The Spider and the Butterfly

[Reverance]

A solemn thing stood quietly in upward gaze, lonesome sight filled with the longevity of hate and rapture of blood. What once felt so burdened by armor and exoskeleton felt the slight breeze, making passing glance through the internal workings of a dying volcano. Purpose exuded from him like palpable power, acrid in taste and engulfing in nature. Though it was often the nature of his presence, to be so fixed upon a singular motivation without ever questioning the essence of it. Donned in street clothing much closer to what she might have recalled on their first entanglement on Annaj, absent the armor so dried in blood that it stood upright and solid, he looked out of sorts for being the former Wrath of the One Sith.

Long had his journey been to find this place. Being united with his son, whom was hidden from him since conception, was an unexpected kindness. Onley was something not entirely unlike his father. Determined, fixed, and confident. What he lacked only showed in foil upon his fathers armor in stripes of extremism and streaks of chaos. A man of showy display, indicative of his desire for the loudest of interaction, made him a beacon even in a world such as this. So mired in darkness, mired in the sinister ways of those who sought death, it could pale and quake in apprehension to even a mild gesture. But he wasn't here for such things, long gone from the tepid desires of world destruction for the purpose of conquest. He felt only the kinship of power and the desire to be overwhelmed by it.

To feel utter pain, to revel in it, there was nothing that could stand as equal. Latent hope rose within his breast as he once stepped from the field of blades, cracking open portal with sheer will power and insult, only to realize that his thirst would never be truly sated. The sins of his father would forever weight in ways unfathomable, immeasurable, and beyond even his comprehension. For he carried the Soul Saber, always in his mind and twisting what logic once resided within him and provided cogent direction. He was forever forsaken to bend to its will when it was present, which undoubtedly motivated him to leave it be. There would be no manifestation of insanity within the New City, not one entirely removed from his desires. And even then, he couldn't deny the imprint of its tenure on the forefront of his mind - like a voided impression of gray matter. Forever whispering.

But even among the phantom residue of a thousand souls, he would once more show resolve. If he would unravel beneath the silk of abstract and eternal webbing, it would be because he desired it. Not because of that blade.

His lone eye cast in direction towards the highest towers of the New City. Society formed in layers and just like any other city, the superior rose to the top. If his memory of her abode on Annaj or where she claimed shelter on Coruscant was any indication, that would be where she would reside. And if he couldn't find her through simple tracking of her presence, he would resort to the sort of violence he was brought here to quell.

~~~​

"You need a passkey or fingerprint for the higher level access." The bouncer stood at the base floor, towering over Reverance with lofty appeal. As if standing tall meant anything. "Is that so?" Reverance looked towards the handplate and approached. As his blackened fingers filled the indent, the sensor began reading before alarming and denying access.

"Looks like you're not on the list!" The bouncer guffawed, arms as thick as logs crossing over his broad chest.

"Are you?"

~~~​

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The door slid open, the interior far more elegant than the surrounding area. The New City was a motley of varying architectural styles, one rivaling the next. As Reverance stepped in, the sound of elevator music mixed with the wails of the bouncer as he slowly faded in and out of consciousness. Just as the door was closing, Reverance tossed the severed hand back through the slot with a particular expression of satisfaction painting his tanned countenance.

[member="Matsu Xiangu"] | [member="Irajah Ven"]​

 

[Kuzo]

The Black Feather​

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The proprietors of The Black Feather liked to claim that the interior had been recreated from a lost evening club, buried for centuries in the depths of the Coruscant Underworld. An Empire from ages past, a period of wealthy sybarites, it was a safe, carefully cultivated form of 'slumming' it for the elite. Outside the darkness creeped, but within, high quality alcohol flowed freely. ​

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​"I don't think the owners have ever even been to the Coruscant Underworld," Irajah leaned over, whispering in [member="Matsu Xiangu"]'s ear. A sly grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

If it was a recreation of anything (which Irajah doubted), it certainly wasn't anything that had ever existed in the bowels of that cityscape.

The pair sprawled languidly on a circular leather couch in the far corner of the main room. Though the nook was meant to easily seat a party of a dozen, the two women were left largely alone. Occasionally drinks were sent over for one, the other, or both- depending on what the sender was hoping to accomplish.

A tall stemmed glass was set before Matsu by one of the neatly clad waiters. He bowed, indicated the gentleman at the end of the bar who had sent it, and backed away. Honey golden liquid waited, tiny threads of crimson, almost too slender to see, floating here and there in the glass.

"Oh. My turn," Irajah murmured, sitting back. She looked across the crowded room to the man in question who was clearly waiting to meet Matsu's eye after the delivery of his drink.

