Something Wicked This Way Comes

[Elira Asael]

It probably should have bothered her just how much Atton knew about - well - everything. They'd had a decent shouting match over it, after all. Right now, however, with the dust still settling between them, Elira found herself more amused than anything else.

When they'd been younger - much, much younger - Atton had always wanted to know everything. The problem had been, he would just ask or leer creepily in a pathetic attempt at stealth and a far younger, less adult Elira couldn't count the number of times she had told him to shut up or leave her alone. Now Atton didn't ask, and wasn't seen, but still found out all he wanted to know just the same. She was proud in one way, unnerved in many others, but not angry. She'd never been angry - which was something that was hard to believe given the unkind words she had jettisoned at her brother far too recently.

It was, however, something she was going to have to get used to in a big hurry; even if she'd already made some sort of peace with it. Atton's wealth of information was, after all, the single most reason she had to thank for still breathing. Probably the same could be said about her daughter. She wondered if the same was true for others of their merry little band.

"Gods, we're old," she grumbled into the edge of her glass. "When the hells did that go and happen?"

[Atton Kira]

"Speak for yourself," Atton quipped back, with a chuckle.

It was a deflection, a knee-jerk defence mechanism that prevented him from needing to openly acknowledge the fact that she was right. Thanks to the Epicanthix side of her genome, Elira had aged somewhat more gracefully than her fully human little brother had, but there was no denying that the both of them were part of a generation that was rapidly growing obsolete. Force sakes, they were practically the grandparent generation, though fortunately, no one in their family had any designs on cementing that status just yet. There had come a time when people who couldn't remember the Clone Wars, who'd been born during or since it, made him feel old. Now, there were people being born who - if the peace held, at least - wouldn't remember the Galactic Civil War either.

Uninvited, a stray whisper of Benjamin Kira's voice tumbled through Atton's mind. It's not how many years you've lived, his father had droned, words that the absentee patriarch had droned as if there was some profound significance to them, But how many wars you remember.

Atton fought the urge to cringe at the pretentious words. They had been a brag, a nascent reminder to Atton that Benjamin Kira was a war hero. By the grace of his father's own disinterest, he had been allowed to spend much of his youth among the Ath-Thu'ban household on Alderaan, protected from the obligations of Alderaani nobility by the lack of marital bond between his parents when he had been born. Atton had never quite known what happened when the Admiral and the Contessa had learned of her pregnancy: he liked to pretend that she had been thrilled, wanting to cement their romance through marriage so that Atton could be born as a proper part of her family; and that his father had refused, abandoning her and him in favour of continued dedication to his reputation as an officer. Atton liked that narrative: the parent who wanted him, and the one that didn't. He liked it better than the more probable version that he was unwanted by both; but at least his mother had the decency to do a better job of hiding it.

It had been a lonely childhood, though. Not an Ath-Thu'ban, not a true Alderaanian, not a clue of how to act like the sort of noble that the household and culture demanded that he be. His brother, Mal'achai, had been off on distant worlds serving the family, the homeworld, and the Republic as a Jedi Knight: an example that Atton couldn't possibly have followed. Elira meanwhile, she shrugged off the same expectations that Atton failed to achieve. While the pressures of expectation and disappointment filled him with a dizzying confusion over who he was meant to be, Elira stood there as a beacon of self-identity. She was who she was; she was who she chose to be. Atton envied that. Idolised that. He'd done everything in his infant power to emulate her, or at least to adapt himself into the kind of person that Elira wouldn't want to push away.

He'd failed. Just like Mal'achai, and just like his father, Elira had left, off on her quest for rebellion along the galaxy's spacelanes. Atton had surrendered, leaving behind an Alderaan that he didn't deserve to be part of, and following his father's footsteps into the military, hoping that serving in the Clone Wars would earn him the respect that his father had denied him for so long. Of course, it wasn't good enough. Atton's service with Republic Intelligence merely provided his father with a more specific reason to look down upon him. It wasn't proper warfare, not proper service, not the kind that was worthy of celebration or acclaim. It became a joke, the son from Intelligence becoming new nomenclature for the bastard, the outsider, the unwanted son.

And then the war had ended, and Elira had found him. Under the guise of honouring their brother - a brother they both believed to have fallen heroically, a decade before the Clone Wars even began - they had rebelled; Elira perhaps merely for the sake of it, and Atton as a means to spite his father. They had smuggled survivors of the Jedi Order away from the forces of Palpatine and his Purge. They had flipped their fingers at new Imperial regulations and tariffs, Elira's connections and Atton's understanding of the Empire's inner workings steering them through the shadows to adventure and profit.

Then it had fallen apart. All of it. The business with Inyos. The birth of Sadie. Atton couldn't even remember which of them deserved the blame for the falling out that had driven he and Elira in different directions. And now here they were, together again, every premise of the last decades a smouldering ruin at their feet. Sadie was no longer the unwanted daughter. Elira and Atton were no longer estranged. Mal'achai was no longer the noble martyr, instead twisted into something insidious and dark that Atton couldn't even begin to fathom.

His father said that wars were the truest mark of age; were that so, then all the struggles, and conflict, and heartbreak that this family had endured surely made them all ancient.

"You may be getting a bit grey and wrinkled around the edges, but me? I'm barely coming into my prime."

[Vittore Montegue]

This life was tougher than Vittore had ever expected it to be.

On paper, or flimsiplast, or the back of your hand, or whatever the hell it was you used to scribble things down on, it should have been easy. Emelie Shadowstar and her Elysian Acquisitions corporation had him on retainer, which basically meant that he got paid for sitting around on his ass waiting for them to find something for him to do. Sure, maybe those jobs weren't quite as thrilling and death-defying as the ones Vittore might have picked for himself, but he wasn't the same man he'd been back when those had been his employ of choice, what with the whole having something to live for now thing; and honestly, if he was getting restless and bored, Miss Shads was pretty cool with letting him do the odd side task, so long as he was at her beck and call when she needed him to be. And all this downtime, all this opportunity to spend time with Sadie, in familiar surroundings, without people shooting at them? It was all pretty great.

