The Butcher

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Wetwork was always messy.

The Dominion's efforts in the outer-rim had been undermined time and time again. At first, the issues had been relatively easy to solve; problems with holonet transceiver acting up and the like. Then came the disappearance of objects, be it simply cargo or more important assets. When the shipments were attacked, soldiers were sent in response. They too had disappeared. All The Dominion had was a trail of crumbs, but that was enough for any skilled scavenger.

The skin tore like paper. The spurt of warm liquid that followed made it all the louder, and the sickly sweet scent of an open wound helped to drown out the pollution of burning spices. Leather-bound fingers clawed up at the hilt of the blade that lay somewhere between the neck and the spine. They pawed at him, as if their vain desperation might somehow turn back the sands of time; might preserve the wretch's life.

Then they went limp, and the deed was done.

The body fell to the permacrete with a wet thud. Vitae of the brightest crimson spilled from the near-human's open neck; the limbs still wracked by spasms as the shroud of death took the body's soul. He nudged the warm corpse with the tip of his boot and judged it to be dead, as if its sudden lack of presence in the Great Ocean wasn't enough of a sign.

The dying man's words rung in the back of his mind.

The Butcher's Corner.

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She was about as dangerous was any woman could be. The trail of bodies that lay behind her was a testament to that. Only a fool would go after her, or so the Mirilian had said. No mere man could tame her, and no one with any sense would try.

Fortunately, Cyril was no simple man, nor did he have much sense to him. Didn't really care all that much for taming, either. The Mirilian had pulled a gun on him, and so he'd had to die. Before expiring, the alien had been very clear about where to find 'Zen'; where she tended to frequent.

Cyril came to the restaurant alone. He wore gray hoodie with a black leather jacket overlaying it. His beard had been allowed to grow out somewhat so that he fit the ruffian persona, and if that didn't help, then the combat knife in his boot most certainly helped. He'd made a show of trying to use the bathroom to gain entrance into the restaurant, sat in the stall for a few hours, and extended his sense out as far as they could go.

When Zen stepped into the restaurant, he would make his move. Until then, he would continue reading a rather interesting magazine he'd found on how to make life in the bedroom with his aging husband a bit more exciting.

 

[Ariadne Van'Shelaq]

Nar Shaddaa//The Butcher District

Streets draped in black viscera and curdled by the scent of blood threaded throughout the neon stricken district in the far west of the Undercity, throbbing like diseased veins as the veil of night began to take hold of the scarred moon. Crowds wavered as the daily stock of meats and game were stripped from the parlors that reeked of death, with the dense smog of odious conversation and bartering dissipating into the humid air like embers lost in shadow and smoke. Gone were the slabs of salted veal lining durasteel shacks and the screeching cacophony of unlucky morsels trapped in cages, replaced instead by the hushed vagrants that picked apart whatever scrap of sustenance they could find leftover.

Alas, the Undercity still orchestrated its macabre symphony even under the glaring cover of dusk, its chorus of violence and deceit bleeding into the night air like individual crescendos snuffed out by the pull of a trigger or the lip of a blade. It was constant, an unwavering habit of the infested Undercity to enact its malicious hand on those that failed to comply to its rules.

The Butcher district was no such exception to this rule and, perhaps, actively endorsed the culling of those unfit to scavenge within the turf of the eponymous 'Zen'.

Vague was her description yet bloody was her judgement, a nameless specter that lurked within the rusted, labyrinthine quarters once owned by men far older yet no more wiser than the unseen woman who'd somehow replaced them. To some, the mere moniker was a fable, a well crafted tale to keep crime lords at bay and offer young upstarts a lesson in self preservation should they ever consider joining the tide of war that clawed its way deeper into the moon. All who approached the district did so with a modicum of respect and caution, the width of Zen's influence spanning from highest spires to the refuse and filth that littered her perpetually marrow scented streets. She was here, there and everywhere and one could never be too sure whether the woman at the bar or the whore waltzing the streets were simply just that.

That night was no different, for the woman known as Zen had become another, a coy and scantily clad wallflower that would hang off the hip of her cabal's envoy. In her stead, playing her role, was a lean Zabrak woman whose face was divided by jagged tattoos. Milka was her name, loyal and steadfast to her leader and willing enough to assume the identity of the myth that had carved open the land in which they sat. She was the face that people could transpose onto the fable, tall and demonic and everything a discerning individual would expect of someone who'd cut the throats of her predecessors.

It was acceptable and everything Ariadne van'Shelaq would want of her cover.

