in that hamhock of a fist. An unwelcome development, but hardly surprising. The fact that It could speak, however, and in polysyllabic sentences, no less…

Next she would be expected to believe it was actually reading that magazine.

Still…

Her vertebrae gave a satisfying pop as she stretched, the wall acting as a guide for both the organic and the artificial, pressing them into a more comfortable sense of alignment as she straightened up a little. For the first time since she’d made planetfall, there was a spark of interest in the otherwise bleary eyes of Lethe Harrow. Priding herself on being able to take a being’s measure at a glance, it was rare indeed that she found herself needing to take a second glance.

Perhaps there was more to the mercenary than the obvious brawn It brought to the table.

“Only when I’m forced to deal with rank amateurs, darling.” Lethe proffered with a razor slash of a smile. The kind that was quick, efficient and uncomfortable in the memory of the sensation it inspired. The clearly moneyed accent that accompanied it only further serving as a stark contrast to the squalor of their surroundings. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll learn what that feels like one day.”

She inclined her head towards the magazine.

“But don't let me distract you from your reading. Let me know if you need any help sounding out the words. I'm sure...”

Her gaze flickered towards the title. The brow furrowing some more.

"... Miniature Tauntaun Breeders Monthly... can prove quite the challenging read for some, yes?"

 

[Mercy]

Lethe Harrow

See, that first one could mean about a dozen things and didn't have to be a direct insult.

Even still old Mercy would have clocked her for it anyway. The trees changed that. There was something about running through a forest that was trying to eat you that made you more... humble wasn't the right word. Careful wasn't it either. Perhaps introspective could be it, but 'more introspective' for someone like Mercy barely hit the baseline for most normal sentients, so how much it meant... the jury was out on it.

Lethe kept talking though.

And as she did, the magazine lowered and lowered. The expression behind the shades darkened, but that was difficult to see. Finally Lethe stopped talking and all this time Mercy remained silent.

She put the magazine down. It was silent. She rolled her shoulders and shifted her head. It was silent except for the cracking of bones and the whine from the chair underneath her. She leaned back in the chair. It was silent for only a moment longer.

"I usually make mouthy kids eat my boots, but..." A yawn there. "You talk so much shite I wouldn't want any of it on my footwear." The barest hint of High Tionese entering her accent for a brief moment. It was the only hint that Mercy was furious. Easily missed however, since Lethe had no idea what her usual chatter sounded like, but it would be odd nonetheless.

Far too posh for a stack of meat like this.

"So, I will give you one shot at a great apology, or the next hole made is gonna be through that wall with your head. Do you need me to translate that in High Tapani or do you prefer your lessons in Thick Coruscanti Finish?"

Head tilted forward and a glitter of golden orbs past the shades perching lazily on her nose.

 

[Lethe Harrow]

Mercy​

Ah, so there was an intellect behind those shades. And a fire, too. Far more than even the redhair would suggest. Both traits indicated that there were an increasingly limited number of ways the next few minutes or so didn’t end with one, or both, of them raw and bloody. A sane person, someone with an eye to the vast difference in their respective builds, would have seen fit to swallow their pride, offer the apology and focused on the job waiting for them in the other room. A more cavalier person, on the other hand, might have attempted to brush it aside altogether. Played it off with some mock bravado, perhaps made a joke of the entire encounter.

That, she knew, would have been the very Tapani thing to do.

Trouble was, Lethe enjoyed playing with fire.

Edging her hand towards an exposed flame, daring it to burn her. Consume her. That rush of danger, that momentary split second of adrenaline spiked as the fire took hold… It was only in moments like that, now more than ever, that she felt truly alive.

No, the meat slab might have wanted an apology, but all Lethe really wanted was a cigarette.

It seemed only one of them would be coming away content.

“I’m sorry,” She apologised. The lighter clicked, ashes flared and a trail of smoke not unlike the one Inarek would be walking back into bloomed between them. “I tuned out somewhere around the time you were having to feed your children your boots or something like that. Whole thing sounded incredibly tragic.

