The Citadel Cantina is located on the second level of the Arcona Citadel. The bar itself is small on the surface, but possess an expansive selection thanks to a clever servos-operated storage system built into the underside of the bar. A bartender only need punch in what drink they require (other than the typical stock) and within a minute the bottle is distributed transparisteel display panels. Relaxed, soothing music plays over the speakers, and a big-screen display terminal with access to the holonet sits across from a series of comfortable lounge chairs and stools.

The Cantina is full-service and is manned by a gruff, one-eyed Rodian named Mick. Mick is a grumpy, former sergeant who served in the Arcona Armed Forces years and years ago. He goes about his business with a series of grunts, gestures, and monosyllabic dialogue. Though a man of few words, he's a genius of alcoholic beverages and mixology. Mick has a very strict rule about no fighting or brawling within the Cantina. The mess hall, on the other hand, is a different story.

The Cantina opens up into a dedicated mess-hall that can hold up to a hundred sentients before it starts to feel claustrophobic. Open at all hours, the mess-hall has been sanctioned as an acceptable area for members to settle aggressions and other frustrations. The tables are all firmly bolted into the halls floor to avoid being thrown over, and are crafted out of durable material that has held it’s own throughout the years. At the far end of the mess-hall there is a pair of double-doors that lead to the kitchen and storage area. The mess-hall is maintained by a full staff of droids, and occasionally a new recruit who has earned the ire of the Rollmaster.

Riverche walked deliberately down the halls of the Citadel toward the Cantina. The very, early morning hours were the perfect time to visit the mess hall for a cup of coffee and an early morning study time. The room was usually empty except for the cleaning droids and the occasional late night worker just ending their shift. That morning was no exception, or at least Riverche thought as she first entered the giant room of tables. The soft humming of the cleaning droids announced their positions clearly for the blind Miraluka. A quick scan of the room told her that the room was empty. The smell of food from last night's late shift still filled the air.

After navigating the familiar maze of empty tables and chairs, she retrieved a single cup of freshly brewed coffee from the kitchen area and started to make her way to a table. At the doors leading out of the kitchen, she felt a slight shift in the air like something moving in front of her, which caused her to stop for a moment. Reaching out through the Force, she still could not detect any one. “Just my imagination.” She muttered to herself. “Nothing's there!”

Taking a deep breath, she continued to move toward a table. Placed the cup down on the chosen spot, and reached for a datapad. The feel of a foreign piece of cloth touched her exposed wrist. Spinning around so her back was to the table, she yelled “Reveal yourself! This -”

A male's hand grasped at her throat stopping her in mid command. Fumbling with her hands, she managed to grasp the cup of hot coffee and flung the contents at what she hoped was the face of the invisible assailant. The hand quickly released its victim, and a slight familiar form materialized in her mind before fading again. Marick!

Quickly moving away from the coffee smell, she upholstered her blaster and released a volley of bolts on the moving smell. “Marick, I know it is you!”

The dark liquid soaked into Ghost’s ebony robes, drawing a guttural growl from behind his bone-white mask. The liquid was piping hot, but the cloth layering his body repelled anything more than a brief moment of discomfort. He did not have time to lament, though, as a flurry of crimson lances sliced through the air towards him. So, he channeled that flash of anger into fuel and focused it inward. As the volley closed in, Ghost vaulted up into the air, flipping gracefully over the blaster bolts to land nimbly atop a table roughly ten meters away, unscathed.

Instead of trying to track her attacker through his parabola, Riverche took advantage of the much desired separation and made a break for cover. She fired sideways over her shoulder as she sprinted for the food serving area. Out of the peripheral of her unique Force-sight, she watched Ghost bounce from table to table, carefully evading each of her erratic shots.

As she reached the food counter, Riverche hopped up feet first and slid over the metal surface and down into the adjoining kitchen. A serving tray of mashed, fluffy white food spilled out onto the floor and splattered against her robes. The Miraluka wrinkled her nose but immediately pressed up against the cover of the food counter and leveled her blaster with the dining area she had left her attacker behind in.

“Marick!” River cried out. “You would turn on your own Quaestors? Why are you doing this!?”

No answer came and no masked figures with hoods appeared in the mess hall.

With her elbow prone on the counter, Riverche panned her blaster pistol back and forth, her senses stretching out and probing for the familiar signs of her Consul. Typically, Marick’s presence was easy to spot for the Miraluka: stalwart confidence and an unwavering sense of duty entombed by a metaphoric blast-door of willpower. He was a solid grey stone in a sea of rapidly shifting and altering emotions and thoughts. She hunted desperately for that familiar, cold aura, but froze in place as she registered something completely alien.

A blur of muddled energy clouded her senses. Pain, death and torment fused together to paint an aura of pure darkness. Riverche bit her lip nervously at the unfamiliar aura, training her blaster in the direction of the ominous presence.

