Private Longest Road to Nowhere

[Drane T'keen]

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Music IC

Spoiler

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Coruscant. A world both right and wrong. Day or night, amid the denizens, amid all the throngs.
There was war of every sort. It wasn’t the battle waged between armies all the way from space.
Sometimes it was government corruption, corporate greed, the seedy underbelly, bottom to top.
It was the conflict of citizens, residents, aliens, guests; every element of having a sentient brain.

That was the problem, some may say: intelligence, in name. Beings had to be shackled, bridled.
Bound in manacles, controlled, having freedom, liberty, taken away from them, become cattle.
Some accused the Jedi as aiming for this. Others accused the Sith. Then again, both ever idled.
For one being, for one individual, one man, he could only rely on himself in his personal battle.

In the lower levels of an ecumenopolis, globe-spanning city, is the Uscru Entertainment District.
Where life of all kinds went for entertainment, from all walks of the planet, for a pleasure trip.
Air traffic whizzed by, as did the pedestrians on the platforms from the bottom to the clouds.
Masses of them, men and women and others, gathered, yet somehow lifeless in the crowds.

Lively, though, is what one would describe Club Twilight. It was a nightclub and then some.
The building was nestled closer to the surface, yet this establishment catered to anyone.
If you could pay then you got in, and were in for different experiences based on the level.
Music shifted from slowly swaying to sweeping feet each story; either way was a revel.

Alcohol to sell, and spice or other such drugs as well, with deep beats beside these secrets.
It didn’t have to be public if you could get away with it, for a club’s just as much for profit.
If you could dance or could drink, if you could hang or you could dream, then come see.
One man did, young to some, in his twenties, the warrior who was just a sailor in a sea.

Drifting in between the bodies of men and women, even droids, pulsating within the beats.
They swayed, hips in rhythm, limbs twisted, some kissing, each one drifting in the distance.
Gifted with the lyrics of a woman, the drums and synth strings, dancing, some dirty or clean.
At the flanks of this floor were walls for bars to serve alcohol, stools, tables or booths to sit in.

Yet, one man was walking, stalking, slipping between hands and feet that were entangling.
Dressed in black, golden trim on his outfit, dark leather, like his skin, his ashen complexion.
A woman leaned in, beckoned him to join her, gave him a wink and grin, a hand on his chest.
He smiled back, sorry to deny her dance, for he was on a mission; he had to attend a meeting.

No one was innocent in Club Twilight, everyone's guilty, but some were less or more than most.
The Kris Syndicate, a dangerous organization to reckon with, whose business had led to death.
Typical twisted nonsense for this small-time crime ring that was making a name, trying to grow.
Yet it was dying, for a ghost was slaying its leaders, so nameless, a red blade to take their heads.

He moved with purpose, he could be seen when he wanted, or he could disappear like a wind.
Tonight, as Club Twilight thrived, a lone ghost moved steady as a turtle beside the purple light.
Bright strobe lights gliding over the dancers, black shadows in an ocean, vibrant beside violence.
It took a name, it was Drane, he came to slay. His road was short, yet long, like the woman's lyrics.

You go down the longest road to nowhere
You pull it apart and you're just left there

Joland Graves

 

[Joland Graves]

Drane T'keen

Joland pulled his hood up as he sauntered through the Coruscant underground. Slipping through familiar alleyways, dodging endless puddles of puke, shrugging off desperate dealers of carefully curated illict substances — not much had changed since his last visit.

It had been the better part of a year since Joland cut ties with the Coruscant Security Force and joined the New Jedi Order. His usual beat back then was the Escru Entertainment District. Sitting between the wealthier upper levels and infamous underground, the district was a dichomoty of them and a last line of defense for those rich enough to see it that way. As an officer of the law, Joland acted as a soldier on that delicate frontline; ultimately an unwilling participate in a perpetual class war. It would end up being one of the reasons for his aforementioned change in employment.