Yet at the same time, it was immensely difficult. It wasn't just that Vittore struggled with staying in the same place for too long, it was that he struggled feeling as if he deserved all of this. His work as a hunter had been penance or self-punishment for his perceived sins, and to have set that aside, and replaced it with this? This happiness, this bliss, this feeling of being worth a damn to someone? It was a constant joy, day after day, and it filled Vittore with a whole new set of fears and worries that he wouldn't ordinarily have contended with. He wasn't trained for this. He didn't know what the hell he was doing. What if he screwed things up? What if he did something wrong? What if one of these days, Sadie realised that there was a whole galaxy of better guys out there, and made a totally justified upgrade? He wasn't some lovesick sap, and it wasn't as if he'd chosen to hang the pivot of his happiness around her shoulders; but there'd been no happiness before, and the kind he enjoyed right now was the happiness she'd brought with her when she'd strolled into his life.

It wasn't something that kept him up at night, or that plagued him constantly, but there were moments - moments when the stray thoughts crept in, poking at the edge of what should otherwise be happy. Like now, for example. Strolling down the promenades of Cloud City's lower levels, off in search of somewhere with good eats and passable drinks. They'd been systematically working their way through the bistros and food outlets, making note of the ones they liked best so that they could circle back to them on those days where they didn't really feel like being adventurous. It was those kinds of things: so normal, so perfect, and so utterly undeserved by Vittore Montegue. That was when there'd be the flicker, like that faint crackling instant when a light fitting trembled just the slightest bit. In a moment it was gone, almost as if it hadn't been there, but still: you don't deserve her, was the persistent whisper in his head.

Yeah, I know, was the silently grumbled reply.

This time, it was the accidental brush of his knuckles against hers that sparked off the little flicker of anxiety in him. Things were complicated when it came to contact between them, for a whole host of completely understandable reasons. But while Vittore understood the reasons, what he didn't understand was the limitations, the restrictions, the edges of what he was and wasn't allowed to do, and was or wasn't supposed to do. Should they have been holding hands right now? Was that a not okay now thing, or a not okay ever thing? If it was okay, would Sadie just grab hold of his hand, or his arm, and that would be that? Or was he expected to be the one to do that, some unspoken obligation to make that move and be the man in this relationship? No one had briefed him on that, and it wasn't like Vittore was exactly rolling in people willing to offer advice. You had the Jedi, and the Att-Man, who were Sadie's father and uncle, and even if they did seem like people who might have valid relationship advice - disclaimer: they did not - it would have been weird. You had Little Nelly, Nen Lev'i, whose solution to everything was pretty much hug it and it'll be fine; and then there were folks like Captain Asael and Miss Shads, who - and no judgement here - would probably have a Force sakes, why are you two not banging already sort of reaction, which would be especially weird coming from Sadie's mother in particular. And then there was Ammo, the Mandalorian, who Vittore was happy to chat to about guns and stuff, and who seemed like the sort of person who'd offer insightful advice, but still. Mandalorian courtship was probably something about hunting a wild animal with your bare hands and presenting it to your desired mate as a trophy, and somehow that didn't really seem like Sadie's thing.

Of course, making it worse was the fact that Sadie was now connected into Jedi radio, and was probably totally aware of every little flutter of anxiety and doubt that he ever felt. If she was, she did a good job of hiding it, but still: add that to the list of things to feel guilty about. Everything else aside, Sadie for sure deserved someone who wasn't going to subject her to his kind of baggage on top of everyone else.

Carefully and discretely he drew a breath, cycling it through his lungs and trying to clear his mind. It was something he'd read in a book about meditation. Not explicitly a do not dump your emotions on your Jedi girlfriend technique or anything like that, but Jedi stuff was all about clearing your mind and calming your emotions and stuff, so it seemed like as good a place to start as any.

"Where'd we get to on the list?" he asked aloud, a distraction for himself as much as anything else. "Please tell me it's not the live insect joint today. I dunno if I'm brave enough."

[Sadie K'Vesh]

"Oh kriff no, if it were we'd be skippin' right on past," Sadie offered as she went and took a sidestep that was one of them just enough movements that bumped her against Vitt and caused her hand to meet his for just a smidge.

It weren't intimacy by any damn standards, and it was right embarrassing for folks like them where physical stuff was just that. At the down right heart of it Sadie knew this was stupid. The two of them seriously needed to just get on past this dren and have one proper night of mussing up the sheets and this would be over. Trouble was, making that move to get there was proving a whole heap of a ton harder than it had any damned right to be. Frak the entire verse for that. Or not as it were.

Worst bit of it all was, despite teachings meant to knock it the frak off, Sadie couldn't help but be aware on the smallest bit, how Vitt were troubled by it all. She didn't dare go and open up and try to really suss out what was bothering him. That left a whole heap of bad ideas incubating but Sadie had the brains to at least go and remind herself of the fact that she had been the one who had tried to run and it was Vitt that'd put a stop to that. That meant more to her than any damn hint of feeling could ever do.

Still, she knew something were eating at her partner and enough to know it was to do with them and that was enough to make Sadie go and worry. But it was a downright respect thing that she didn't try and go and make a fuss about it. They'd figure it all out. Eventually. Probably would take an intervention from a third party who would call them both out on being idiots, but if that were the cost, Sadie would pay gladly.

"Think we've worked up t' that Sullustan joint." The question was answered as Sadie had to go and bring her brain right back on target and go about doing her usual business of attempting to ignore the dren that was off-kilter. "So this could either go right amazin' or we both might be in a whole system of hurt t'morrow."

[Vittore Montegue]

Sullustans. Right.

Vittore cringed a little internally, as old instincts began to kick in. Working their way through restaurants like this, exploring the different cuisines that Cloud City had to offer, was part of a careful process of unstitching the attitudes that his father had instilled in him. It wasn't that Hugo had been racist, or that Vittore had inherited some form of xenophobia from him; it was more subtle than that, more insidious, more about letting cold analytics get in the way of warm empathy. People weren't people to Hugo Montegue: they were a collection of capabilities, of strengths and weaknesses, of how could I kill them if I needed to, or how would they kill me if they tried? It was hard to think past that, hard to form a thought about them that didn't dwell on their sight, or hearing, or subterranian nature. It was why, in part, Vittore wanted this. It was why he wanted this culinary exploration of Cloud City; it was why his datapad back on the ship was filled with myths and poems and trashy alien romance novels. Hugo had raised him to think about things in a certain way, and maybe he'd never be able to break away from that; but maybe, by sheer force of will, he could corrupt that process, and forge different connections and associations instead.