One more time, perhaps?”

 

[Mercy]

Lethe Harrow

After the initial apology Mercy was about to relax.

About to.

Then she kept talking, of course.

Before her fight with Sam Rodarch she would have immediately charged here. Damned the consequences. But this schutta was so thin and miserly... yet her mouth was several times bigger than her frame supported. Three options were immediately available here. The one that Mercy was hoping for, where Lethe was certified suicidal and was trying her best to Suicide by Mercy.

It probably wasn't that.

Another option was her being a Sith Lord (or adjacent). Could be. Her presence in the Force was a crapshoot. Mercy couldn't sense her way out of a paper bag, but even she could feel that Something Was Wrong there. Like scratched out painting due in some Avant Garde magazine. There, present, but nobody had a clue what was going on and yet they'd pretend otherwise.

So maybe, could be.

The third one... cybernetics. Exactly the same chit that she had to deal with during her duel with Sam. That was the main one, why she didn't immediately charge in, close the distance and utilize her size advantage.

Oh, Mercy could handle her throat getting crushed again, but how the feth would she explain all the blood to the Aqualish without her mouth functioning? It would explain Lethe's confidence and the way she just laid out in wait. Smirking at her (not physically, but in those words) and prancing around with the cigarette.

"Ahhh, I guess some people really need to feel it on their own skin, before they get smart." Sure as feth had been the case for Mercy herself. In her case it had been getting her arse kicked by Darkside-fed 'hungry for meat' trees.

"Catch."

The only warning before a surge in the Force pulsed out from Mercy and the cupboard with magazines launched itself towards Lethe.

Nerfherders and You: How To Catch Yourself a Farmboy with Acres of Land loomed large in Lethe's eye.

 

[Lethe Harrow]

Mercy​

She'd expected a fist.

Anticipated it, really.

Well, in the spirit of absolute honesty, what she had actually anticipated was the mountain to be as dumb as the stack of rocks it oh so readily resembled, but life was full of disappointments. The third time she’d underestimated the woman in as many minutes. An above average basic intellect, firey force user.

Three surprises. Three unwelcome turn of events.

The fourth, a cupboard of all things, shattered into kindling. The cheap wood failing to withstand the impact against the weathered section of stone Lethe’s head had only just vacated a split second before. A shower of splinters and dry, dusty magazine pages spraying out in her wake as she half-rolled, half fell out of her chair, shoulder leading the charge to bring her in a low crouch just beyond the rim of the table.

Surprise coloured the adrenaline flooding her veins. The momentary disconnect that this… Human shaped Thing could utilise the force enough to lose the initiative. Her training kicked in where the brain failed. Unbidden muscle memory producing a blade in the midst of the sawdust carnage, the thin, unadorned throwing knife making a grand show of things as it appeared and vanished in quick succession. Delving deep beneath the edge of the table, seeking to bridge the divide between them by traversing a lower, less obvious trajectory than the cupboard had trail blazed scant heartbeats before.

Only then did she release the breath - almost half-choked on a lungful of smoke - she hadn’t realised she was holding. Her hair a veritable cascade of scraggly disarray, framing her hawkish face as she shot a baleful glance at the other woman.

“Temper, temper, darling.” She chastised with a refined air of practiced nonchalance, but in the midst of the cold chill there now dwelled an unmistakbly ugly note that belied a sudden shift. A tinge of…

Jealousy?​

Her hand tightened around the dagger until her knuckles popped. No, that couldn’t be right. Alethea Harrow, jealous, of what? Baby Oil McGinger? She knew, of course. Even as she rose and produced another dagger. She just didn’t want to hear the answer - even privately from her own subconscious. Instead she gave voice to another errant thought. One that would provide a distraction from the traitorous noise inside her augmented skull.