~

The deep thrum of the synths reverberated into the heavy durasteel panels scaling the walls of the 'Lapis Cantina', sending an eclectic maelstrom of musical notes up the five story building and encasing its gnarled shell in a throbbing chorus of ebullient dancers and muffled conversation. Black and gold neon was messily strewn across the lower floors, the holographic light shows sweeping over the crowd of dancers as the spice and spirits were engulfed in droves. It was a night of excess and hedonism, the obligatory celebration of life on a moon that only knew death. Men, women and aliens of all shapes and sizes crowded the cantina, basking in the inebriated presence of one another as the night drew onward.

With the first floor offering music and dance, the second a grandiose bar stocked with every kind of beverage and the third masquerading as the hub of gambling for the vast quantities of spice being purchased over the variety of counters, it was everything one could want on a cantina in Nar Shaddaa. Those three floors were open to anyone willing to climb the stairs of debauchery on offer but any attempt at reaching the fourth floor was strictly permitted to a select few individuals.

Those with ample credits, close connections or reputations were graciously granted access to the 'banquet' as it was so enthusiastically titled by the elite few that trawled its chic obsidian interior.

Such a place was where Ariadne and her troupe resided. The woman, accompanied by Milka and several of her men, was comfortably nestled in the furthest corner of the bar with a cigarette precariously balanced between two slender fingers and a platter of untouched meats placed on the sleek table in front of her. The music from downstairs was a muted beat that struggled to break the thick walls of the private lounge, the muffled chatter of those present in the 'Banquet' filling the cool air in its stead. A snarling Barabel chef, renowned for his temper as he was his culinary skills, was located in the center of the lounge gutting a Faa fish with the edge of his cleaver, preparing a meal for the Zabrak that was strictly ordered to act as Zen would.

Milka was seated in the middle, confidence painting her crimson features as she maintained an air of indifference dutifully mimicked from her boss. Ariadne, on the other hand, was clothed in black leather and a velvoid body suit, a simple red choker adorning her porcelain neck and making her look all more like property than proprietor. With raven hair tied into two buns and her lips painted in the most luscious, if typically whorish, scarlet she looked the very part she felt like playing. A pretty face and nothing more, where she could simply watch , eat and remain unbothered.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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The cacophony was both deafening and liberating. It was the song of chaos, the promise of an endless night and the end of days. It was the thunder of life and decadence, the death of order and the empowerment of debauchery. It shredded sanity just as it tore apart the mind. The beat of the synth was like a terrible buzzing in the back of Cyril's mind, ever-present even here in the freshers. He called upon the powers of the ethereal to drown the the murderous beats out, but he found that the Great Ocean itself was moving to the timeless rhythm. The influence of hundreds, perhaps thousands of beings had caused a reflection of the physical within the ethereal. As thunder ran through bone and flesh, so too did it jar the gentle tides of the immaterium.

Cyril would find no peace here, so he embraced its antithesis. He drew his hood up over his head as he strode out onto the dance floor, the flashing streaks of neon and the crash of bodies providing him with a sensory overload. The music was louder here so much so that it rattled his bones and made the primal part of him recoil in distaste. It deafened him and amplified him. The entire building moved to the sound of the synth, congregations of revelers doing their business of sin with to each beat as if they did so out of worship.

In a way, Cyril thought, they did. He waved those who drew too close away with his cybernetic limb, but that accomplished little in the way of intimidation that it usually did. Most gave him odd looks, others ignored him, and others still drew ever closer. A Zeltron women bode him a keen interest, her pink lips twisting with promises that he would have rather not heard. The pheromones so common of her species wafted into his nostrils like an airborne poison, her arms lacing about his own and her body drawing close.

Never one for mentalism, Mephirium would normally have had trouble influencing the mind of another. Given the woman's altered state, he found it terribly easy. Thoughts of decadent murder, of the slaughter of her people and the example he planned to make of them flashed through her mind. In seconds, she saw citadels burn, children melting in thermonuclear fire, and the seas of Zeltros boiling. She was witness to the death of her world and her people, and Cyril grinned.

With a scream, she retreated back into the crowds. Her shout of alarm went unheard by those around her; it registered as little more than white noise to the tightly-packed revelers. Cyril could not help but retain his grin as he strode along the lowest level of the building. When he came to the elevator, he found his passage barred by a mass of muscle and tusks. It smelled of detritus, but carried itself like some Serenno nobleman. Cyril scrunched his nose up in amusement.

The Gammorean squeaked something Cyril did not understand. The noises it made sounded like something akin to a farm animal, though it's gestures were clearly threatening. A show of mental fortitude would not work on this one.

