Hades Michae
The Yellow King
[SIZE=14pt]Coruscant[/SIZE]
[SIZE=14pt]Level 890[/SIZE]
[SIZE=14pt]Mid-Evening[/SIZE]
He was staring at a glass of corellian ale, the tips of his fingers pressed lightly to its sides but making no move to lift it to his mouth as life pulsed all around him. It seems far removed, almost beneath him. To him it isn’t imagination to see them under a glass floor, standing with his hands shoved in his pockets and looking down at them from a place where time was more a concept – something to be shaped in your image rather than binding you to a specific place. He’s convinced that maybe he did something wrong and that’s why he can see it all but he can’t touch it, why he’s bound to the laws the rest of the universe is.
If he’s done something to deserve this, he doesn’t know what it is. And he doesn’t care either. One day he’s going to die, and then all the wondering will be for nothing. So why try to change it now?
Nar Shaddaa was called Little Coruscant and Hades could see the resemblance. Sitting there in some bar – a name he can remember only vaguely and that was only important in the sense that another person had to have a place to find him – he could imagine himself in his home city under the same garish neon glow, the same curl of cigarette smoke burning the inside of his nose as it floated upward and in to the air. (It’s talking to me. I’m sitting here and I’m mainlining the truth of the universe. The way it curls, the way the holes open…I just haven’t learned to read it yet. You’re all sitting here waiting for absolution while I’ve got it right here between my fingers.) The only difference between Coruscant and Nar Shaddaa was the artificial shell, the glamorous mask they sold themselves to pretend it wasn’t another gutter in space.
It was this particular gutter he’d learned Lucas Asher was on.
It was his specialty to gather information by whatever means necessary. The trick was that he usually didn’t have to force it from people. He was good at fitting in, wearing someone’s mask just long enough to get someone’s trust before he fell apart in to something long-faced, or perhaps making someone so uncomfortable they’d rather give up the ghost than encourage his company. Regardless, finding Lucas had been no easy task and at first he hadn’t even known it had been him. He recognized that killing – there was no one like him – but it had still been hard to track down the Sith he ran with now. He’d sent the woman a message trying to get in contact – an old friend, an old coworker. He’d allowed her the probing in her words despite himself and then he found himself with a way to contact one of the few people he’d bother trying to find in the galaxy.
He’d gotten an answer. But Hades was a man that dealt in lies, secrets, and cons and he could feel that whoever had answered him for a meeting wasn’t the man he’d spent ten years of his life with. That wasn’t particularly alarming. (Nothing is particularly alarming. I die today, I die tomorrow – I didn’t mean anything except to myself, and I’ve moved past things like that.)
Whoever was about to join him for a drink would be in for a surprise, a man not even on their plane hidden by thick curls of smoke.
[SIZE=14pt]Level 890[/SIZE]
[SIZE=14pt]Mid-Evening[/SIZE]
He was staring at a glass of corellian ale, the tips of his fingers pressed lightly to its sides but making no move to lift it to his mouth as life pulsed all around him. It seems far removed, almost beneath him. To him it isn’t imagination to see them under a glass floor, standing with his hands shoved in his pockets and looking down at them from a place where time was more a concept – something to be shaped in your image rather than binding you to a specific place. He’s convinced that maybe he did something wrong and that’s why he can see it all but he can’t touch it, why he’s bound to the laws the rest of the universe is.
If he’s done something to deserve this, he doesn’t know what it is. And he doesn’t care either. One day he’s going to die, and then all the wondering will be for nothing. So why try to change it now?
Nar Shaddaa was called Little Coruscant and Hades could see the resemblance. Sitting there in some bar – a name he can remember only vaguely and that was only important in the sense that another person had to have a place to find him – he could imagine himself in his home city under the same garish neon glow, the same curl of cigarette smoke burning the inside of his nose as it floated upward and in to the air. (It’s talking to me. I’m sitting here and I’m mainlining the truth of the universe. The way it curls, the way the holes open…I just haven’t learned to read it yet. You’re all sitting here waiting for absolution while I’ve got it right here between my fingers.) The only difference between Coruscant and Nar Shaddaa was the artificial shell, the glamorous mask they sold themselves to pretend it wasn’t another gutter in space.
It was this particular gutter he’d learned Lucas Asher was on.
It was his specialty to gather information by whatever means necessary. The trick was that he usually didn’t have to force it from people. He was good at fitting in, wearing someone’s mask just long enough to get someone’s trust before he fell apart in to something long-faced, or perhaps making someone so uncomfortable they’d rather give up the ghost than encourage his company. Regardless, finding Lucas had been no easy task and at first he hadn’t even known it had been him. He recognized that killing – there was no one like him – but it had still been hard to track down the Sith he ran with now. He’d sent the woman a message trying to get in contact – an old friend, an old coworker. He’d allowed her the probing in her words despite himself and then he found himself with a way to contact one of the few people he’d bother trying to find in the galaxy.
Long time, no see Asher.
I see you haven’t lost your touch.
I’m on Coruscant if you want to catch up.
Let me know.
- Hades
He’d gotten an answer. But Hades was a man that dealt in lies, secrets, and cons and he could feel that whoever had answered him for a meeting wasn’t the man he’d spent ten years of his life with. That wasn’t particularly alarming. (Nothing is particularly alarming. I die today, I die tomorrow – I didn’t mean anything except to myself, and I’ve moved past things like that.)
Whoever was about to join him for a drink would be in for a surprise, a man not even on their plane hidden by thick curls of smoke.
[member="Kesare Salazar"]