“That circus really lost a performer in you, hm?”

 

[Mercy]

Lethe Harrow

Anger and fury ran through her veins, but were immediately coiled up in the whirlwind of the Darkside surging within her.

Mercy felt alive.

Even the pain running through her body, as the first dagger hit home and ripped through her leg, was a joy to be had. It was no surprise then that when Lethe looked up? Mercy wasn't scowling, glum or threatening. No. There was a grin from ear to ear on her face. Showing off sharp white teeth and pure dark joy.

"I am going to rip your jaw off." Mercy drawled as she let her fingers gather up some of her own blood. Rubbing the liquid between her finger tips as a reminder. "And shove it down your throat... darling."

As darling hit the space between them the large woman kicked the table between them. Sending it hurling towards Lethe and somehow it had even more force behind it than the Force-assisted launch a moment ago. She didn't waste time with more witty retorts. No, focused, her eyes tracked Lethe's movements in response to the launched table.

A moment later?

There was Mercy to meet her.

She had no daggers in her hand, no blasters, just hands shaped like tree trunks that could and had ripped soft men in half. The bleeding gap in her leg didn't slow her down. Its pain was fueling her along and if Lethe was paying attention to it at all? She'd notice the blood already stopped seeping.

One meaty trunk raced towards Lethe's pretty pretty dumb face.

A feint however. Because while most would protect the leg that just had been wounded? Mercy used that assumption to kick hard into Lethe's knee.

 

[Lethe Harrow]

Mercy​

If the cupboard had been a surprise, the table was an expected obstacle. Better overcome now than later.

“If that is your idea of flirting,” Lethe quipped as she took a literal approach and dove across the top of the oncoming furniture, free hand using the surface as a springboard to clear the distance and meet the oncoming avalanche that was Mercy head on. Blood was in the air, and like a moth to the flame, she was heedless to the danger the source of such a heady intoxicant presented. “It could use some work.”

While her opinion of Mercy was, to put it bluntly, lower than the gutter the woman had clearly crawled out of, someone had gone to the trouble of instilling some degree of training within the walking landslide. Not many bruisers could use telekinesis after all. That realization alone gave the Tapani enough awareness to spot the feint for what it was, but even then it was almost a hairsbreadth too late. In a fair fight, perhaps it would have been.

But Lethe Harrow had never been in a fair fight, and she wasn’t about to start now.

With a frustrated noise generated in the back of that very same throat Mercy sought to violate, she clicked her molars twice in rapid succession. A discrete trigger that caused a world of pain as her spine seemed to thrum with an electrified response that saw the world shudder. Nerves alight and sizzling, a rush far beyond the confines of an adrenaline high surged through her veins. Colours became garishly vibrant, sounds dulled and dimmed, and the ache in her skull seemed to boom with each heartbeat. Moments lengthened. A split second became two.

As in all things, there would be a price to pay.

But in that moment, in that surge of ozone scented action, she was a storm of unbridled movement. A vicious and singleminded blur that ducked and wove into the oncoming attack, the dagger a silvery extension of her body as she sought to intercept and counterattack the kick with the point of the blade.

Assuming she was successful, she would then try to drag the weapon along for the ride in search of something more satisfying and artereal.

The woman had been gifted with a power she couldn’t understand, let alone begin to deserve.

For that injustice alone, and before her own price was due, Lethe would have an accounting.

And everything after that…

Well, that would serve as recompense for Inarek’s cardinal sin at waking her at such an atrocious hour.

 

[Mercy]

Lethe Harrow turned into a blur.

Mercy was strong.

Very strong.

Even without the Force at her call she was powerful enough to burst through any given obstacle. This sort of strength came with weaknesses however. In this case it was being slow as an oversized lazy bantha. The feint had been detected early and a moment later Lethe's knife jabbed into her leg. Mercy growled in bubbling pain that seeped her eyes from bright gold into a deeper crimson corruption.