Right now, he forced his mind to dredge up every piece of trivia about Sullust and Sullustans that he could. SoroSuub, who made those big triangle carriers that the Empire liked to lose. The Paladin blaster rifle Dad had from his Senate Commando days too; Renegades, QuickSnaps, Lancers, and SSKs too, and a whole bunch of other decent guns; and speeders, freighters, starships. The Battle of Sullust, turned into a petty last jab attempt to thwart the Rebellion in the months before the Alliance of Free Planets came to be. The other Battle of Sullust, because they'd sided with the Separatists during the Clone Wars. Pinyumb, the capital city, easy to remember because it sounds like a tasty needle. The Chained Oblivion, both the title and antagonist of an old Sullustese romance poem, and a pretty damn awesome name for a hypothetical band.

There should have been more. He wished there was more. In one meal's time, there would be - even if, like Sadie implied, his asshole might not thank him for it in the morning.

"Just makin' this clear from the outset," he quipped back, returning Sadie's gentle and pretend-accidental nudge of physical contact with one of his own. "Don't get me wrong, I love you... but the Tide's my ship, an' if it comes down to it, I one hundred percent get dibs on the bathroom."

[Sadie K'Vesh]

"Psh, fair 'nuff. Though I mean, if it's that damned terrible we ain't gonna want... t' be..." Whatever crude humored joke Sadie was working on got derailed as her brain finally caught up with something Vitt had gone and said. No, not the bathroom thing that she'd opened herself up to in the first damn place. Nope, something way worse and more profound had been spouted and Sadie was damn sure she'd never heard Vitt say it before, not even in the joking way he'd just done and gone brushed it off.

"Wait. Did y' just say... You..." Well frak. Was she supposed to say it back? She did after all. But it felt so obligatory to do that. And why did people put such a big gorram emphasis on a simple four lettered word anyway? What was it about four letter words in general having some freakish power over folks? It weren't fair to put that much pressure on something like that, she figured. But at the same time... didn't seem right to just blurt it out either just because she could or should or something.

[Vittore Montegue]

Oh no. What did I do?

For a moment, horror swept through Vittore's mind, an army of thoughts and demons turning on him with weapons drawn in accusation. What mistake had he made? What had he said that he shouldn't have done? How had he managed to mess up something as simple as walking and talking? His words replayed in his mind, scrutinised and dissected for whatever utterance had been out of place or unwelcome, analysed from all angles for possible interpretations that he had not considered, or insensitivities that might have tripped unknowingly across some issue that he had not been careful enough to avoid.

But then he found it, the dull and tarnished copper coin in a dragon horde of gold. I love you. Was that it? Had those three words been the comment that made Sadie's thoughts stop in their track? Granted, he had in fact uttered I love you, but, which was not a good fourth word to append to that trio - not with only a singular t, at least - but still. Was there something wrong with that sentiment? Was it a word too far, a level too high, a specific word applied to a relationship that for Sadie was still vague and uncertain? He supposed it could be. He supposed it was like those articles he stumbled across while browsing the holonet unable to speak, where lovesick teens asked anonymous others whether it was too soon to say love, or asked how to know whether it was safe for labels like boyfriend and girlfriend. Of all his doubts and uncertainties, how he felt about Sadie was the one thing of which Vittore was absolutely certain. Dread filled him at the thought that he might be alone in that certainty.

Fortunately, his racing mind reached back further, scouring through every conversation that the two of them had ever shared. Was it simply that he had never said it before? That he had chosen perhaps the worst possible time to utter a word that should have been saved for some perfect, intimate moment? If that were true, the notion horrified him. Had he really gone so long feeling it without saying it? Had he robbed himself and Sadie of the cathartic bliss that came from knowing that all they felt could be crystalised down into a single, simple word?

He stopped in his tracks, physically rather than Sadie's verbal equivalent, waiting for her to turn enough so he could meet her gaze, a nervous smile stumbling like a newborn deer to find its way to his lips.

"Damn right I did," he said, managing to sound confident for those few words, before hesitation began to creep in. "I guess I figured it was so obvious that I forgot to go and say it."

He reached out, fighting the impulses not to, the fingers of his hand gently ensnaring the fingers of hers.

"I love you, Sadie. I hope that's okay."

[Sadie K'Vesh]

He made it all seem so damned easy to just go and admit your feelings openly that Sadie found herself a might bit jealous. Maybe she'd just been overthinking the whole damned notion, putting too much emphasis on something that really just were all that simple. It weren't like their option about each other was some right secret or nothing, they both knew so yeah, maybe it was just that they'd never said nothing but had been saying it all along somehow anyhow. Whatever, it was out in the open now, breathed and spoken and damn if it didn't leave her with one of them stupid doe eyed smiles that Sadie knew broadcasted her inability to hide the fact she was really just a giant sap deep down. When the kriff had that happened?

Her fingers tightened the tenuous hold between them and then she went and tossed caution to the winds, because why the hells not?

"It's totally okay, but only if I can go an' say that th' feelin' is all kinds of mutual. I love you, Vittore."

So there it was, L word loud and clear and spoken and it should have left her feeling like Cloud City itself had gone and fallen away and left them both soaring alone. But it... Didn't. Okay, so it had for a second or two, just some brief moment after she'd gone and spoken up finally. But then?

It was... weird. And downright unnerving and... cold. That was the right proper word for it. Sadie felt cold. Like some sort of chill wind had swept in snatched the warmth they'd created with overdue admissions and she just couldn't figure... why. What part of the verse saw fit to make that how she felt?? But it weren't coming from her. It wasn't inside it was an invasion.

