Nothing Good Ever Happens After Midnight... (OPEN)

[Jonathon Patches]

Another day, another credit, Patches mused to himself, about twenty meters back from his target.

Whom the target is, was not important to the story; just your everyday corrupt politician that required a bit of "persuasion" from one of Patches' clients. The scene is the busy streets of Nar Shaddaa, our fair politician taking part in the seedier sides of his trade, and Patches was certain to capture it all on holo-vid and photos that would be certain to capture the politicians attention at a later date... least he wanted it to capture the public's attention.

People passed Patches by in the streets without paying him much attention; his collared jacket and hood not uncommon attire on Nar Shaddaa, with most patrons avoiding him rather than trying to glance at his face. It mattered little. The prosthetic scar on his face and the ID on him that read "Riker Kharde" would make certain his recognition would be difficult. Not much would pay particular attention to Kharde, and those that did, would just see that public records would show he was a journalist. Not really a noteworthy individual.

The politician made a sharp term into an ally, so Patches slowed his pace, waiting a few long moments for the politician to make his way down it, and thus Patches presence would go unnoticed. After a few moments, and a slow count to ten, and he made his way to the alley's entrance, just in time to notice the gentleman and his escorts - two well armed men - make their way into a back entrance of what appeared to be some type of bar/club. Patches suspicion was confirmed as the door opening brought loud music and smoke, before quickly disappearing as the door closed behind them.

He let out a sigh, as with age he had grown less fond of these type of stakeouts. They usually ended up being quite costly, and trying to expense drinks to Patches' customer was never exactly an easy proposition.

With that, he lowered his hood - those with hoods usually weren't welcome in clubs - and made his way to the front entrance to the club, where no doubt a cover charge and other trouble awaited.

 

[Alan]

There was a prick of a needle, as one of the security detail looked away for just a brief second. He began to asphyxiate from the inside, choking to death internally. Quite a nasty way to die. But a good way to garner a distraction. Animus was quick, as the bartenders, patrons, and the other security guard pondered to look at their choking compatriot, Animus walked up beside the politician, stuffing a silenced pistol into his chest. It was a quick six shots, but it wasn't unheard. The other security detail went for his gun. Animus moved like lightning, stuffing the barrel of his gun directly into his throat. The large human began to choke. Animus wasted no time in putting the pistol to the crown of his skull and firing. A splatter of blood, as the slug thrower emptied another shell into the man's head.


Animus had done it all in less than four seconds. He was good at what he did. And he used the ensuing mad rush to the door to blend in, pulling up his collar, and dropping the weapon, making his way to the door.