"That one. Hmm. The sixth son of a landed noble from..... Velusia. His grandmother made her fortune at piracy, and purchased the dukedom. Now, though, he is to get none of the estate. Unless he can convince you to help him by murdering his older brothers and taking his sister into your bed so she will forget, forever, the desire to rule."

They had been playing the game for the last hour. Taking turns creating histories and motivations for the drinks sent their way. So far, the clear and unabashed laughter from Irajah, and the sly smirking of Matsu, had been enough that none of their potential suitors felt welcome enough to find out how their gestures had truly been taken.

Which was so much for the better.

[member="Reverance"]​

 

[Matsu Xiangu]

To those who knew Matsu only from the One Sith’s battlefields or as the quiet woman walking the halls of her Unit, it might be hard to imagine her enjoying something like this. Truth be told she rather enjoyed the occasional night out, especially with the right company.

She laughed, a sardonic sound, when yet another drink was placed before them. Foolish. Brave. All these men and women were a little bit of both. The wrong company to be sure. Really, one had to question almost anyone that went to this place for anything besides the curious people-watching that brought the pair of women lounging at their private table. To Matsu’s mind those milling about The Black Feather were even worse that the unrepentant criminals and junkies roaming Maena’s lower levels - men and women seeking the thrill of a more dangerous life but too cowardly to commit, hiding in a club meant to simulate the feeling with just the hint of safety as its insides didn’t match the shell in which it rested.

Even still, it had proven relaxing in its own way, a nice way to put aside her quiet control of Maena for just a while.

“The sixth son? That’s a lot of collateral,” she responded as if the situation wasn’t fabricated.

And there had been so much going on in regards to Maena as her control grew stronger, resistance being one of the natural consequences of said regime. It seemed things with the strange murders out in the Slums were at least temporarily squashed though it was a label she affixed only out of sensibility - she’d asked for Him for a reason. There would be no more of those murders.

At first she thought she felt him in the Force because she was thinking of him, the only sort of illusion that was really capable of fooling her anymore. But it got stronger. And stronger. Her gaze flicked over the room, following thread slowly until…

…there.

The change in her body language, as usual, was barely perceptible. She sat up a little straighter. The metal hand curled around the drink she actually wanted tightened just slightly. Her pupils widened. But otherwise she didn’t look as if she was seeing someone who, despite their freedom and the wide individualism of their paths, had managed to carve himself in to her stone.

Looking towards Irajah, she nodded her head in Reverance’s direction as he entered the room at large, continuing their game though she changed the rules as he had not sent anything their way. “What about that one?” she asked, turning her gaze back to the man in question. “What do you think his story is?”

[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Reverance"]​

 

[Reverance]

The elevator rattled as the repuslor sent it upwards, given to feelings of some luxurious coffin fixated upon ascent. He looked quietly out, adorned by the sound of soft music overhead, as the city shrunk within view. Mind wondered to thoughts of death, thoughts of a life unraveling before blind eyes just as the the light fades away. To someone who passes in this place, it would be the last view they would see. That would be disappointing.

The coffin moaned and wheezed as it came to a slow and agonizing stop. Slowly opening the maw of its mouth, he stepped through the portal between the world below and the posh and elegance that rose above, towering in columns of steel and glass and electrum. Instantly, nose was filled with scents of oils and heady liquors and the sort of varnish that was nearly offensive. The place felt of facilities once held by the Coruscant Rotary Club, demure and refinement skimming the top layer of an otherwise corrupt and antagonistic entity. After all, even before he stepped into the elevator, he could sense her presence. And if she was present, the corruption was just nearing the point of being ripe.

He wasn't wearing his typical outfit. In all respects, it was a humble showing of black slacks and a black jacket with a raised collar. Not truly wearing a suit or even resembling business casual, he immediately stood out as the men at the bar stared him down. Face torn by actions of a past, haggard from the sun and effort, he was a warning for the consequences of time and conquest and the darkside. He let out a smirk in response, the sort a God might proffer before stepping on ant hill and filling it with molten steel.

Just to see what shape it forms.

"I...uhh...think you are lost." The first spoke out as the bartender watched, wiping down the enamel of the bartop. Reverance lingered on the sight, feeling like it was several layers too thick and chipping on the bend.

"Yes, perhaps you are right." He stated as he pulled up a stool and sat next to the man, hands lifted to the top and fingers clicking.

"No, I think you misunderstand..." The man placed a hand on Rev's forearm, grip tightening. "You need to relocate."

"Relocate..." The mans eyes looked towards Reverance, who was staring at the assortment of liquors. "Locate..." The mans eyes locked down the arm he was grabbing, realizing that the hand was jet black with nails that were sharp and discolored. "Dislocate." Reverance slipped his hand quickly out from the grip and it came down quickly, grabbing the offending wrist. With a sharp twist inward, the wrist silently cracked.