Her breath felt heavy as if turning to liquid in her chest that were trying to strangle her, and the smile that was so easily placed vanished as Sadie found her eyes moving away from Vitt's to past him. Things seemed to slow as she watched the people behind him, walking, talking, carrying on as if nothing was happening.

And then there it was. A parting in the crowd and the bottom of her stomach, her heart, her very soul fell out.

No.

No kriffing, fraking, WAY.

Wake up, Sid! Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

But she weren't sleeping. This weren't some pleasant dream turned sudden nightmare. This was real, this was happening.

And some hellish imagined larger and more imposing version than she had ever recalled in her worst memories of Bog'el Xcreth was standing in Cloud City, making eye contact with her across the promenade.

[Emelie Shadowstar]

Emelie didn't mind slow days. Paperwork and a glass of freshly tapped whiskey, both from the newly minted Anwwn distillery made for a delightful combination. The batch wasn't amazing, but it was certainly passable as a first test. There would need to be more opinions and tweaking on the recipe and process, but certainly Emelie could taste the potential. The thought of the Elysium having it's own private label had been too good a thought to pass up and now that she had proof of the product in hand, it always felt good to be doing something so utterly legitimate and in a way new. There were of course, a few more hoops to jump through before she could actually properly offer the fruits of the distillery's labors to the public, but it was getting there. And fast. Probably fast enough that she needed to consider the time frame of a proper ribbon cutting and ceremony. Wonderful more lists; more dancing among Cloud City's politics. Yes, it was certainly a good thing the test batch was certifiably drinkable.

It was enough to keep her attention from fully recognizing the approaching figure through the transparent walls that made up her office, only that someone was here. Not exactly an invited guest, but if it was really someone to be concerned with, no doubt Nen would have notified her. As the door opened Emelie allowed herself to look up, seeing who would be so brazen as to wander in without so much as a warning or a greeting. The smug grin that greeted her was far from unfamiliar but there was something about Captain Montegue that was certainly off.

Off enough for her hand to quickly move under the desk and pull out the small holdout blaster she kept there. Off enough for her to not hesitate as several - definitely lethal - bolts to be fired into Vittore's chest and certainly off enough that Emelie didn't even hesitate about it all for even a second.

"Fool me once, asshole." She muttered, one of those things that probably should have stayed in her thoughts rather than let slip from her tongue.

It wasn't the most graceful of things, but it was far from anything Emelie had ever had to practice either. Sadly the hunter was not the only casualty as her attack had knocked over the glass of whiskey on her desk.

"Frak." Emelie let out with a sigh and placed the blaster back on her desk, clear of where the liquid would reach it. "Such a damn waste."

Shifters. The notion still terrified her. And while outwardly she seemed to react to the sudden death in front of her with nothing more than a casual glance over the edge of her desk before she set about cleaning up the mess she had made, inwardly she was already racing wondering what in the ever living frak was this about now.

And that was when the body on the floor sat up, groaning in protest against the blaster fire that had laid him out only moments ago.

Emelie froze, ice cube melting between her fingertips as her eyes widened at the site. Now that. That was not supposed to happen at all.

"Kriff me."

[Vittore Montegue]

The grin across the Shifter's features - across Vittore Montegue's features, misappropriated for dramatic effect - grew broader.

"That an invitation or an order, boss?"

A moment of contemplation was cast down at the Shifter's chest, the angry craters of seared flash already beginning to shrink and knit together beneath the scorched holes in his shirt. It was a shame, really, to see new clothes ruined so quickly: but his instructions had been very specific about his choice of wardrobe, just as they had been about the face he was required to wear. Security footage, audio recordings, a full psychological and behavioural profile. The level of detail went above and beyond most of what the Clawdite was typically provided. But then, this was no typical job; and he was no longer a typical Clawdite.

The Shifter cracked his neck to the side, for a moment allowing his focus on his mimicry to slacken, a ripple of his true form flowing like a wave across his features. He had to hand it to his new benefactors: their enhancements were more than he could ever have hoped for. All that information that they had provided had not simply been read: it flowed freely into the Shifter's mind from cybernetic implants, and back out into his extremities, gently guiding his movements and mannerisms to conform with the guise he had adopted. His voice, altered by another set of implants, effortlessly escaped as a match for the recordings the Shifter had been treated to: he simply needed to match the inflexions and the linguistics, the technology taking care of the rest. Other adaptations had guided him through the city to his target, weaving around security patrols, evading cameras, bypassing whatever locks and obstacles that might have stood in his way. It was almost effortless, an indescribable upgrade to his capabilities: and all free, offered by scientists who wished only to prove that they could - save for this one small favour, of course.

Which begged the question: how? His mimicry was more perfect than ever, and yet this target, this Shadowstar, had seen through it with barely a hesitation. Before he had not bothered to ask why - why this face, why this target? - assuming simply that his benefactors had his reasons. It wouldn't have been the first time he was sent to pose as a disgruntled employee: such tactics were par for the course, particularly for the discerning individual who wanted to make the most of their corporate insurance policies. Now though, he began to wonder. Was his information in error? Had his benefactors missed some vital clue, some fresh injury, a haircut, a piercing, a level of intimacy between Shadowstar and Montegue for which he had not been prepared?

"I'll do you a favour," he said, climbing slowly and calmly back to his feet, rolling his shoulders as he felt electrical impulses trickle their way down the circuitry embedded into his flesh, stimulating bursts of energy and adrenaline in their wake. He was supposed to use a blaster for this, but circumstances had changed: now he wanted to do this with his bare hands, and the implants were all too eager to accomodate.

"Kriff me as final words is kinda embarassing. How's about you tell me how you knew I wasn't him, and we go with those instead?"

[Emelie Shadowstar]

Sarlaac. The word sprang to mind, the entity or organization that had been responsible for the last Clawdite that had dared wear the face of Captain Montegue in an attempt to end her life. It had to be what this was about. Had the Underworld's computers finally found something that was going to fit all the puzzle pieces together, was this a strike to prevent that from being learned, some sort of fail safe they had triggered? It was the only explanation that Emelie could come up with, but that wasn't exactly important right now. Important was not ending up dead. Sadly, her odds that the real Vittore Montegue would come through the door to save her this time around was rather low.