"I lost my wife," Cyril lied, "Said she was going upstairs. Works for Zen, you might know her."

The alien's expression was impossible to read. Its fat lower lip quivered as if it might have been thinking of something, but then its unintelligent and empty stare promised nothing of the sort. Frowning, Cyril gestured out within the ethereal. Tendrils of telekinetic force stretched from his fingertips to clamp around the Gammorean's throat. With a gesture, he squeezed. The alien's gurgling noises were drowned out by the music, and when it collapsed back against the bulkhead, no one took any real note. The moment it lost consciousness, Cyril let go. The alien would yet live, likely to think that it had suffered a minor stroke when it awoke. It wasn't much of a stretch, given how obese the creature was.

The elevator ride was a short one. It provided a moment's refuge the ceaseless cacophony of the synth music, but only for a moment. When Cyril emerged on the other side it had begun again, seemingly louder than ever here on the fourth floor. With his hood drawn up over his visage, and his rather casual clothing, Cyril wasn't going to be turning too many heads. Or perhaps he would, give how dramatically plain he was compared to most.

Two men hastened up to stop him once he stepped out of the elevator. His hands flew up, but the smile he wore was anything but submissive.

"Evening lads," his smile broadened, and he looked past the men toward those beyond. Eyes of slate and thunder passed over many, stopping on [member="Ariadne Van'Shelaq"], then the Zabrak.

"I'm a little lost."

 

[Ariadne Van'Shelaq]

Ariadne could hear it all. The slow chewing of the restaurant's patrons, the clatter of cutlery in the central kitchen area, every hushed moan bleating from the lavatories and murmured conversation interspersed with the tinkling of glasses. It was all there, a writhing orgy of noise and a veritable banquet of listening pieces. Every sound was a jagged symphony prodding her brain, a distinct and terrible constant that would never leave the grasp of her hearing regardless of how much she drowned it out with the steady rhythm from downstairs. It was as much a blessing as it was a curse and the woman did well to simply focus on whatever droll beat echoed in the lower floors.

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump

The bass throbbed within her cranium, joining the multitude of heartbeats that filled the warmly lit interior of the 'Banquet' floor. She could dissect the rhythm of their bodies just as easily as conductor would a perilous orchestral piece. She could hear the faltered heartbeat of a nearby Trandoshan mercenary, the onset of withering age clutching the tempered breaths that quaked in the core of his scaly form. Every conversation was a window, an aperture into secrets of those around her. Ariadne cared not for privacy of those that chose to dwell in her district, it was her right to know every coming and going within the land she'd claimed as her own.

"...then I decided to take her sister instead..."

"...but let me say this, their spice is scented with some amazing additives such as..."

"...feth you like a pig and shove my co..."

Every word spilled from the lips of those within the Banquet were morsels that the woman could season her meal with. Alas, such a task often devolved into the mundane with most of the conversations veering into petty banter and flirting. To any casual viewer she was just a pretty accessory for the cartel's leading figure, a slim creature draped over the arm of one of the many tattooed enforcers. With her discerning feline gaze scanning the crowd of shameless epicureans and her nailed fingers casually drumming into her Rodian bodyguard's chest plate, Ariadne was the very vision of contented boredom.

"Miss, unknown assailant from the elevator." A heavy voice echoed into the earpiece disguised as an elaborate piece of jewelry, the sound sending an unwanted jolt into a mind that was just settling into the tempo of the upper floor.

"Deal with it." Was all she whispered, kissing her bodyguard's shoulder to mask the movement of her lips.

The appearance of a rather shabby looking man sprouting forth from the elevator was of little importance to the woman. It wasn't the first time some reveler from the lower floor thought it fun to breach the upper levels and it wasn't the first time the occupants of the Banquet had to deal with such an intrusion. She barely gave [member="Darth Mephirium"] a passing glance before returning to gingerly picking at the meat in front of her. He was certainly not a drunk, the rhythm of his heart was too measured for that and his smarmy attempts at charming the guards was just enough for the woman to roll her eyes.

"Sir, that line never works. Please head back downstairs or else you will be escorted." A heavyset Barabel gurgled through his mouthpiece, narrowing his gaze and offering his fellow elevator guard what could only be interpreted as a reptilian sigh of exhaustion. With a firm shove of their scaled hands, the two bodyguards lightly shoved the would-be invader back into the metallic tube of Lapis' elevator. A dull clunk echoing into Ariadne's mind as his form brushed against the railing.