The young padawan carefully surveyed his surroundings as he emerged from the alleyway connecting the Outlander Club and the Snapping Septoid. He came upon a large durasteel structure, designed more for show than practicality with it's bold angular shapes and anachronistic pillars. Advertisements for alcohol, dancing, gambling, and vague references to "fun" plastered the walls. Bright neon lights pulsated on a sign above. Bulky letters spelled out:

~ CLUB TWILIGHT ~​

Joland had been here before. Several times actually, for business and pleasure. This time it was strictly business. Apparently petty deathstick dealing had progressed to disappearances and murder. Culripts were mosty likely gangs taking a bloodier approach to entrepreneurship. That was the census, anyway. The CSF requested the Jedi for help in their investigation and so Joland was here, standing outside Club Twilight, basking in the effervescent purple flood of color, back on the grind. Only this time it was more than just socioeconomic conflict.

There was a sense of foreboding as Joland apprehensively entered the club. Physical sensations flared — a shiver up his spine, a tightening of his jaw, and a twitching in his fingers. His fledgling Force powers couldn't decipher the origin or intensity.

Whatever it was, he was here to find it before it found him.

 

[Drane T'keen]

Spoiler: Music IC

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He walks throughout the crowd, stalks, on the prowl, limbs twisting all around, others dancing.
He wants to join them, might have any other night, voiceless, but focuses less on surroundings.
There is only one person that has this ghost’s attention, one purpose, so singular, going forward.
One man, he does not dance, he seeks to leave the dancefloor. He is who the ghost walks toward.

The man was a Twi’lek and he was the type to favor this place, and his name was Gren Corval.
Drane is the name of the man who pursued him from a distance, not letting his prey know it.
His prey, though, was just the appetizer to the main course. In the long run, he was a morsel.
Yet, Gren would lead the way, would take his follower, the predator, to the gate, to the target.

The ghost kept his eyes on his prize, that violet skin of the hairless Twi’lek, off in the distance.
Drane T’keen could keep from being seen, a shadow and ghost, and could vanish into the mist.
However, rather than rely on Force powers outright, he trusted in the judgment of his eyes for this.
All the while, the music shifted, from female vocals to the occasional male’s, both vibrant and violent.

A rapid drum beat between deep waves, played melodic and harmonic, and dark if not chaotic.
Amid music of reverb bass like a cursed grave, viewscreens flanked the walls of the club’s hall.
Depicting images of women putting on lipstick, speeders shifting, throttling, in night’s darkness.
Drane stole a look, a sideways glance; white headlights, grey ashen hair, longer than his, it falls.

She licks her lips, glimpse of leg at dress slit, and suddenly Drane is distracted by other women.
It wasn’t the ones onscreen, or the one behind him, but the ones before him, grabbing for him.
They stepped before him, in between his quarry, the Twi’lek to in turn take him to the Syndicate.
“Pardon me, ladies,” Drane attempted. They didn’t have it, hand on abs. "Dance...for a minute..."

Then, all at once, he was surrounded. Not by thugs with blasters but by girls who won’t budge.
Twi’lek, Human, Zeltron. Three of them were pinning him into the throngs of dancers all at once.
Granted, the man could find himself with worse problems, but as limbs clawed Drane looked up.
Gone. He lost the trail which meant Gren lost his tail. Drat. He wasn't rude enough to give a shove.

"You want to dance with them." He glanced at other dancers.
"I want to dance with them," said one of the women just then.
They went off but one got off a firm strike to his rear, however.
I'll give her that. With that, he reached for the Force, and sensed.

There you are...
Drane found him.
Gren was at some bar.
Your neck will fill my fist.

Joland Graves

 

[Joland Graves]

Drane T'keen

Joland approached the bar and tilted his head up in friendly greeting to the bartender. His name was Pruum, a portly Besalisk with a knack for information gathering and crafting deliciously potent cocktails, in equal measure. An acquaintance, bordering on friend.

"Got anything for me?" Joland said, elbows casually leaning on the bar. Grey-blue eyes carefully scanned the patrons around him.