"Do you really think I would give you any sort of information that could let you keep posing as one of my people?"

Emelie eyed the blaster once more, knowing it was probably futile to pump another few rounds into the imposter, but couldn't help but think it might at least wipe that once-endearing smile off his damn face. If nothing else it took her attention off the horribly loud pounding of her heart and the fact her chest was trying to feel like it was going to cave in on her. She wasn't scared, at least not utterly, but adrenaline and alcohol had a funny way of mixing together.

"I'll give you a hint though, it is one hell of a tell that any one else in my crew will see immediately." The haughtiness was dropped in favor of a mock pout and a sullen bat of her eyelashes. "Guess you'll just have to live with the disappointment of not knowing what it is."

[Vittore Montegue]

The Shifter let out a deep chuckle, one that sounded twisted and out of place emerging from Vittore Montegue's mouth.

"Small words, from a small person."

It didn't matter. The woman's attempts to rile him found no purchase, her naive ignorance to the true scope of the situation serving as the source of the Shifter's amusement. What did he care if Shadowstar's feeble crew saw through his efforts? With her dead, the damage would be done, and the Shifter would simply fade into the anonymity of a different face, slinking off undetected without a trace. The failure of his deception - whether it was his own, or his upgrades - could be analysed at length later, once the fundamentals of his mission were complete.

Once the fun part was complete.

"No matter."

Where would he begin? He knew enough about Emelie Shadowstar not to underestimate her. She'd certainly reacted as swiftly as his information said she might, and she was prepared enough to follow through. Her confidence and her physicality suggested that she might have some fight in her: not enough to matter, but perhaps enough to drag things out long enough to pose a problem. A shame really, to be required to make haste in the interests of the plan, and to waste the opportunity to savour the kill and a not utterly objectionable-looking victim. This wasn't his preference, to merely kill as if it was a transaction: there was so much to be drawn from an extended kill, from each broken bone, each broken spirit, each broken rule of morality. She would not scream for him. She would not weep. He would not get to watch the spark and spirit diminish in her eyes before he extinguished it forever. There would be no trophies either, nor lasting memories, nor echoes of his misdeeds for her to carry into the life beyond. She would simply die; simply end. A shame, really. He almost pitied her.

Almost.

His movements were slow and purposeful as he advanced into the office, his mind ablaze with imagined possibilities. Asphyxiation. That was the route he would choose. A hand around her throat, an effortless crush of her windpipe, the body left strewn across the desk she remained behind. That was the best he could do for her; the most he could extract from her end.

"I must commend you, Miss Shadowstar. You greet your end with more resolve than most."

[Emelie Shadowstar]

"Must be because I'm getting used to people trying to kill me." Emelie shrugged, both psychically and verbally as she tried to ignore that look at that drifted across the Clawdite's eyes.

She wasn't as gifted with empathy as her mother's race, but it didn't take such tricks to know what he was thinking, maybe - thankfully - not the full extent, but she knew the type, knew what sorts of sordid things their sick brains could come up with to do to a someone they saw as weaker. Even without her own personal experience with a man like the one before her, Emelie could guess what sort of things he was envisioning right then. It was enough to sicken her and she should have been utterly terrified about it all. After all, her blaster was useless and the shifter stood between her and her only exit.

The calm she suddenly felt didn't come from herself, however, or any change in accepting her fate. It came from a wholly unexpected and entirely welcome site.

"See the problem is," Emelie felt a familiar smirk tug at the corner of her lips. "There's a guy with a lightsaber that might take issue with what you're planning."

[Nen Lev'i]

The blade hummed into existence the instance its name was mentioned, the golden yellow plasma sweeping in an arc that was more sportsman than swordsman, but it got the job done.

The lightsaber carved through flesh and bone almost without effort, but not fast enough: Emelie's words had been enough to make her attacker begin to turn, and that momentum was preserved in his head as Nen cleaved it clean from his shoulders. The head tumbled, and rolled, deflecting off the doorframe and redirecting on its course towards the ground, trajectory modified to aim towards Nen's knees. "Balls, balls, balls!" escaped from him as he staggered awkwardly backwards, for a moment forgetting the weightless energy blade in his hand; a flicker of awareness half a second later was enough for him to thumb the weapon back into inactive silence, before his attention returned to the now detached head that stared awkwardly back up at him.

Nen flinched as the decapitated body suddenly moved, gravity taking hold to slump the headless form down onto its knees, and then topple it forward into what would have been face-down if there was still a face attached. Nen's ears became decidedly warm as he realised how much his reactions were encroaching upon what might otherwise have been a heroic moment, but it was too late to do anything about that now. Perhaps if Miss Shadowstar's would-be assassin had been courteous enough to actually arrange a proper appointment rather than the untoward approach of waltzing in wearing someone else's face, he might have had enough time to prepare himself for something a bit more cinematic. Next time, he thought to himself, not even bothering to waste the neurons on entertaining the notion that their might not be a next time - with these people, their absolutely would be.

He sighed slightly, in disappointment at himself as much as anything else. "You alright in there, Miss?" he asked, though his attention was only partially on Miss Shadowstar. Of course she was alright, and really there was no point beyond politeness to even ask. Perhaps he might have put a little more effort into it under different circumstances, but right now he was a little too distracted for proper decorum, what with Captain Montegue's face still staring at him. He'd put two and two together, and figured out that this was - he hoped - someone wearing the bounty hunter's face rather than the man he actually knew, but he'd sort of expected him to revert back into his natural state once his head had been lopped off. Apparently not. Maybe the lightsaber had seared the nerve-endings shut, or something sciency like that. Whatever it was, it was certainly going to make the disposal of the body a little weird.

Nen managed a sidelong glance in Miss Shadowstar's direction, not wanting to take his eyes off the dead head for too long.

"This definitely isn't him, right?"

[Emelie Shadowstar]

"Sadie." Emelie spoke as if the name could answer the question alone. It was the thing the Clawdite's research into his assumed identity must have missed, and with all the work Atton did into hiding the girl, it was no wonder. "He was far too happy and she's nowhere in sight. So no, definitely not him."