There were those that turned off at the slightest hint of pain.

Sadly for Lethe she wasn't one of them. Even as that knife started cutting through her leg, she didn't do anything to try and save the torn muscles under her skin.

Because there was a little problem.

Just as Lethe's proximity allowed her to complete kark Mercy's leg? So too did that closeness give Mercy the opportunity to lash out and grab hold of Lethe. One big fist loomed wide as it descended towards Lethe's eye, while her nails dove deep to choke and cut her throat. "You're nothing," Mercy murmured with a calmness that almost seemed tender.

Like her leg wasn't being cut up. Like she wasn't ramming her fist as deep into Lethe's face as was allowed, while she tried to choke the Nether out of her.

"-and it's about time someone showed you that."

High Tionese on full display now.

 

[Lethe Harrow]

Mercy​

It should have come to no one's surprise that the animal masquerading as a sentient being was simply too dumb to know when to quit. What was that saying? No sense, no feeling? It seemed all she was doing was destroying a perfectly good set of pants.

Or improving them, depending on your point of view.

“But.... Hnnn... Darling, we haven’t…” Lethe choked out between the bloodstained teeth of a shit eating grin, eyes closing reflexively as thick sausage fingers wrapped around her neck and attempted to throttle her into submission. Tighter and tighter with each second. “...Even discussed safewords yet…”

She wasn’t sure if it was the meaty paw connecting (or detonating) with the right of her face or the one closing around her throat that threatened to push her consciousness away. Oxygen deprivation or blunt force trauma. Ahh… It would have been easy to have drifted off into the darkness. On some treacherous level, perhaps even preferable. Let the silence smother the noise. Exit stage right. One final goodbye. As potentially famous last words went, she would have liked to have gone out on something a touch more poignent and witty, but they were highly befitting the noble House Mecetti.

Words that…

You’re nothing.​

What? She twitched in Mercy’s grasp. Her hand reaching up to grasp at the woman’s wrist.

And it’s about time someone showed you that.​

It wasn’t her heart hammering in her ears that dragged her back from the brink, kicking and screaming in defiance. It was anger, pure and simple. Rage that this creature, this tionese baboon with a gym subscription, was looking down at her. Summoning all her strength, she planted her foot as hard as she could into the hilt of the knife. An augmented heel kick to drive the blade as deep as she could.

If the hand around her throat loosened even a fraction, she would attempt to thrust her thumbs into the one place the overgrown meathead couldn’t curl into muscular armoured perfection; those no doubt piggish, beady little eyes beneath the reflective shades.

 

[Mercy]

Lethe Harrow

A stifled growl escaped her lips as Lethe came back to life.

By her own words.

Not that Mercy realized this or she would have been amused at that. No, instead she just assumed that this Lethe was a stubborn little schutta that just refused to give up. Luckily two could play at that game. Her grip loosened ever so slightly and gave Lethe the desperate gasp of air that she so sorely needed.

Mostly because Mercy was too busy howling in pain at the way the knife embedded itself deep in her leg.

This pain fed into her power however. The Darkside positively thrumming within her veins even as Lethe moved to gauge her eyes out. She shifted her head, making it more difficult for her thumbs to find purchase beneath her shades. Even still, Lethe got a glimpse of infuriatingly beautiful golden disks specked with crimson anger. No beady pigs here, ma'am, apologies for your expectations. One of her thumbs finally found its mark and began the progress of inserting excruciating pain into Mercy's body.

Somehow this didn't get the expected result however.

Her fist coiled back and once again launched itself into Lethe's face, this time trying to crush her nose under her knuckles.

As her eye was turning to mush Lethe would hear a hoarse raw sound from her opponent. At first it seemed a whine, but then? As those large shoulders shook? She'd realize.

Mercy was laughing, a barking booming thing that shook her body and Lethe's alongside it.