The man let out a whimper, obviously attempting to impress somebody. His eyes darted to the corner where Matsu and her friend sat. Reverance followed his sight, catching the two sitting, before turning his view back to the keep. "I'd like to order something. Can I order something?"

"Sure. Of course." The keep smiled as he slid the man a datapad that showed the menu. Lifting it up, he looked to his right as the figure still sat that, nursing his injury. With a look, the man realized his position and removed himself from the bar. Reverance smiled and pressed his finger against the datapad. "Ralltiir Runner...where do you get the oranges for this drink?"

"I think...Mandalore. Well, we did. I don't know now."

"That's fine. I'll have that."

[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Matsu Xiangu"]​

 

[Kuzo]

[media]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myKiQQvVYhs[/media]​

Irajah was in that comfortable, warm place that she prefered when indulging. Not intoxicated, but not sober either. Just enough to smooth the edges and buoy the experiences. That place of heightened awareness but every so slightly slowed responses. The quality of her laughter, the slight heaviness in her eyes when she glanced sideways over at [member="Matsu Xiangu"], the languid way she sprawled beside the other woman all spoke volumes. There was a comfort, a familiarity that could not be mistaken and that she made no attempt to hide.

She arched an eyebrow, however, when her friend suddenly changed their game. Not that she had any problem with that, on it's own. But it was an unexpected flicker of something Irajah hadn't seen before- it was subtle, easy to miss, and unfamiliar enough that it caught her attention but left her utterly unenlightened.

So it was with a certain unease- not of fear but of an unrecognized something- that the dark haired woman turned hazel eyes on the man indicated.

Despite Matsu's casual tone, there was nothing casual in the way Irajah regarded [member="Reverance"] in that moment.

Something beyond one small detail of the game had changed. She simply didn't know what that was yet.

"Warrior," she said quietly, the tone careful rather than the playful of before. "Wanderer."

"Looking for someone. Not a someone in general, but a someone in particular. Something about him is..... almost familiar. Not him. But..... "

Why had she said that? He had done nothing to indicate such a thing. His focus on the bottles and the bar.

The scene played out, clearly visible from their table, both women watching. Not that either of them moved to intervene in any fashion. Neither of them particularly cared. There was a time she would have- would have gotten up, not to stop him, but to check on the man cringing away with crabbed and mangled hand. A lot had changed. If she wasn't working or concerned with the safety of one of *her* people, well, she had bigger things to occupy her time and attention. Especially now that she better understood the why of doing it.

Irajah had made her peace with the realization that she was not, as she had long thought, a particularly good person. That certain, helping people could feel good, and that was ultimately why she had acted as she had. Somehow, staring death down made keeping those illusions particularly unnecessary. Now, if she wanted to feel good?

She had other ways of accomplishing it.

Irajah didn't look at Matsu, so could not see whatever expression might peek out from the other's usually carefully controlled features. When the one eyed man glanced over at their table, he would find them both watching him. Matsu, her fashion her own. And Irajah, with a certain thoughtful curiosity.

With anyone else but Matsu, she would have kept the following observation to herself. But she held very little back, when it came to her.

"He reminds me of my mother," she said simply.

There was nothing, in truth, simple about the statement.

To someone else, it would have been innocuous. Or perhaps strange, depending. But Matsu knew. Knew how Irajah used to dream of a certain place, a certain people. How her mother would listen to the dreams, and 'make up' names for people, for places, for things. The game they played spanning her childhood until her father had demanded a stop to it. Even then, mother and daughter simply stopped speaking of it in front of him, finding moments of shared explanations as if the words were merely part of some shared story. Never once, did her mother imply that her dreams were anything but that. So she had supplied words, and the child had clapped, delighted, repeating them slowly and carefully.

The dark haired child danced excitedly around her mother's feet. Barely five years old, she chattered away, explaining the dream she'd had last night.

"-And it's like a snake, mama, but smart. And the warriors carry them and they are friends. But they BITE people they don't like! And they talk! A little. But not in words. In sounds."

Her mother laughed, crouching down to hug her daughter. Cupping her face gently with both hands, she whispered.

"Should we give them a name, Irajah? Like all of the other things?"

The girl nodded, eyes suddenly wide and solemn. Mama always knew what the things in her dreams should be called.

"They should be called amphistaffs. ​Can you say that?"

"Am-fi-staffs," Irajah repeated dutifully. "That's a funny word mama."

Amphistaff.

Yun-Ne'Shel.

Yorik Coral.

Thousands of others. She knew all of the words. All offered as story, as game. Her mother never once revealing who she was in truth. And it was not until long after her death that Irajah had discovered that these things were not a game. Not a dream. Or that final word, the one that brought everything else together.

Yuuzhan Vong.

So when she said that he reminded her of her mother, Matsu could not mistake just what she meant.

Irajah watched him, and did nothing to hide it.