His hand flexed, repeatedly, as he stood in the tower with a vacant expression. Time on Maena had been all but spent, filled with activities that ran the gamut. Killings, dancing, investigations, favors, pain. But throughout his wondering, meandering movement just below the skin of New City, something struck him as off. A crescendo of power, or the shadow of its potential, that threatened to bow and bend the planets crust.
This placed was born from otherworldly auras and eldritch machinations, the Gulag Plague and the Netherworld crisis ravaging a once prosperous world. It was now little more than a festering wound, beautiful and breathing as replete corruption welled towards the surface, promising to form microcosms of decay that stretched outward from the center. He was convinced that such was reasoning for the slums and barren wastelands, an indication of spiritual depletion that extended far beyond the understandings of his sadistic mind.
As he had wandered through the bowels of this place, through underground tunnels and gateways, he had found a certain fascination in the culture of these people. Like old world dwellers, preceding the proliferation of star travel, they communicated in oral histories and scripture along the walls. Songs and screaming, vibrating far below, led the curious to subterranean chambers that glowed green and pink and red in the dark light. Some surfaces wore simple instructions across duracrete, indication of direction and vice. Others were muraled with symbols and emblems that served as warning. One, in particular, had caught his attention.
The image of a spider, splayed against the wall, with needles struck through the legs and abdomen. In the more hyper-realistic depictions, it even appeared as if the flesh was being flayed from the carapace. And that flesh was human.
Haste would have led him to believe that it was simply another gang forming, one in direct contradiction to her. But time and independent research had led him to believe that it was something far more nefarious, breeding beneath the breathing surface. Something that went directly against his philosophies. Through death, a group would seek to restore order. And order negated entropy.
And entropy was his purpose.
Having moved from her Tower, he now stood outside of the door that led to this other world, living and pulsating below. Forever shrouded in the silhouette of the sun, the inner chamber existed in the heart of New City, location emphasized by buzzing street lights and suspicious loiterers. Fists bloodied with carnage of weaker men, he had parsed out several words from split lips and bruised egos. With nothing but a lightsaber across the small of his back, dressed in casual clothing, he moved forward and knocked several times - a pattern he was given, afforded through broken teeth, that offered code in the form of hollow cadence.