Winds of Change [Ask]

[Asemir]

OOC:

Sigh, reposting...

Semi-open. If you're interested in joining, please PM me or post an OOC comment stating what role you'd like to play. The role of the Force-user being stalked has already been taken, but I don't have any specific plans for other characters, so if you're interested, just mention it and we can probably work something out.

IC:

He remembered Nar Shadda. How could he forget it? It stank like over-refined food stuffs and over ripe fruit. The odor of the unwashed masses and raw sewage permeated the air. The stench of corruption and human despair hung like a literal fog, smothering all that resided on the miserable rock billions called home. Included in those billions (or trillions?) were pirates, thugs, gangsters, slavers, slaves, cartels, gun-runners, Hutts, gamblers, scammers, predators, murderers, thieves, and so forth. And, there were unfortunate beings who were trying to etch a living in the unforgiving universe, innocent in all ways except for being born to such a miserable existence.

But it wasn’t these foul physical characteristics that made the planet unforgettable in his mind. Nar Shadda was where he had met her, that insane abomination of Sylarian and mental instability known as Fiona. It was on this planet that he had really fallen into the traps of the Dark Side, surrendering his morality and soul to the thrall of the one (formerly) known as Sivter.

And so, Nar Shadda wasn’t really a place that he remembered fondly, and he didn’t really have a desire to travel back to the accursed place. And yet, here he was, stepping off the shuttle and into the muggy Nar Shadda atmosphere.

Asemir Lor’kora handed his papers to the customs official, who was a customs official in name only. In reality, the portly man served one of the Hutt cartels and collected the “optional” fees and taxes (read bribes) that were little more than protection money, necessary to keep thugs from trailing visitors and roughing them up. The “immigration papers” (credits packed securely in an envelope) disappeared seamlessly into the custom official’s pocket as soon as it left Asemir’s hand. The Forgotten returned the man’s nod, shouldered his bag, and headed deeper into the spaceport.

It didn’t take long for Asemir to hail a cab and arrive at his booked hotel, called the Galaxy’s Star. It was some upscale gambling establishment located in the heart of the city. Gaudy fluorescent light panels greeted him as he paid his fare, and he was glad of his choice. The classiness of the hotel meant that the usual flock of vendors and beggars were kept far away by the bruisers. The ladies of the night, however, gathered around him, hoping to earn his business and no doubt steal his belongings after he had been knocked out for the night. He shoved them away, both physically and with gentle nudges of the Force, and worked his way into the hotel lobby.

“Good evening sir,” the Twi’lek receptionist greeted as Asemir stepped up to the front desk. “Are you checking in?”

“I am,” the Ingr’Nysk said politely. “’Orzos Isthill’ is the name.”

“One moment.” It took the receptionist no more than a heartbeat to find Asemir’s reservation. “There you are, Mr. Isthill. And how will you be paying for your stay with us?”

Asemir flashed an easy smile and placed two credit chits on the table. “The first will take care of the room reservation. There is more than enough to cover whatever expenses I might incur as well.” That was code for “Here’s a bribe so don’t disturb me.” “The second is a little extra for you,” he added with a glance at her name tag, “Mari.” That was another code for “Really, you don’t want to bother me.”

“Why thank you sir. You are too kind!” The second credit chit disappeared with practiced ease as Mari finished checking Asemir in. “And here are your room keys and a thousand credits on the house to be used in our casinos. Please enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Isthill.”

Asemir nodded his thanks, accepted the card keys and casino chips, and headed to his room located on the thirty-third floor. The elevator was fast, and he unlocked the door without mishap. Locking the door behind him, he paced the fairly large room slowly and carefully, searching for hidden cameras, holorecorders, and other eavesdropping devices. After a thorough search, he placed in the mini-fridge the few he had found. He wasn’t offended; it really was to be expected from a Hutt-run establishment. Satisfied that he wasn’t being spied upon, he took a chair and wedged it against the door. It wouldn’t keep a determined intruder from barging in, but it would warn him if someone were trying to discretely enter his room.

The Ingr’Nysk stepped to the window and glanced out, actually impressed with the view. Streams of white and red lights marked the speeder and hovercar lanes, as the traffic threaded its way through the cityscape. From here, Nar Shadda didn’t look too horrible. It was a nice illusion to the dismal reality of the planet.

He turned from the window and booted up the computer built into his room’s desk. A quick jaunt through the planet HoloNet brought him to the city’s police department. He pressed a gloved hand against the computer’s memory slot, and his nano-armor created an interface jack. A moment later, his armor’s AI uploaded a virus to the ‘Net, and after a few minutes of waiting, he had access to the police database and archives.

Asemir let the virus do its work, as it sped through the various files and crime reports, pulling out the ones that were relevant to his mission. Prior to leaving the Sith Empire, he had been given a report from Sith Intelligence, indicating a series of vigilante crimes committed elsewhere in the galaxy. That in and of itself was not unusual; after all, the galaxy was an enormous place and vigilante justice was quite common, especially on planets where law enforcement was slacking. It wasn’t the acts that had caught the eye of Sith Intelligence, however, but rather the perpetrators.