Vibrantly colored liquids swirled and mixed into new strange colors, the Besalisk reminding Joland of a mad chemist. Another of his arms was pouring a glass of water, sliding it down to the Jedi. "Sorry, my friend. Strangely quiet."

Joland spun around, sipping his very non-alcoholic water. He stole a glance at the dancefloor just as he felt a movement in the Force. Before he managed more than a cursory look, a rude violet Twi'lek bumped into him, spilling Joland's water on himself.

"Watch where you're going," the Twi'lek said harshly. Joland gave the man a quisitive look. He was literally standing still, the violet skinned alien bumped into him.

There was a similar feeling of danger like before, in this man. Joland looked him over quickly: ribbed jacket, a bulge thinly-veiling a concealed blaster. Something was off; the padawan would have to keep a closer eye on him.

Joland said his thanks to Pruum then retreated to a table at the corner of the bar. He nursed what was left of his glass of water, taking in the bar with his eyes, never fully taking them off that purple nerf herder.

 

[Drane T'keen]

Spoiler: Music IC

Friends. Drane T’keen was a name that did not carry very many of them, not in a friendly sense.
Oh, he had friends. Acquaintances. Brothers and sisters beyond the Sith Order, and any others.
He had his family, his kin; kindred in blood and flesh and spirit, of the red sun, each one a warrior.
He had the fraternity of darkness, those who fight for the dark side; sons, daughters, and children.

Yet they were alien to him, so very distant, for the man was in a den that was out of his element.
This establishment, this club, was not for Drane. It was for a rogue, a ghost, a soul so nameless.
For his purpose, his mission, he could not call upon his friends, his allies. He was a lone samurai.
A lone swordsman. The Black Swordsman, some call him. Alone. Ronin. That’s who he is tonight.

He didn’t even have friends within the women, one of whom had decided to slap his ass.
They might have served as his distraction, to blind him, though his focus was on the hunt.
He might not appear to be it so much, but this was a man, a ghost, with a visage so black.
A void, voiceless, noiseless, a pale echo, vengeance at the corners of his lips, bloody gums.

There was murder in his mouth, blood in his maw, as the ghost crept around, and he saw.
He watched his morsel sitting at the bar, parked on a stool, a fool to the shark behind him.
This wasn’t an ocean but a desert, a wasteland, a playground for a wraith and its claws.
Drane came, stepping out of the sea of bending knees, twisting limbs, dancers in bliss.

A bar up ahead, the counter, he stepped further, indifferent, just another casual patron.
His prey doesn’t know he is onto him. Amid them, music shifted again, drums and bells.
Guitar string as well, thrum and twang, as a dark man’s fangs stand up in a land of hell.
Behind his lips, as grey as a grave, as they split as if to kiss, but he’s just playing his bit.

“Mojito,” the ghost gestured toward the bartender two stools away from another.
At a bar that’s just a bar, one was hard-pressed to find an empty seat; not here.
This was a club where only some weren’t dancing, taken to booths if any other.
A private booth in the back, perhaps. Or upstairs... He deduced of his souvenir.

His true target, that upper member of the Kris Syndicate, to soon be a memory.
A trinket. Maybe Gren was on his way to meet with him after he sips on whiskey.
Wherever he was, he would burn to dust, become blood, a heap of bone and ash.
He would get what was coming to him, which was revenge, from two ashen hands.

And two red blades. Drane’s drink came. The mojito was sweet as it should be.
“Come on, Dizzy!” The ghost cheered on at the viewscreen above the counter.
A game was on; not podracing but slingshotting, utilizing purposely slow speed.
Using astronomical bodies for a boost in velocity. An extreme sport, to be certain.

Dizzy Didiko was in the lead. A couple of his contemporaries had burned.
“I’m rooting for The Raging Bull, myself,” the Twi’lek scoffed while he turned.
And I’m tuning to the music of your terror. Drane waved a lazy hand to the side.
“A betting man. Kicking up to whom?” Gren blinked. “My boss. Vurok. Level five.”

Joland Graves