“No Marick,” a bodiless, modulated voice rang through the kitchen. “Only death.”

The outline of a body shimmered into sight from her right. Riverche let out a sharp yelp as she instinctively squeezed her finger down on the trigger of her blaster, unloading the rest of her clip into the encroaching figure.

Ghost twisted, dipped, and weaved around the frantic flurry of blaster bolts, stepping right up into the Miraluka’s guard. In the same motion, the slender edge of a dagger flashed towards her face.

Riverche managed to lean away from the swipe and jabbed the butt of her pistol into Ghost’s forearm. The masked figure staggered a half a step and the Priestess drove her knee up into her opponents sternum to continue to drive him back.

Ghost caught the point of her knee with an open palm, pushing off of it and propelling himself backwards a few meters.

Her breathing frantic, Riverche placed a hand over her cheek and pulled it away to see a smear of crimson liquid. She stared at her hand mutely, watching her own blood trickle through her fingers. The blood of a Shadesworn. Marick had given his life to protecting and serving Arcona. He would die before letting anything happen to one of his own.

But if this masked figure wasn’t Marick...

She was facing something else entirely. She had corned herself into a closed space where her blaster would be less than effective, and she doubted the masked figure would give her time to reload.

And then his emerald lightsaber hissed to life.

Determined not to let the stranger win, Riverche quickly released her lightsaber from her belt and activated it. She stood up with her back inches away from the food trays. In her right hand, she held the lightsaber in front of her ready to defend herself. Her other hand hid behind her back crackling with streams of electricity.

Luring her attacker into close range, she waited until he raised his arm to swing at her. Her lightsaber blocked the incoming blows as she raised her free hand to release the ball of light directly into the mask covering his face. Light crackled around his body for a moment before the assailant stumbled backwards to the back wall dropping his lightsaber on a nearby counter.

She continued to drive him backwards around the corner with a series of swipes of the lightsaber and well placed kicks. Not giving him a moment to gather his abandoned saber. The door to the food storage room slid open on its own accord as the pair neared the end of the room. He flipped backwards through the open door to escape a well aimed knee to the lower center of his body.

As the coerced door slammed in between the dueling pair, Riverche rolled a small metal ball into the store room with the stranger. Deactivating her lightsaber, she quickly activated the lock on the door and within a few moments, she changed the codes for it.

As she walked past the counter that held the foreign lightsaber, she graped it as a reminder that even in the Citadel she needs to be ready for anything.

Riverche’s body froze in place, but her mind continued to work frantically. She had to do something. Anything, really, would be better than just standing in place like a nexu in headlights.

So she dropped her pistol the ground and held her empty hands up into the air. “Okay, I surrender. Please don’t kill me,” the Miraluka woman said, her voice sinking to seem small and fragile.

The masked figure continued to walk towards her slowly, step by step. He gave no indication of listening, but at the very least he didn’t move to outright kill her. That was a good thing.

Riverche knew it was a longshot, but her options were limited. Reaching out through the Force, she gently probed at the corners of her opponents mind. The solid sheet of willpower that greeted her was unmoving, but with no weapons on her person, she managed to find the slightest of cracks. Her will pushed forward through the crack and into Ghost’s mind and pressing down hard against his subconscious.

“There is no need for violence,” she said slowly, letting her words mixing with the applied pressure of her mind. She turned her wrist in a tight wave to punctuate her tick.

Ghost’s saber deactivated. “There is no need for violence,” he repeated duly.

“Which is exactly why I’ll be going now,” Riverche said with a sudden grin.

Before Ghost could regain his wit, the Priestess unclipped a flashbang from her belt and let it drop at her feet. It detonated on contact with the floor and sent a blinding white light throughout the entire kitchen. The masked figure reeled back, hands going over his glowing eyes as he growled in pain.

Riverche didn’t wait around for the metaphoric smoke to clear. She vaulted back over the food counter and into the mess hall, breaking into a sprint for the exit. Nothing elsemattered. If she could get to the exit, she could find help.

Even without eyes, the sound of the detonation had still done a number on the Miraluka’s ears. The world around her sounded bleak and dull and muffled. All she could hear an incessant screech of a dying frequency.

Which is why she never even registered the stun baton that took her right in the back of the skull. A sudden surge of electricity flooded her senses as the baton stuck again in the same spot. She stumbled forward and then felt her consciousness slip as the baton stuck a third time.

Everything went black.

-=x=-

Marick-As-Ghost stood over the Miraluka and leaned down to check her pulse. She was still breathing, which was good. His ears still rung and his eyes still sported an array of spots, but he willed the Force to numb his nerves to the discomfort.

He turned River over onto her back, patted her shoulder once like a father showing praise to his child. “You’ve grown a lot, River. I’m proud of you,” he said softly in his usual voice. With that, he stepped away from the Miraluka and disappeared into the shadows.