The first had been identified as a rogue Jedi, someone by the name of Sylok Krim. Krim targeted individuals who were outwardly innocent of any crime, but inwardly had quite a few underhanded dealings. The Sith had been interested in contacting this Jedi with the hopes of bringing him to Dark Side, but intelligence had indicated that the Jedi were even now mobilizing to deal with him. And so, someone had been deployed to deal with the situation. (Asemir wasn’t sure who it was, and he didn’t care too much either.)

The second vigilante, though, had yet to be identified and proved far more interesting to the Ingr’Nysk. The crimes had been tracked across several worlds and had culminated on Nar Shadda. All of the victims had died of wounds that bore remarkable resemblance to lightsaber wounds, or wounds resulting from hideous hand-to-hand fighting. They were all criminals, but had ranged in status from simple drug dealers and thugs to crime lords and gang leaders.

But most peculiar of all were the eyewitness reports. Nearly all of them had reported that the murders had been committed to either protect some innocent person or to avenge some (perceived?) wrong. They did not appear to be senseless killings. And the demeanor of the vigilante, when confronted by bystanders, had been quite approachable and even likeable.

The Sith higher-ups were quite intrigued, especially at the possibility that this might be another rogue Jedi, and the opportunity to either pull another Jedi to their side of the Force, or convince him to become a double agent.

Asemir had cared little for the Sith’s motivations, but had taken an interest regardless. The nature of the attacks reminded him of his own time in exile, when he had struck against the criminal underworld, and the thought of meeting a like-minded person was quite intriguing. Now he wanted to discover and contact this person before the Sith Empire got its hands on him. Perhaps there was a way to redeem him, to keep him from being corrupted by that Dark Side nation.

And thus, Asemir sat at his desk, in a relatively luxurious room of a relatively luxurious hotel, and scanned the data files his little hacking program had pulled from the police database.

…And after an hour of this, he decided to order room service. Why not? He had absconded with millions in credits, accumulated during his tenure as a Sector Lord. Those credits were now deposited safely in a thousand different blind accounts, courtesy of some judicious hacking and techno-magic. Not that the Empire would even notice missing such a small amount in cash, given its multi-multi-trillion GDP.

Asemir leaned back in his chair and smiled a grim smile, and enjoyed the luxuries paid for, in effect, by the Sith Empire.

 

[Cyrilla Ky'lik]

The blow came from nowhere, catching him in the face and dumping his body unceremoniously to the ground. Heavy metal pipe thumping threateningly in his hand, the attacker stepped from the shadows of the alley and looked down at his victim. From around his hulking form stalked two more assailants, cruel grins of predation plastered on their faces. The victim, blood and tears mixing in the streams running down his face and neck, raised a hand in an attempt of defense. His attackers laughed mercilessly.

All of this happened in the span of a half minute, all of it caught at the edge of her peripheral vision. She turned, navigating the crowded Nar Shadda streets, and watched the mugging unfold. The man had tried to scoot back away from the attackers, but he had his back against the foundation of some store. His attackers towered over him, and one of them kicked his piteous form.

The Cathar watched detached, mildly interested as the crowds flowed around her, but living on the streets of the Hutt home world had taught her that getting involved in these street scuffles was usually a bad idea. Things like this tended to escalate if one stepped in, and they typically fizzled out after the victim offered away his valuables.

But this time was different. The beaten man had already dumped his wallet onto the pavement, had already offered the keys to his speeder, but the thugs were still kicking and beating him. She was still debating whether or not to stop the fight, when the big one, the brute who had led the attack raised the metal pipe-weapon. That forced her decision.

“Stop.” The word was soft but firm, carrying over the din of the streets she had stepped from.

The brute froze, glanced at her, and lowered his arm, surprise clearly written on his face. His eyes traveled up and down her slender form as he and his companions turned to face her. A smirk of superiority replaced the surprise on his ugly face.

One of the thugs, a man whose pockmarked face spoke of a lost bout with acne, sneered and crossed his arms. “Or what, kitty cat?”

The Cathar reached up and doffed the hood of her cloak. The constricting fabric fluttered to the ground, revealing her traditional garments of halter top and loincloth. “Stop now and you won’t get hurt,” she replied calmly, warily.

Acne-Face glanced at the third thug, a Twi’lek man with purple head-tales, and laughed. "Kitty, we can't let a pretty thing like you wandering the streets." He stepped towards the Cathar and reached with his hand, the lecherous glaze of lust in his eyes shining as he took in her exposed thighs.

It was a moment of distraction, and a moment was all she needed.

Her right fist shot forward in a jab that took Acne-Face right below the solar plexus. As the man jackknifed forward, she snapped her knee up, catching him in the face and straightening him again. A chop to his neck dropped him to the ground.

