Coruscant.
Twice now she'd sworn never to come back here, and twice now she'd had her hand forced in doing so. She had to keep her family safe. No matter what it took. Even this place. Even—
She slammed that mental door so hard that it rattled in its mental frakking frame. No. She couldn't think about that kark right now. It was already bad enough, how keenly aware she was of the location of every knife or sharp object within reach, and how her spine was whirring loudly enough for her to hear, winding her tight, preparing to do violence. She could feel the memories, chattering away under her skin, next to her mission. Like a knot of pain in her chest, just to the right of her heart. She can feel it, the sense of something in her peripheral vision. present but unseen.
The flashes thrummed behind her eyelids and in her skull to the beat of the too-loud, thumping music, phantom lashes and touches. She stared at the metallic tabletop inches in front of her nose, her vision white around the edges and ears ringing from the blood and adrenaline crashing through her system, breathing rapidly, trembling, sweating, her fists knotting at her sides with the need to fight. She felt herself slipping like she sometimes did into other episodes, like when she thought she caught a glimpse of white and red out of the corner of her eye or thought she saw a too-tall, too-thin shadow in the doorway at night or Uji's breath ghosted across her neck just right as to be wrong or she heard key bed music or smelled just the wrong smell or got pressed too tight in a crowd when she was at the market or— a thousand goddamned other things. She felt herself slipping and stood up and downed her drink with shaking hands. It burned on its way down.
Focus. Focus. She had work to do.
Satsi shoved past a few warm bodies and around a stand for a dancer whose holographic hips undulated like a snake. The gangster bundled to the nearest bar and snapped for another scotch, needing to calm her nerves. Her narrow brown eyes flickered around the club, looking for the target she was waiting for in the mass of people, and for anyone else she might recognize — or who might recognize her. Even her bright violet wig and extensive makeup wouldn't be entirely enough to hide her if she ran into one of her former Black Sun cohorts or Coruscanti associates.
Where are you, boy? the former Consul wondered. Baraga Rar, her mark, was a classic spicerunner who'd dabbled in holo-faking and, most importantly, he was a vornskr — smuggling people in and out of places. He'd done good work for her, back in the day. He'd done good work for her former Vigo. And now, he was doing good work for her former sister-wives.
With any luck, he'd be amenable to telling her all about it. With or without his teeth in tact.
The bartender brought her her drink, and Satsi made herself smile at him, wink, thank him in a sultry tone half-shouted to be heard. He smiled back. She sipped her scotch and kept looking.
Her gaze alighted finally on a figure leaving one chance table to move for a more secluded booth: teal-scaled Rodian, familiar scar on his cheek, missing one finger on his left hand. Baraga. Hell, she remembered bringing him both hands of the guy that had taken that finger from him — a gesture of good will for which he'd been quite grateful, once.
Satsi's heart raced, and her plan began to solidify in her mind. Baraga looked like he was settling in for business. Approaching him there in the booth wouldn't be easy. She would take her time, work the room, find a few tricks to dance with until she got over there and fell into his lap, maybe.
The woman was just taking a calming breath when something caught her eye and made her gasp. She jerked sideways to glare around some frakkers ordering drinks and make sure she wasn't seeing things. And— there. Coming into Club Kaskar was one very familiar Trandoshan. Most of the scale-hides looked the same to her, but she knew this one. Totems and decorations in his scars, brown coloring, way taller than any other person present, fully dressed in armor instead of any clubbing clothing. He was more menacing than the bruisers, for frak's sake.
Grot. One of her people. Frak, frak, and frak again.
Burning pain shot up her nerves, and Satsi hissed, realizing that she'd broken her glass. She shook bits of crystal and booze off her fingers and started across the dance floor, making a beeline for the bounty hunter Arconan. If he was here, then he had work of his own, and no way would it go quietly. Shadows above, the place was probably rigged to explode, if she remembered his personal action reports right. He was going to ruin her entire operation.
And she couldn't let that happen.
The place was a cesspool.
His nostrils burned with stink of many bodies and his eyes ached from flashing light. The warm-bloods flailed as if celebrating a fertility festival, though made the mistake of wearing garb that would get in the way of copulation. Mammals were such inconvenient creatures.
Grot gave a hissing snort and shook his predatory head. Regardless of their absurdity, the writhing masses did do well to make his Hunt more of a challenge. Their many limbs and bustling activity was not unlike a stampede of bantha, and a herd was always more difficult to attack than a lone animal. Still, instead of protecting one another, as a herd did, or fleeing, they were all very focused on their celebration and bacchanal, and did a dismal job of protecting their backs or keeping eyes on the hunter in their midst. It was very easy to push through them and walk to a more suitable vantage point for examining the crowd.
