Private After Dark

[Davorin Orsava]

Skye Mertaal​

Davorin exuded an aura of poised strength while maneuvering through the streets of Passeri; he was assigned to Crystal Nest from Dosuun with a mission cloaked in secrecy. Here, he managed to even find respite from the constant ebb and flow of the usual life, something more grounding, more human. And yet, beyond his true purpose on this planet, there was another yearning within, a calling to do more than just gather intel, but also to fully immerse himself in the local culture, and form a connection its people, most of whom were refugees.

The Celestial Knight spent most of his first day tending fields, hands covered in soil as he worked alongside others who'd arrived seeking sanctuary, aiming to be a beacon of compassion. He was at least able to offer conversation to those who were familiar with Galactic Basic or Dosuunai, taking the time to better understand their past struggles. The giggles and laughter of nearby children filled the space around them, keeping the mood warm and pleasant as hours began to slip by.

But as the sun eventually dipped, night consumed the skies, and his path led to a darker road, weaving through alleys toward the underground clubs of the Marina District. Here, the pulse of music was concealed deep within the city's underbelly. Amidst the dimly lit streets, Davorin sought an individual rumored to be engaged in illegal arms trading. The target was part of a much larger network of corruption, vast enough to stir chaos if swift action wasn't taken.

Drawing closer to the Crystal Parle, the man’s figure blended effortlessly into the swarms of people. He moved like a shadow among the numbers, sleek and dark. Raven black hair framed pale and sharp features, gracefully falling to his shoulders. An inky trenchcoat adorned his lean frame. Matching pants and boots completed the attire; overall, it suggested simplicity. Security loomed at the entrance, checking for any weapons. He approached without the slightest hesitation, passing through the checkpoint with ease. Once granted approval, the large doors opened, welcoming him to a far different realm.

Inside neon lights sliced through the thick haze, casting streaks across faces that were already lost in their own world. Heavy bass reverberated through the club, beating like a heart, and holographic displays flickered in various corners.

Upon reaching the bar, he signaled to the Nautolan bartender with large black eyes, assessing him briefly before ordering a spotchka. There was no intention of tasting the intoxicating elixir; instead, he cradled the drink, using it as a mere prop. Finally, he would begin to quietly observe those around him.

 

[Skye Mertaal]

Crystal Parle — Marina District, Crystal Nest
TAG: Davorin Orsava

The neon haze stung through her visor like smoke in an open wound. She hated this place. Too much pulse, not enough silence. It all throbbed in her skull like the rhythm was trying to claw its way under her skin. The club reeked of stale pheromones, cheap spice, sweat-slick desperation. A perfect place to disappear, if you were smart. Or stupid. Or both.

Skye didn't feel much like either tonight.

She moved like a ghost through the haze and sound, armor plating catching streaks of neon as she slipped between patrons. Her helmet kept the world muted, but it didn't drown it out. The pill had started to fade two days ago -- too soon. Her timing had been off. It always was, lately. Ember would have had her hide if he lived to see her like this. The sharp crack of panic hummed at the edge of her senses, just out of reach, like something dark pacing behind glass.

The Force was starting to whisper again.

She needed another pill.

But there were only two left in her pack. And the Blackwall had dropped like a durasteel guillotine between her and the nearest safe system. Locked behind Sith space. Surrounded by enemies and ghosts she couldn't afford to see again. All she needed was her bounty. Bring him in. Get her credits. Get out.

Simple job.

But simple jobs didn't exist anymore. Not with the galaxy convulsing like a dying beast.

The cybernetic patch over her right eye hummed faintly, its ocular glowing a soft crimson. She let it scan the crowd, profile outlines, collect movement data, filter known data points against the bounty's last visual logs. Too many bodies. Too much noise. Her breathing grew slow, mechanical. Controlled.

Then-- yes, there! A glint of a profile. Tall, lean, movement too smooth, too calculated for the oblivion of the crowd. Not just blending. Ghosting. That set off a flag.

She paused near the edge of the bar, slumping like someone drunk and aimless. A posture she'd perfected in Nar Shaddaa slums. The silhouette moved toward the bartender, ordered something she couldn't hear, but he wasn't drinking it. Just holding it.

Poser move. Cover tactic. Just like hers.

Her eye twitched. The scan came back partial. Face too obscured by angles and dim light, but something about him, something off. The cut of the coat. The way he avoided mirrors and corners. Subtle tells.

Professional.

Her HUD flagged him. 62% probability match.

Not good enough. But not bad.

Her hand ghosted toward the compact blaster on her hip before she stopped herself. Not here. Not in this crowd. Not with her nerves starting to fray, with her gut turning inside out from the Force clawing at her mind like it missed her.

It didn't. It wanted her.

She clenched her jaw under the helmet, lips dry. The pill's effects were thinning. She could feel that man's presence from across the room, and it made her skin crawl. Not in a way she could explain. Not the bounty, not exactly. But... like something folded wrong inside the dark.

And that meant he was dangerous.

Which meant he could be exactly who she was looking for.

Or something worse.

The Huntress slid into the shadow of a column, armor grazing synth-stone. Her voice crackled to life in her throat mic low, just for her.

[ Target identified. Probable match. Holding observation. ]

She didn't expect an answer. There was no one listening. Just her, the ghost of her quarry, and a Force she was trying so hard to silence she'd forgotten what her own mind sounded like.

She tracked him with her crimson ocular, breath shallow, teeth grit.

Just a little longer. Then she could end this. Get the creds.

And run.