The Brute and the Twi'lek hadn't moved. They stared at her, their eyes shifting from the twitching form of their companion and the enraged Cathar standing before them. The Cathar watched them warily, deciding which of the two she would attack next. Or perhaps they would run, she thought, but when the Brute's fingers tightened on the length of pipe clutched in his huge hands, she had her answer.

The Brute hadn't moved more than a centimeter before the Cathar launched herself forward, tackling the giant and crashing both of them to the ground. While he out-massed her by a hundred kilos or more, she had the element of surprise on her side.

And she had anger. She wielded her fury like a literal weapon, her rage fueling her claws and teeth as she tore into the man.

The Brute had brought his arms up to protect his face, but that act of defense quickly disintegrated as pure terror consumed his mind. The Cathar's maw tore into his throat while her claws ripped open his abdomen. He only had a few precious seconds to scream before she clamped down on his wind wipe, crushing it and sealing his fate. It was only a moment later when she stood, blood streaming from her muzzle.

She wiped the gore away from her lips and gave the Twi'lek a feral grin. Blood glistened on her teeth. He ran.

The Cathar watched him go as he plunged into the Nar Shadda crowds and disappeared in that mass of bodies. She didn't care. After all, she had a schedule to keep, and this little detour had already cost her precious time.

Acne-Face began to stir, and the Cathar bent to pick up the Brute's discarded weapon. She glanced at the moaning man, watched curiously as he cradled his shattered nose. And then, with a smirk that mixed disturbing amounts of pleasure and disappointment, she plunged pipe down. A satisfying and meaty thud echoed through the alleyway.

She left the pipe stuck like that, sticking out of Acne-Face's twitching body and the ferrocrete.

The Cathar knelt beside the scattered thugs' victim. He was muttering incoherently. She cradled his face, gently, all trace of malevolence gone from her gestures. The Cathar frowned sadly as she noted his shattered cheek bones and jaw. It would be disfiguring, if he survived his injuries.

Sighing and with her eyes closed, she reached out with that familiar warmth of the Force, that flow of energy that resided in the recesses of her being. She reached out, and saw the man's injuries, the broken bones and bruised flesh. The Force spoke to her, and she dove into his body, into the systems, and began to knit each damaged component. Her mind set the shattered bones, aligned the chips, and prodded the osteoblasts to begin their work. She shunted away the accumulated blood and water, doing what she could to reduce the hematoma that would surely be evident the next day.

It took a few minutes, but it was enough. He would not die, and his skull would heal perfectly fine. There would be bruising and discoloration, but that was fine. He would live.

The Cathar wiped her face again, grimacing at the stickiness of the drying blood. She found her cloak and wrapped herself within its confines. With one last glance at the gore-streaked alleyway, she turned and disappeared back into crowds.

She had an appointment, and the Hutt was not known for tolerating delays.

 

[Asemir]

As he stood amongst the throngs of people goggling at the grisly crime scene, he found his current situation mildly amusing. Here he was, trailing what the local constables labeled a deranged serial killer, and doing his best to analyze the clues to track down him (or her). It was a far cry from his formal profession of professional soldier, commando, assassin, and terrorist. He had never been trained in the arts of police investigation, of investigative work. And yet, here he was, playing detective.

A small tired grin, more of a twitch of his lips really, appeared on Asemir's face. Never in a million years would have guessed that he'd leave the frontlines and appear in such a role. A changing job environment... he thought.

The mess in front of him was crowded with Nar Shadda police officers and medical personnel. The apparent victim was being interviewed by an incredulous detective, some human dressed in a brown overcoat. Others were milling around the two bodies, both of which had been gruesomely dispatched.

Asemir ignored the victim, letting his armor's AI catalogue the man's twittering responses to the detective's questions. Instead, he focused on the corpses. Blood was everywhere, and mixed into the rust-brown mess was the residue signs of Force use. It was just barely tangible above the tangy scent of copper and hemoglobin, nothing more than a hint.

He squinted, peering forth with his own Force strength, and was able to gather those tiny clues. The encounter gradually emerged before his mind's eye, and he saw the "serial killer" dispatching the hulk and the acne-riddled boy with ruthless efficiency. That was the sign he had been hoping to find, the brutal, passion-driven battle lust that characterized the killer's marks. It was there, in the way the victims had been slaughtered, and in the trace markings of the Force.

The Force led him to the corpse of the hulk, how someone had pulled upon that mystical energy to fuel his passions and aggression. It was everywhere, splattered across the ground and alleyway, mixed with the blood and gore that was sprayed across the ferrocrete.

He was then drawn to steel pipe impaling Acne-Face, and the signs of the Force were so evident. If the Force hadn't told him so, he could have deduced it logically, from how the pipe had been punched into the ground. No normal person had the physical strength to do that, he reasoned.

The Forgotten looked away from the screen and tallied a command to his AI. Take trace samples of the air, noting the particular smell of the victims' blood. And he would track the killer via the breadcrumbs left by the Force. It would be like back in the day, when he had tracked that insane Force creature on this very same planet. His AI beeped an acknowledgement.

Asemir turned from the murder scene and vanished into the crowds.