The Trandoshan situated himself atop a small stage, drawing disgruntled growls and chirps from the males and females that had been watching the projection he was blocking, and searched the club with tracking eyes. He merely had to stare down the patrons who griped at him, and they quickly retreated, smelling like fear and perspirant. The Arconan glanced at his scan pulse device, but the myriad of indicators showing lifeforms was so thick that the screen practically showed a blob of red. Not helpful. He flicked his tongue and stowed the tech again, recalling the description and holo of his prey. He would find them. Patience was his forte.
Something grabbed his arm and dragged him down.
The Trandoshan was confused only for a moment before adrenaline and the song of the Hunt sang in his veins, lighting his muscles and priming his nerves. He twisted his way out of the surprisingly strong grip and drew his blue-hued blade in one sinuous motion of sinew, aiming for the hackles of his humanoid assailant.
Another surprise, another blade, this a long knife, countered his, catching it. He blinked reptilian orbs with narrowed pupils at the creature, taking in detail: female, Human, strong, hiding many weapons in seven different places, odd colors. He recognized her smell before he recognized her visually. This one was a known entity: his former Hunt Lord and the one who had authorized his payments. Tameike.
He wondered idly for what purpose she was challenging him — to prove herself a warrior, capable of felling one of the T'doshok? Perhaps for some insult she felt? For sport? Or to take his points?
But the female did not press her attack. Instead she broke their lock and quickly stowed her weapon again, hissing at him, "What are you doing here? Leave! Now. You're gonna frak up everything."
Ahh, so it was not a challenge, or not entirely intended. A shame. Grot had learned in his time about the galaxy that not all creatures who challenged him intended it, and those in the Brotherhood especially tended to behave as if they were superior but balk at a true fight. The strange ones with their strange powers in particular. He did not think Tameike had powers, but he recalled her hatchmate did, and so perhaps she merely hid hers. That would be the intelligent tactic as a hunter.
Grot processed all this quickly as he lowered his sword and snapped his jaw in displeasure, such that a mammal might frown.
"I am on a Hunt," he answered slowly. She was not his commander nor employer any longer, and he felt no obedience to her, but as she had previously managed to lead the clan before her dethroning by the bird-rat Ryn male, it was evident she had at least some mettle and deserved some amount of respect. He would answer her, as they were fellow Hunters for the moment.
"Well forget it," snapped Tameike. "You idiot, you stand out like a raging frakking rancor, here! You're gonna ruin everything."
"I will not abandon my Hunt," Grot said firmly, words hissing and thin around the Basic tongue. "Nor will I hide. I am not prey." An ambush was a tactic; disguise was cowardice. He told her so, and she made an angry Human expression at him.
"Oh for the love of...Shadows take you," snarled the female, makin agitated fidgeting motions of her hands and feet, and Grot grew tense. She would curse him? No. He would not have it. No evil magics would have him. He would defeat her and banish her curse.
"We will battle," growled the Trandoshan, squarin his stance to loom over the female. She scowled at him. "Now."
"What part of 'get out of here before you blow my cover and bring all of the peacekeepers in the Sector down on this place' isn't getting through to yo—"
Silly Humans, chattering about when battle was to be had. Mammals were so very deficient. The female seemed somehow shocked when he swept her legs with his own and deposited her on her back, knocking aside a table and other aliens.
Tameike gasped in pain when he swiftly delivered another strong kick to her middle, spitting invective and insults upon his lineage and intelligence at him while she spat a mouthful of red, hot blood. He moved to plant his sword in her stomach but she twisted and pivoted with a powerful bunching of her abdomen, rolling away from his blow. Before Grot could swing about for another stab, her legs shot out, swifter than his, one foot hooking behind his ankle while the other stamped at his knee. Something snapped loudly, and the Trandoshan gave a roar of pain, his orange eyes burning as he buckled.
Shouts of others were going up around them, dishware breaking, furniture toppled. Attention had been drawn, an audience had. His opponent scrambled backwards, climbing to her feet, their gazes meeting — with him on his knees, they were nearly of a height.
And he saw in her eyes the same manic battle-lust that beat in his own heart.
Grot bared his teeth, feeling vigor with the agony, and surged forward in a brutal tackle.
