Character
| Location | Gorse, Inner Rim Territories
The Galaxy was a large place.
Millions of planets occupied what was considered 'known space', a questionable term given the mass-scale distortion of the hyperlanes during what was now commonly known as the Planeshift. With over twenty-five thousand years of calculations and carefully considered alterations rendered useless in the matter of months, though, even then, people had adapted remarkably quickly to the disruptions that followed. People adapted—they always did. It didn't matter whether the Galaxy decided to flip the board in a matter of hours or took centuries; as long as there remained an ember of civilisation to breach the darkness of the unknown, whatever maddening configuration could be handled.
Yet people enjoyed the comfort of familiarity. It took a special mindset to sacrifice the familiarity of everything one knew in favour of the boundless potential of the void—a trailblazer, a pathfinder, an explorer. In a Galaxy where travelling to another sector was just as possible as a short journey to the next country over, it was sometimes difficult to fathom what it really took to explore beyond the regions of known space, into the appropriately named unknown regions.
His target certainly wasn't the type—if they were, maybe they would have escaped all this nasty business.
There was an old saying: "Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide."
In truth, Itzhal found it a quaint saying more appropriate for serial television shows and the rare planet with civilisations that had either never achieved or forgotten the knowledge of spaceflight. It certainly didn't fit the full breadth of a Galaxy. Not if your target knew the right people or the right places to hide and were willing to keep their head down, it was surprising just how many people failed at that last hurdle. His target hadn't even gotten that far.
They should have run further than the border.
Ahead of him, the door to the local tavern opened with a stuttered hiss of expanding gases shaded orange under the neon light of "The Last Regards". Rough-hewn wooden tables were scattered unevenly across the floor—placed between uplifted plating and partially exposed cables—, each table occupied by a mix of weary travellers and locals sharing stories or drowning sorrows. Old lighting rigs attached to the ceiling and left to hang on tarnished iron chains cast flickering shadows over the patrons and their fine establishment. The walls adorned with faded flimsicast and an assortment of mismatched memorabilia, whispered tales of laughter and loss, a fond memory highlighted or a bitter sadness shrouded in shadow, depending on the shift of the light.
Bathed in the stark, keen illumination filtering through the doorway, Itzhal lingered at the threshold, a silhouette of calm confidence. His arms hung loosely at his sides, fingertips resting lightly against the worn metal brace of his belt and the leather holsters that extended down to his thighs, the holsters of either pistol just barely peeking out from where they lingered in wait for the call of duty. Behind him, the heavy door clicked shut.
In the dim, smoky haze of the room, his Buy'ce shifted to scan the room, analysing the patrons and subtle movements around him as their own reflections were caught in the shimmering surface of his infamous T-Shaped visor.
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