He wondered if they were all the same. The Underworld...The Slag Pit...The New City.
Towers of alabaster and burnt mahogony, steel and stone, stretched upwards towards the edges of space with sparkling tops and great glass columns. It was the purity of hiding in plain sight that attracted the more nefarious, the pristine dessert that hid the rotting carcass several layers down. Just a single step in its direction was all that was needed to show that no assortment of ornament or decoration could hide it from the curious. These were the places he found himself, first on Annaj and then on Coruscant, and now on Maena. It wasn't that far of a stretch, given her affection for places such as these. It was easy to toil and probe and excise the tumors when the cancer was so abundant, so primed for surgery.
He had found his way to the top of these towers, to Matsu Xiangu and her raven haired friend, Irajah Ven. But he was a beast by all measurements, wild and hardly kept. Standing on spires that looked down, he could feel the cogs of corruption and crime spin nearly off their axis. Not unlike Point Nadir, his element was deep below, in the kidneys and liver of this city - where the toxins could be found. The haggard, the criminals and lower overlords, the drug dealers and the peddlers and filth, those were the ones who had earned his attention. By low station and desire to stay that way, they had unknowingly painted crosshairs across their chest.
With a shut of the door, the elevation caught him as a single eye gazed down through the vertical thoroughfare of New City. Bridges spanned the distance and he couldn't help but wonder if this place was once solid, rotten and eaten through by its own depravity. Those who considered themselves wholesome clung to the top as the untouchables slithered down the sharp steppes of the volcanoes interior, collected at the bottom in some thick sludge. The sort of sentient entity that clung to those who stepped too close, dragging them in and soiling them all the same. Maybe that was what he wanted. He missed the smell of smoking carcasses and decay.
The elevator moved with a modicum of purpose, filling his mind with ambient soothing sounds that had him wishing he had just jumped from the top. Would have been faster, would have been quieter too. As the doors slid open, he stepped out not to sunlight, but instead to dimly lit corridors that seemed acoustically muffled by dampness and unknown residue. Cavernous walls, slick in the dark, guided his path as he moved through an elongated duracrete coffin. A graveyard turned over, shafts connected together and lined with the dead, to serve as transport between one vice and the next. As he moved, pathway guided by neon arrows and depictions of crimes in simplistic stick figure drawings, he wondered on the litany of this practice. Why not just come out and say it?
Take a left turn here, join or watch the pit fights.
Take a right turn here, drop off slaves for sentient trafficking.
People, by and large, were useless. Except in their experience of pain. So he took a left.
Music was the first thing that heralded his entrance. Not introductory music, but instead the slow thump of bass and the flash of lights across a sea of people. People of varying sizes, people of varying species, people of varying alignment. His hand caught the tones of sensitivity, carbuncle countenance on his voxyn palm opened wide to the feast of senses. As the lights flashed across, strobe and energetic, he caught another sign that led him down another path. He simply parted the sea of those who stood in the way, shimmying in or pushing where it was needed. A bear, rustling the leaves of a thick moving forest, as he made his way to a more important location.
"You looking to take bets?"
"You looking for a bookie?"
Hands and cloaked figures moved towards him, all looking for a chance to take bets for various entities. Two came first, working in tandem, and he ignored them until they left. Even in the low light, the intensity of his gaze on the cage likely dissuaded them. That was his quarry, that was where the smell originated. Tables lined the underground stadium, all elevating as they moved back towards the terminal walls. In the center, a cage big enough to fit a transport ship. Links in the fencing were rusted, dinged, or missing altogether, which gave him the impression that there might be opportunity for group participation.
Taking a seat, he pulled out a cigarra and waved to a waiter with two fingers.
The waiter leaned forward and produced fire. With a puff in and out, Reverance leaned back in his casual clothing and nodded towards the stage.
"What's the next scheduled fight?"
"Three time champions, the docile giants. They're up against a Rancor, fresh from Dathomir."
"Dathomir's pretty far away, can't be too fresh."
"Well, about as fresh as they come."
"What are the docile giants?"
"A mercenary group of Zabraks. Big guys. Can I get you anything to drink?"
"Whiskey." He made a gesture with his thumb and index, detailing amount.
Just as the waiter left with the order, the lights shifted, indicating that the match would soon begin.