"Did that anger you so, darling?" The creature named Mercy whispered warmly as the blood started to seep down her cheeks. "How sensitive... how tender." And the hand that wasn't bloody balled and trying to pummel Lethe's face curled around the hilt of the jammed dagger. Pulling it out with a swift jerk and...

Moved to stab Lethe in the side.

As tender as a faithful lover.

 

[Lethe Harrow]

Mercy​

Not for lack of trying, but it wasn’t going well.

If pain fed a monster like Mercy, it was pride and sheer bloody arrogance that kept one like Lethe hanging in despite the damage that was rapidly building up. Her left eye was a beaten and blooded mass by now. The heavy blows successively changing the shape of her face, hammering away at her vision until it dimmed and flickered away into a field of inverted white stars. It was fine. An eye for an eye was oddly poetic, and it would hardly be the first time she’d had to replace that particular visual organ.

The creature’s regeneration was the real issue.

She needed to slow it down. Bleed the schutta dry. The damage to the leg had been a good start, but iit clearly wasn’t enough. She needed something hotter, something fresh and preferably with a whole lot more pressure behind it.

Unfortunately, it was in that part of her deliberation, her dagger was so abruptly returned. Turning on its owner with all the vicious, reckless abandon that it had been previously employed.

The blade hesitated at first. The tip halting and deforming as it came into contact with her skin, or more accurately the micronised mesh that was subdermally implanted beneath it. Enough to turn the average weapon aside with a glancing hit, but there was hardly anything average about a weapon in a goliath like Mercy’s hands. Slowly but surely, the dagger began to wrend its way through what limited protection the mesh provided. Carving an excruciating red path into the soft tissue beyond.

She didn’t scream. Not really, anyway. The sound escaping her throat was more of a long, drawn out hiss of non-verbalised agony. And that didn’t count, right? If anything, that was akin to lodging a formal protest.

It didn’t count.

It was fine. Kidneys, like eyes, the Force had seen fit to provide her with a spare. No big deal. What did they really even do, anyway? Apart from radiate hot white pain when they were pierced by a slow blade. She wrapped her free hand around the woman’s treetrunk of a wrist, attempting in vain to stop the impossible, while another fresh nonverbal protest was lodged.

It didn’t count. ​

It didn’t count. ​

​

It didn’t count.​

The rage continued to simmer. Caught like a rabbit, there was no other recourse than to double down. While one hand was preoccupied with the blade, the other tightened within the ravaged eye socket. Thumb digging deeper into the orbital cavity as she sought a purchase. A hold to drag herself inexorably further into the giant woman’s embrace. Attempting to seek her teeth into the wide, pulsating wide open area on Mercy’s neck.

If she wanted tender, she’d get tender.

Rip and bloody tear tender.

 

[Mercy]

Lethe Harrow

At this point in time everything was pulsing.

The pain an ocean of heat and wet, like a bloody blanket, covering Mercy and perhaps Lethe too. It was more instinct than anything else that guided her for now with little surges of attention elsewhere. These sort of things had a way of being one of two things. Either a waiting game or a quick an' dirty affair that left one person standing.

This... was waiting, because Lethe refused to give in or give up.

She jabbed the knife deeper into her, trying to twist it just as Lethe tried to stop her. The pain in her head was magnifying and out of nowhere she felt a deep surge of heated agony against her neck.

A sound escaped her lips that was entirely unexpected here. "And now you know how I taste," Mercy sang with gritted teeth, before brutally ripping her head back. Out from her thumb in her ruined eye and her teeth sunk into her neck. It caused her to lose Lethe's dagger in her side. But Mercy was beyond such concerns.

Instead-

She rammed her head forward to smash Lethe's face in, before she could regroup and withdraw from that close proximity she had brought them both in.

In the meantime Mercy's arms twisted around the other woman's middle. And. Began. To squeeze.

"Just want a hug..." She sang further as her head moved to slam towards Lethe's face again. "...before you lose yourself in my arms."