The breath that she'd been holding in, the tremors that had wanted to work up through her hands, Emelie gave in to them all for one instant as she leaned a hand heavily against her desk and allowed herself a few moments to regain composure. This was not a random attack, and the fact the shifter didn't even react to her threats of the others being able to see through his disguise spoke volumes. The Clawdite was meant for her and her alone and while Emelie would have been flattered to think that this was a simple assassination attempt on her, it was too clever, too precise, and besides... Last time, there had been a guy with a giant red lightsaber and gold armor to back up where the assassin had failed. There would be more but where.

"We need to check on the others," It wasn't exactly an order that Emelie gave as she came from behind her desk and walked towards Nen.

Yes, finding out where everyone else was, what they were doing, making sure they were safe. That was top priority. But in that instant, it had to wait for something else.

Without ceremony, Emelie nudged the severed head away from her assistant with her foot and then quickly closed the gap between her and Nen, her arms flinging themselves around him to draw him into what was probably a little more friendly an embrace than was proper for an employer and employee. Whatever. He should have been used to her style by now.

"You are so getting a raise."

[Inyos Aamoran]

Inyos sat in silence, perched atop one of the couches at the periphery of Elysium. He had been there, once: the ruins of Elysium on Alderaan, fragmented remnants that hinted at vast stone structures that had existed millennia before. Those ruins no longer existed of course, just like the rest of Alderaan, but Inyos wondered if the name's significance was understood. Had Emelie Shadowstar understood the subtle tribute that her nightclub played to the world that had been home to several of those who now orbited her? Had it been Atton Kira, whispering memories of home as benign suggestions? Or was it a cosmic coincidence, another expression of the will that pulled on the strings of destiny, drawing strands of thought from each of them to weave together in a tapestry of shared experience?

Whatever the origin of Elysium's name, it served a vital function: a subject on which to meditate, drawing his thoughts away from the dubious nature of the couch's upholstery. Though he was sure that Elira's passing comment about his 'brave' seating choice had been in jest, Inyos had spent enough time in low-budget accommodation in the galaxy's seedier corners to know that the prior history and fluid exposure of couch cushions and mattresses was something best left to the realm of the unconsidered.

Perhaps he should not have been meditating at all. The purpose of his presence here was to hang out, spending time in the company of others rather than in solitude. He supposed it was a fair criticism: outside of training with Sadie, and time alone with Elira, he kept mostly to himself, waiting for the next opportunity to be of use. It was how the days on Ossus and on the Wheel had been spent, spare moments dedicated to contemplation and reflection. It had been how his entire existence on Ord Ithil had been spent, as well as every rare and stolen moment of privacy during their evasion of the Empire and Inquisitors. Even in the days of the Jedi, back before the war, solitude was a refuge that he cherished and retreated to: be it his quarters, the Archives, or one of the Temple's meditation rooms. Yet, back then, there had been no one to expect or wish otherwise from him. There had been no family to be part of, and Inyos desperately longed to live up to his role in that; but the how was tricky, and elusive. He was present, and yet still found no real need for him to be; nor did he wish to intrude, particularly not on the rare occurrence of an amicable conversation between Elira and her brother. He could feel how much that meant to both of them, and knew that were he to encroach, he would be like a third ion engine on a TIE Fighter, redundant and utterly -

His eyes snapped open, an icy stab of fear piercing through his mind. Sadie. Danger. He tried to reach out, but the second his mind strayed past the threshold of Elysium, his perceptions recoiling in pain as if something was shrieking inside his mind. At first, it was everywhere, but as the seconds passed it shifted and changed, his mind fighting to discern a distance, a direction. His attention shifted to the back corner, a seldom-used doorway that led out into the access corridors behind Elysium, rather than out onto the main street. He felt it, them, the force of their intent piercing through the cacophony.

The instant the doorway opened, Inyos was in motion, hurling himself into an arc through the air with a single leap. His lightsaber activated en route, and the first figure was bisected before they could even react, the blade's direction reversed to slice first through the blaster of the next assailant, and then through the arms that held it. A gust of Force hurled the figure backwards against the wall, and Inyos twisted the lightsaber in his grip, thrusting it behind him through the belt - and abdomen - of the third and final figure. As the plasma blade turned the last figure's gut into an imprompteu sheath, the device it had lanced through sparked and stuttered in protest, and the screach in Inyos' mind fell silent.

What didn't fade was the icy chill, that twisted in his mind like a knife: the gut-churning sense of Sadie's fear and distress. It was a fear that infected him, and became his own as he turned back to the figure he had discarded. He surveyed the man's gear as he approached: generic and unmarked, but new; not mercenaries then. They had carried themselves like soldiers; Stormtroopers; Commandos, perhaps, despite the lack of markings to suggest that. Inyos' lightsaber fell silent, returned to his belt, the now empty hand reaching out through the Force to wrench the man's helmet from him, sending it clattering across Elysium. He saw the man's tongue shift within his mouth, a tell-tale sign of a poison capsule being dislodged, ready for a fatal bite. No. The Force gripped the man's jaw, wrenching it downward, plucking the capsule free and tossing that harmlessly aside as well. They had come prepared: prepared to die, but also prepared for a Jedi, if that device of theirs was any indication. Inyos had never encountered anything like it: but the same was true of every weapon the Empire had tried to wield against the Jedi. They had come prepared for him, to kill him. No: not just him. Sadie.

The Force reached out for the soldier again, less delicate this time, swirling around the man's torso like a tornado in the process of forming. He had felt it, moments before these men had arrived. Her fear. Panic. Danger. The Force's grip around the soldier tightened. They had come for his daughter. They had come to hurt her, to take her, to rip her away from him. They were here for his family, for his home, to destroy what he had found, to drive him back to solitude; back to the darkness. No. The plasteel of the soldier's armour began to crack, sections of it beginning to cave in as the Force squeezed tighter. Not again. Never again. Bones began to follow suit, popping and cracking beneath the strain. The soldier's jaw worked, part a gasp for breath, part a plea - mercy, perhaps. Inyos didn't allow him to speak. Didn't need to. Whatever words the man had, whatever truths or insights he might offer, they didn't matter: he didn't deserve to live long enough to utter them, and didn't deserve to die on his own terms. Outstretched arm trembling, Inyos bade the Force to lift him from the ground, the constriction ever tightening until with one last sickening crunch, the soldier's chest caved in and his body turned limp. The Force slackened its grip, and the soldier's broken form slumped to the ground.