 

[Davorin Orsava]

Skye Mertaal
​

Davorin’s gaze moved with precision, shifting from one figure to the next. Movement came from every direction, and neon lights sliced through shadows, the music serving as the life of this realm he’d otherwise despise. People were minging, dancing, whispering in darkened corners, and he would continue assessing all of it with a seasoned eye.

A human to his left leaned heavily on a bar, shoulders slouched slightly, the language of weariness. Another stood tall, eyes darting around nervously as though he were anticipating trouble. That one was simply labeled as insignificant.

Neither of these two would lead to anything further.

A Keshiri caught his attention next, their blue skin glowing under the haze. Their movements were subtle–-fingers trailing along the surface of the wall while exchanging one that appeared to be the partner. They carried an air of secrecy that did manage to pique his interest, but it still didn’t match the profile he sought.

To the side, he saw an Echani dancing near the holographic displays; they possessed fluidity that stood out amidst everything else.

Not his target either.

All the while, his expression stayed stoic, his presence merging into the crowd. He lifted the glass with grace, its contents a necessity rather than a pleasure, for he was always in control, knowing how even the faintest mistake could break his crafted facade and bring down everything he was working for here on Passeri.

Deciding to not stay in one place for too long, he moved deeper through the Crystal Parle. The bodies eventually became fewer, though the noise never seemed to dull. As if following the neon streaks, it revealed even deeper shadows. The air felt heavier here with detachment, as it was further away from the dance floor. Now even the holographic displays dimmed, but faint traces still casted on his trenchcoat. From his new position, Davorin was able to observe from a different strategic angle, focusing on those who were also venturing towards a quieter spot–ones who also preferred to be unseen.

The target had to be here; all the intel gathered suggested it was the most likely spot. He was certain the signs would reveal themselves in due time.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the atmosphere's pulse to fade away. It was the one time the bass disappeared, only to be replaced by the undercurrent of the Force, stretching through every corner of the building. While his senses extended outward, he was careful to not disturb the energy nearby. Davorin detected emotions, especially those of drunken sentient creatures. But there was no anger. Nothing out of place. He also didn't probe too deeply, and much like his physical body, it didn't stay in one place too long. There were no disturbances, no surges to suggest danger. From everything he gathered, all was harmless. However, the night was young, and that could always shift at any second.

 

[Skye Mertaal]

Crystal Parle — Marina District, Crystal Nest
TAG: Davorin Orsava

The Huntress watched him shift again. Not in panic. Not in hesitation.

Measured.

That was what chilled her; how measured he was. Like he'd already plotted three exit routes, counted the bodies between them, and memorized the pulse patterns of the lights above. Professionals moved like that. Ghosts wore skin like that.

Her target's dossier was thin. Purposefully thin. Name scrubbed. Affiliations vague. A man wanted for theft, but not for profit; no, this one had taken something personal from the wrong people. Something that got Blackwell agents killed and left trails soaked in data and blood. She never asked what it was. That wasn't her job.

Her job was to bring him back.

The countdown in her helmet glared.

Pill Efficacy: 18% Remaining. Time to Withdrawal: 16 hours.

Behind the visor, sweat was starting to gather along her temple. The pill's waning grip meant her body was remembering things it shouldn't; like how to feel presences, how to reach out, how to drown. The Force seemed to be sniffing at the edges of her mind like a loth-wolf catching a familiar scent. She could already feel the edges of the world going soft-focus. Lights blooming too wide, noise slicing too deep.

Goram it. It was getting harder to ignore it. Now it stirred. Slithering over her skin like a mnggal mnggal humming in anticipation. Trying to get in. Trying to see her. And the pill... the pill was bleeding out of her system like a bad memory. She locked her jaw and re-centered.

She tucked herself against a beam, helmet angled just so that the soft stutter of holographics kissed over her armor without lighting her up like a beacon. The club was louder than it looked; a goram bloody sensory overload through bone and thought. She flexed her hand, fingers slow, testing for tremors.

There were some. She ignored them.

Her ocular eyepatch clicked again, lens narrowing.

Target was on the move -- and she wasn't going to fall apart here. Not in Sith space. Not in a karking club.

That's when she noticed it. Her quarry, whoever he was, had closed his eyes for just a breath. And that's when the alarms in her brain flared, not through the tech but through instinct. He was reaching. Not far. Not a probe. But just enough to feel.

She knew that sensation like she knew the sound of her own heartbeat. It felt like a knife through static.

He was using the Force.

Biases and prejudices flowed. Jaw twitched and a bead of sweat rolled down her temple under her visor. She needed this bounty to be him. There was no time for second chances. Now came the choice: take him here, or flush him somewhere quieter?

The club was too loud, too tight. Too many eyes. She couldn't risk an open confrontation. If he was Force-trained, one flick of his wrist and she'd be dealing with a riot, or worse, someone noticing her. The armor was meant to make her unremarkable, forgettable. But combat lit up shadows like daylight. She'd worked too hard to disappear.

She exhaled hard through her teeth. A bitter chemical taste rose in her throat.

A plan formed; messy, but doable.

She'd let him move. Let him feel like he was still in control. He clearly thought he was just another wolf in a den full of sheep.

She'd be the thing he didn't smell until her teeth were already in his throat.

And then she moved. Slow. Methodical. She didn't hide. Didn't slink. She just became another armored body slipping through the haze. Someone with a job. Someone no one remembered.

She shifted out of the shadows and drifted to a new vantage point across from him, just close enough to be seen, if he was looking. Just still enough to be forgotten, if he wasn't. She took up a new position near the exit corridor, far enough to give her time. Close enough to intercept.

If he was her target, he'd bolt soon. Something in the air said he didn't like staying still. Didn't like being seen.

Good.

Let him run.