 

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It was as he had expected it to be. The upper tiers of the cantina was a place of a higher debauchery, the severing of the spirit and the indulgence of terrible excess. He felt the rampaging emotions of those just beyond his line of site, and knew all that went on within the rather large room within moments. His ethereal self passed from one patron to the other, but none yielded what he desired. Whomever Zen was, he could not tell. Stealth and charm were not going to get him very far here, judging from the two brutes deciding to manhandle him.

He made a show of complying, his head dipping over the side of the railing and his body teetering just over the edge. The promise of death stared up at him, a welcome friend that returned to his door quite often, but always left empty-handed. One of these days he might join her, but most certainly not in this cesspit of a place. The curve of his smile reflected the mood of his spirit -- these people regarded him as nothing. To them, he was nothing more than another commoner come to poison their higher affairs with his very presence.

He drank it all in. The arrogance with which they dismissed him and the violence of what went on just beyond the walls. He felt the heart of a Barabel stop as a blaster bolt was put through his skull just a level down. He understood the motions of two lovers in one of the adjacent lavatories with just a moment's inspection far better than they ever could. Most of all, he felt the eyes of a predator judging him as nothing more than a rogue party-goer, a non-threat. This would be that predator's error.

Simply asking for Zen was not going to work. There were far too many people here for him to pin down just who it was, and he knew he wasn't going to be getting straight answers anyway. No, there was one way to find Zen that wasn't going to take him all night, and it was going to be oh-so-satisfying. He let the guards make a show of roughing him up a bit before they shoved him into the elevator. One moved his scaly hand to send the capsule back down to where it came, and that was when Cyril moved.

The metallic fingers of a cadaver stretched out toward the guard. Just as before, ethereal fingers gripped the esophagus. The second guard hastened to assist his friend, only to find himself in a similar situation. The two men hovered a solid foot off the ground, their boots scraping desperately for purchase.

Cyril rose, all semblance of frailty gone. He was confidence and fury wrapped behind a pleasant smile and friendly eyes. He stood between the two, but held them both close enough to his body so that any shots fired would be more likely to terminate their lives prematurely than his own.

Once again, he looked over the crowed, and once again, he gave them his best smile. He could barely hear his own voice over the cacophony.

"Where is Zen? I wish to speak with her."

[member="Ariadne Van'Shelaq"]

 

[Ariadne Van'Shelaq]

In the corner of Ariadne's vision, the steady movement of the two guards breached the grasp of her peripheries. Their advancement upon the smirking stranger was nothing out of the ordinary, a sight so unbearably commonplace that the woman found the aesthetic of her late night meal that much more appealing. Where she found a sliver of enjoyment at the sight of a masterfully prepared steak the scantily disguised woman found nothing of worth in the scuffle of a vagrant and some peons she'd hired. Still, she was but a piece of arm candy that night. There was no use outwardly taking notice or even caring about the confrontation by the elevator. She simply wanted to enjoy an evening without the hassle of rival gangsters, needy dealers and credit hungry mercs.

Alas, such contentment would not be found that night, not yet anyway.

It was the sound of air being crushed from the throats of the two simple Barabels and the accompanying shudders of their hearts that echoed in the woman's ears that caught her attention. Ariadne did not flinch or move, her gaze simply jolting to the scene the moment the hoarse wheezes turned into stifled gurgles for breath. It was too late for action, the guards were outclassed. With her jaw clenched, the porcelain skinned woman watched on as the two figures were wrenched off solid ground, suspended either side of the unwanted guest that finally made his presence known to the whole Banquet floor.

"Where is Zen? I wish to speak to her."

Silence instantly enveloped the room. Gone was the muted conversations and tinkling of cutlery, the only rhythm left being the muffled music from down below and the barely audible excitement coming from the private lavatories, Ariadne being the only one to hear the latter. Every eye and every weapon was trained on man, tracing his form like a horde of beasts would an isolated herbivore. This was a transgression, a move no one in their right mind would play by themselves and yet there he stood shielded by the floating figures of of what used to be very composed Barabels.

Ariadne blinked, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she watched 'Zen' roll her shoulders back. The Zabrak remained composed, notable even in the face of a force user and the half Firrereon offered her a shadow of a nod. The creature had performed well in the past and there was no point denying how well she played her role. If 'Zen' was the one the stranger wanted and then Milka would respond accordingly.