Inyos turned, the colour drained from his features, his stoic expression somehow devoid of the warmth that most failed to even realise it had.

"Sadie."

The word was spoken as a question, explanation, accusation, and more, delivered in a stern voice towards Atton Kira. If anyone could aid him in that moment, it was him.

"Where is she?"

[Sadie K'Vesh]

We shoulda killed him. Sadie knew it was the damn truth, something that had haunted her when her mind had gone and made itself clear enough to remember the fact that it had been her choice that Bog hadn't died that day. He probably wished he had, and the truth was Sadie, on clouded and very hazy memories of the extent that Vittore had sought retribution for the things Bog had done to her, she never had gone and expected the Zabrak to live. A few days tops.

But no, fraker had gone and survived. Thegorram monster that'd more or less enslaved her for too many damn years, had pulled her arm from it's socket more times than Sadie could ever go and try to count, who had tortured her, carved a series of horrific designs into her, attempted to let her life drain away from her; and now the bastard was here.

Sadie had always stood up to Bog, always told him off and had earned pain for her trouble, but now? Gods fraking it all to hell she was utterly terrified. It weren't right! Rutting bastard had no right to make her feel like that! To come back. To suddenly take everything that she had worked on healing and rip it all the hells away. She was supposed to be stronger than this. Supposed to shout some threatening mockery at her former boss in challenge and all kinds of defiance.

Instead she... She balked. Force damn it all Sadie couldn't even get a rational thought out. Just an endless string of "No" that was going on and on in repeat. It was also the Force that let her know that something was different. She had a reason to be scared to this point. Bog was different, and it weren't that he was just carrying around scars that Vitt had left him to echo the ones that the Zabrak had given Sadie.

And yet, through that damn terror she managed to snag one thing. One bit that she knew for certain. Bog was there for her. She wanted him as far damn away from her as all get out, but he was there for her.

"Vitt..."

Sadie wanted to beg him to run all the same that she wanted to cower behind him. Instead of either, her hands just tightened around his, a desperate cling for the one damn person that could fix this, just as he had before. Whether that meant they both would make for one hell of a getaway or not... Well, Sadie's mind just weren't working right proper to go making any sort of suggestions.

[Vittore Montegue]

Oh. That guy.

It took a moment for Vittore to clock into what had drawn Sadie's attention, what had drained the colour from her face, what had taken their I love you moment and turned it into something sour and fearful. It took a moment to understand why she clung tighter to his hand. It took a moment to understand why it felt as if her every thought, and fear, and feeling was projecting itself into him. Vittore didn't remember his name: not out of disrespect to Sadie, the woman who he'd abused, and tortured, and brutalised; but out of deliberate disrespect for him. Monsters don't have names. It was a lesson his father had taught him, and one of the few that he still clung to, even though he allowed himself to modify the criteria for what monsters were. Hugo had applied the term to the freakish, the different, those who didn't conform to some humanocentric bullshit idea of normalcy. Vittore based that assessment on deeds, and this guy?

"Don't worry."

It wasn't confidence that steadied Vittore's voice. It wasn't anger that set his jaw, or that freed his hand from hers so that it could become a fist. It wasn't rage either, or hate: those emotions were wild, chaotic, untamed and unbridled. This was wrath, sharp like a vibroblade, and Vittore held it in his fists as if it were.

"I got this."

The distance between them couldn't have been more than twenty meters, but it felt like miles. Vittore didn't run, didn't even quicken his pace, much as part of him would have liked to. This was a job left unfinished, a monster left unslain. He ran a mental inventory: a couple of concealed knives, a holdout strapped to his ankle, and his FWG-5 tucked down the back of his pants. Hardly a hunter's arsenal. What he wouldn't give for his '32 about now - but illegal blaster pistols weren't exactly a casual concealed carry sort of a weapon, no matter how lax the regulations were in a city like this. It wouldn't matter, though. He'd break this guy with his bare hands: the asshat Zabrak sure as hell deserved it.

He didn't stand on ceremony, didn't stop for banter or reaction. His fist reeled back the instant it was within range, and struck out without hesitation. It crashed against stone, against steel, against something. Pain reverberated up Vittore's arm, a hushed and confused profanity leaking from his lips. He didn't have even a moment to contemplate before the Zabrak countered, and with a single blow Vittore felt his jaw pop, and saw stars, the deck suddenly unsteady beneath him. He had broken this man, literally, left him in bleeding pieces on the grimy floor of a Nar Shaddaa dive. What had happened to him? What had changed?

The Zabrak flexed, shrugging off the cloak that had hung from his shoulders. His flesh glinted in the dim Port Town illuminations, cold metallic plates and sinews fused to his skin and bones. Cybernetics. Son of a -

The thought didn't even finish before the knife pierced his gut, wrenching an unpleasant grunt from Vittore's throat. The Zabrak's eyes locked with his, and Vittore watched the complete absence of anything play out behind them. "You don't matter," a twisted sythezoid voice uttered, and Vittore believed him. Whatever ire Vittore felt towards him, it was not reciprocated: Vittore was nothing more than an obstacle, and with freakish and superhuman strength, the Zabrak tossed him aside like the nothing that he was, left to slump and bleed discarded on the ground.

The Zabrak's attention turned to Sadie.

"I'm not here for you."

[Sadie K'Vesh]

Sadie hadn't gotten to watch Vitt take care of Bog'el the first time around. She weren't sure that was a good thing or not consider just how unrecognizable the Zabrak had been as far as she could recall - which... wasn't much, thanks to levels of agony and such she was in. But Sadie could damn well recall the aftermath, the fact that Vitt had ended everything she had found tormenting her for years.

So when he had strode off, full of confidence, her protector, her Hunter. The doubt that had settled regarding the shift in Bog's appearance had dissipated. And then that first strike had happened, Sadie's heart and mind swelling at the thought of finally getting to see what she had longed for... then it... all went so so wrong.