With a wave of her hand, the Zabrak dismissively motioned forward, the members of the Cabal dutifully standing up and slowly fanning out around the table where the eponymous 'Zen' sat. Like any good mimic, Milka glanced at her surroundings and with an audible click of her fingers, the Zabrak seemingly unpaused time and allowed the occupants of the fourth floor permission to return to their droll conversations. The kitchen once more kicked back to life, the now fuming chef tossing a burnt slab of meat into a nearby incinerator and swearing at the man who'd so rudely interrupted his delicate frying ritual. No one seemed too flustered, even at the sight of the force power and with the rebirth of activity on the floor came the unanimous and silent acceptance that the woman who owned the district would deal with the foolish force wielding figure.

Flanked by two armed guards, Ariadne strutted off of her seat and shimmied her tightly clothed form down the steps of the elevated booth and looked no less bothered by the sight of her brave seeker as she would a chipped fingernail. Her heeled boots, dainty and acceptably black, created a steady rhythm of footsteps as she approached the man with a look of disinterest only the most cynical of whores could muster. With her bright lips pursed and her slender arms crossed, the raven haired 'groupie' cleared her throat before leering at the man through the floating masses of scaly flesh he shielded himself with.

"Zen says if you want to see her you gotta let me check you." The woman motioned in a voice far more chirpier and coy than her own, resting her hands on her hips as she waited for the man to respond. "You could've just sent her a holo or something. This is more trouble for the both of us, honey." Ariadne sighed, leaning forward ever so slightly to show she meant no threat and was merely the little carrier pigeon between the stranger and Milka. It was role she got some level of satisfaction from, one which lured men into her arms without them knowing.

Still, she'd give him his wish...for now anyway.

Not even looking at the two unconscious Barabels stranded in the air, the would-be courtesan clicked her tongue before glancing at the two keenly observant guards either side of her. "Can you put them down now, you've made your point." She mused with a sneer, a slight hint of disgust streaking across her feline gaze as she took another step forward to pet the man down.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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It was his way to make a show of things. A more rational being might have just called Zen, as the courtesan suggested, but that may have given his target an early warning as to the pursuit. No, better to catch Zen and he followers off guard. If that required a little bit of blood to grease the wheels, then so be it.

His grip upon the Barabels loosened somewhat as the party returned to its usual cadence. In the short moments where it had stopped, Cyril had begun to miss its dull ache. Left with his Barabels captives and a woman that looked more at home on a street corner than a penthouse, Mephirium let himself relax just a smidgen. The reptilian aliens could find themselves drawing breath once more, though they remained within the suffocating grip of the ethereal.

His gaze fell to the Zabrak, and to her credit, he could not read her. His talent for telepathy was terribly lacking as is, and it was more or less nonexistent when pressed against a dominant personality. Nonetheless, he assumed simply from her behavior that this was in fact Zen. Unless, of course, she was a double, which was as likely as anything here on the outer rim. He supposed it did not matter, so long as he received the information he was looking for. If not...well, there was no telling how many guards were going to have to be silenced whilst trying to put him down.

The thin porcelain creature drew closer than he would have liked. She smelled like spice and decadence: one of many wrapped up in her own little fantasy. This entire world paid host to a million smaller ones, each maintained by syndicates such as this. Were Cyril a lesser man, the promise of expulsion from reality might have seemed appealing. Were he a lesser man, then the well-dressed courtesan might have made his heart beat a little faster.


He quirked a brow, "You're gonna have to buy me a drink before you try getting handsy." Despite his words, he held his hands up in a mock surrender, more or less submitting to the woman's examination. He had little on him by way of weapons, save for the knife in his boot and the lightsaber hidden within the nethers of his jacket. She'd find no blaster on him, no conventional tool of death. He did not need it; the ethereal was ever his servant.

"I don't really do holo-messages," he continued, "I prefer a more personal touch. Like to look my new friends in the eye, if you get what I mean." The Barabels would find themselves slowly lowered to the floor. The hold of the Great Ocean would slowly leech away from them, leaving both of the guards to their own devices once more. Cyril did not pay them all that much mind, his attentions shifting from 'Zen' to the thin slip of a thing assigned to searching him.

"No dead lizards here, just for you." The smile he wore was that of a politician, all self-assured charm and charisma. He had little doubt that it would have any effect on this woman, but that wasn't the intention, anyway. It was a mask, and one he had learned to wear well. Let Zen's cohorts think he was some rogue Jedi on the hunt for spices, or something of the like. In this instance, the rumor mill was his friends.

His eyes met the courtesan's, but his mind probed the Zabrak. There was something not quite right about Zen, and while there was usually a lot wrong about crime lords, this one struck him differently. Despite his own caution, he found his interest piqued.

This would be interesting.

[member="Ariadne Van'Shelaq"]