Her scream, the voice that came from deep within her, were some reflection of her very essence. No doubt the "NO," shouted from her lips was felt through gorram knows how many places. She had heard - even felt on some level in her young self - when Alderaan was destroyed. But Sadie had no doubt her pain, her wretched agony at watching the horror from her entire life strike down the first man she could admit freely she loved - there was no way it wasn't felt in waves throughout the verse. Not that Sadie gave a gorram care what anyone else felt.

Her fear was forgotten as her eyes trained on Bog'el and she felt alive, felt The Force flowing through her, felt all her teachings from her father that she had tried to ignore before he came into her life come into being.

"YOU FRAKING SHIT."

Her fear was still deeply instilled, but still her outrage rang true. But rather than the full front of her utter loathing of her tormentor being a threat, Bog'el just turned his eyes towards her.

"You know, kid. If I could kill you, if they would let me..." Through cybernetic voice he still manged to sigh. "I'd make it slow."

Sadie tried to ignore it, but the synthetic voice continued.

"What I did to you before? That cutting? That was easy. You need worse to teach you because clearly it didn't work you little Nar Shaddaan Beeogola Nechaska."

It weren't the worst thing Sadie's been called, but it sparked a fire in her all the same.Sadie found her hands tightening, nails digging into her palms, but she still couldn't move. Was a whole heap of complications. A Zabrak she wanted to run from, but had hurt Vitt. She wanted to make him pay.

But while her senses and her head and her courage were trying to gather, Bog stalked forward. And Sadie found herself frozen. The first punch across her jaw stunned her, caused her to stumble back and reel and her head to go fuzzy. The punch to her stomach knocked the damn wind right from her and forced her to the ground. The last? The one that must have been two hands together to crash atop her head before she was limply hoisted up by the front of her shirt and tossed through a damn shop window? Well, blessedly Sadie lost consciousness, but damn if it didn't make it clear that Bog weren't gonna take her in any useful way.

[Vittore Montegue]

"Hey."

The word came out of Vittore's mouth as a croak, lacking any of the desperation that had compelled him to utter it. He winced, propping himself up onto one elbow, and then a knee, stumbling - or whatever the equivalent was before you'd even found your feet. A weak and feeble cough pushed its way out of his lungs, and something shifted in his gut. A knife. Hells. Left in place, just like the blade he'd stabbed into Sadie; though at least the poetic asshat hadn't snapped off the hilt this times.

"Hey. Shit-for-brains."

Vittore forced his way to his feet, arm cradling the knife in his gut. His legs struggled, a staggered side-step bringing him close enough to a wall to catch himself. The knife was tugged free, and tossed aside onto the deck: not the smartest of moves, but about as smart as things were going to get, all things considered. Better to bleed out than have that thing still jammed in there, slicing up more of his innards with every motion. He adopted the best stance that he could. Threatening. Inviting. Whatever worked.

"That all y' got?"

Too many thoughts swam through his head at once. Sadie. Where was Sadie? That was chief among them. The who, what, and why of the Zabrak followed in quick succession. What the hell had happened to this guy? How'd he gone from abusive dick to Darth Vader? Who had the creds? The tech? The desire? Not that any of that mattered - not now, and not for him. Saving Sadie, that was the objective; the only thing that mattered. With a struggled effort, Vittore forced out a faint chuckle. It was weak, but enough.

"C'mon, man. The stuff I did t' you? The bones, the kneecaps, everythin' else? That shit must've hurt, man, like a son of a bitch, and you're just gonna -" An arm gestured for emphasis. "- stroll on by like you ain't even a little salty?"

Overconfidence straightened Vittore's posture. Pain protested, but he ignored it.

"Is there a second that goes by when you don't think about it? All them wires, and circuits, and servos where proper people parts are meant to be? Do you feel 'em, whirrin' and buzzin' about inside your skin? When you try to sleep at night, when you close your eyes, be honest: you see me, right? Starin' down at you, holdin' your life in my hands, lettin' you live so you can endure whatever pathetic inhuman excuse for a life you've got left?"

He watched it happen, the flicker of anger, the crack in whatever determination drove the Zabrak. He'd heard them, blearily, the words he'd uttered to Sadie: someone else had him by the strings, someone who wanted Sadie alive. Good. Real kriffin' good. Second best thing he'd heard all day. That meant options. That meant no matter what happened next, Sadie would be okay; she'd make it; she'd survive. But that wasn't enough. Alive and in tech-face's custody wasn't good enough: not with the kind of people Elysian and the Exchange had pissed off. Not with their luck. Not that there was much he could do about it himself, not alone; but he wasn't alone, was he? For the first time, that really sank in. Not alone in caring about Sadie. Not alone in opposing whoever the hell it was wanting to mess with them this time. Not alone; not for long, at least. All they needed was time.

Before Vittore could properly react, that flicker of anger had changed into a blur of motion. Holy shit, this guy was fast, something Vittore realised too late as the slugthrower he'd tried to pull from behind him was slapped out of his hand before he even got a shot off. It didn't matter though, not as a set of durasteel knuckles threw his nose off-kilter, not as a crushing blow to the chest forced the air from his lungs, or a flurry pummelled him to his knees. A laugh escaped from him, an almost drunken smile as Vittore swayed, taking hit after hit.

"What's so funny?" the cyborg snarled, frustration boiling over.

Vittore's words were muffled as they struggled their way past a split lip and a broken jaw.

"Shouldn't a' messed with us. Its gonna be your last mistake."

"Us?" the Zabrak spat the word with disgust. His mouth split into a sneer. "Your friends are already being taken care of."

A snort of laughter transformed into a cough part-way through. Vittore leaned forward, a meagre spit of blood launched towards the Zabrak's feet.

"They're my family, you glorified dick piercing," he grunted back. "And whatever plan you think you have, however easy they told you this was gonna be, they were wrong. They lied. There's more of us than you can handle, an' you're gonna have to go through each an' every one've us before you get to her."

Vittore hammered his point home with a defiant tilt of his chin.

"Me first."