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Tread Lightly [closed] - Printable Version

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Tread Lightly [closed] - Kat - 11-03-2015

<img style="" src="http://i.imgur.com/CZb2Wyp.png" style="max-width:100%;]
A 1x1 between Kat && Deific.
Feel free to read along.
<img style="max-width:25%;float:right;margin:0 0 18px 18px;" src="http://i.imgur.com/FXQBglf.png" style="avatar]Rhailo Destros was considered a flight risk, so she was kept grounded. Detained. A small cell in Nar Shaddaa's loading quarter was where Hutta interplanetary forces housed her, with a few wayward guards pacing the halls of their cubed office building. Honestly, if she wasn't busy using a laser switch as a jimmied lock pick, she might have taken offense; after all, her methods were seen as being quite cunning. Had the woman not been a severe problem in great need of remedying, she wouldn't be contained to begin with- but the logic behind their imprisonment protocol was lost on her. Time didn't wait for the thoughts to settle though, and the small beam of energy she maneuvered like a stylus only had so much juice left in it's waning battery life. Fingers eased the measure against the light frame of the jail cell, sparking discontent across the face of the energy door. Rifts in the fabric shot across the front, testing the solidity of her exit time and time again.

Searching, opalescent hues finally found a hole in the barrier. "Oh, you lot really didn't plan ahead..." The woman smiled into her commentary, crouched to re-position just before sliding the point of her pen-like device through the severed material. Something in the mesh sizzled, and collectively, the entire framework crumpled loosely where the middle was breached, leaving it to hang like a toppled hammock while she rose to step over her handiwork. Stylus was pocketed while her figure sauntered along, one stiletto heel clicking extra hard as she activated her camouflage tech. Suddenly, what had once been the buxom figure with startling features and moonlit hair now appeared to those around her as nothing more than a factory model R2-71 unit. The most common custodial unit on Nar Shaddaa.

Leaving the facility was a fucking joke. If androids laughed as loudly as she did when the cityscape stretched before her some moments later, Rhailo would have to look into acquiring one of her own. A reminder of another eventful outing. The disguise dissipated as she coasted the streets, drifting between shops and shuffling pedestrians all trying to make their way from low end to high roller. Nar Shaddaa was, in some ways, a real escape from typical galactic tyranny, but it had enough crime to sink lesser planets into far worse states. The nightlife was the real draw, she assumed, as clubs with flashing neon signs burned as effigies to lost causes and loose morals. There were endless ways to lose one's self in the atmosphere of the metropolis, but Rhailo didn't have time to table dance and gamble the very last of her credits; not with syndicate enforcer's still looking for her.

As it was, the Auroun female owed more credits than could be payed off in several life times. God, she knew it too, because every bookie, loan shark, club jockey, and mob boss on this flashbulb spaceport was trying to track her down. And, if said search parties couldn't have the credits due, they could have her, and such a concept wasn't so outrageous when one knew a bit about her people. It almost made sense to think they might prefer her instead. Rhailo was one of the very few Aurouns on this side of the galaxy, and even elsewhere, they weren't a common race to come across in one's space journeying. The common misconception was the Auroun were hunted and enslaved by a neighboring quadrant's government, but this wasn't anywhere near the truth, and even Rhailo wasn't so cocky to believe her people to be desirable enough to be the chosen slave race of war mongers on Anassi Prime.

Yet there was a certain air to the creature that seemed to attract attention, even when she was doing her best to look inconspicuous within the denizens in transit. Sights followed her shapely figure when Rhailo sidled around smaller races scooting past her ankles, and anonymous catcalls sounded from alleyways every other street she bypassed. Her destination was a dingy cantina many wouldn't consider more than a crack in the wall, but when it was finally in her sights, the unique Auroun ducked from the populace and headed inside.

Idly, her hands toyed at belt hoops on her pants, thumbs poking through to hang forgotten while Rhailo sauntered through the dimly lit bar. No one seemed to want to look her way, save maybe the six armed bartender, though he only had a snort to share with this familiar patron.

"What, no welcome wagon? You guys gotta be kidding me.." Rhailo reached a particularly skittish creature where it perched in a seat far too large for it's Rat-like body, and one leg shot out to kick over the stool, sending the alien flying to the floor with a miserable squeak. "What's that, Grauzli? You got something to say to me after you fucking snitched?" Rhailo brought a heel up and stepped on the throat of the animal while she continued with, "And none of you fucking idiots thought to teach the informant a lesson? Fucking pathetic."

Rhailo's heel didn't stop it's descent until the gurgles of beast were silenced, it's thrashing limbs ceasing to move after it's throat was crushed. Such was their lives in the belly of the beast known as Nar Shaddaa.

"Whatever. I'll be the fucking exterminator, as always.." Strange opal shaded orbs were directed back to the bar, and she commented, "You're awful quiet for someone who owes me a favor."

"Gonna cash it in?" The bartender asked as several of his arms moved around, busied with cleaning glasses and wiping down the counter area.

"Yeah, lemme cash it. How about you tell me who the hell is looking for me?" Rhailo picked up the seat she had previously kicked over and settled it down near the alien, beckoning him closer with a single manicured finger. "I end up in minimum lockdown when the rat rat's on me, but we both fucking know they were only holding me..."

"Yeah, heard that." The creature, with his almost reptilian features, seemed to narrow his gaze. "They got someone professional headed this way. Don't know the details, don't know the time frame... But from what I've head, someone wants you bad."

Rhailo couldn't help laughing at his words, offering, "Tell me something I don't know, pal. Right, whatever. That ain't enough information to count for a favor... But I'll leave you guys out of this." Back to her feet she went, giving the patrons a sweeping look before adding on her way back through the door, "Be a shame is anyone mentioned I was here..."

As much as she might have loved sticking around to intimidate the lowlifes of the lower end, Rhailo had an apartment to head to. Even a rampaging gambler required having a shitty loft to crash in, and it just so happened to be where the supplies needed to get through this uncomfortable conundrum were stored. Probably about time for the woman to get the hell off this space trash planet anyway, considering just how extensive the damage to her reputation had become. Even knowing she was being hunted didn't actually help her, as she had enough organizations riled up, it could have been any of their orders. Perhaps there would be multiple bounties on her head at this point; she didn't want to think about it.

The streets got darker the farther she moved away from the casinos and bars, her apartment a top shelf dive in it's own right, crammed between countless small businesses of a less than reputable variety. A shoddy elevator shot her up 71 stories, past all the other gamblers and pimps and urchins residing in the building, and then stopped abruptly to spit her out. The hallway looked like someone had taken a blow torch to the walls a few times, but Rhailo was seemingly un-phased. After all, she lived here- she knew it was a shit hole. The door opened after the facial recognition software finally kicked in, so for about five minutes, she just poked her tongue out and made an array of faces to pass the time.

Inside, Rhailo tensed, sniffing the air. Someone had been there... The woman could smell battery acid and some other fuel source she had no reason to own, and it put pause to her plans of rummaging through her belongings.

"Hello?" Was all she asked, but it was loud enough to cut through the static quiet. Peculiar orbs searched for movement, for light sources, for an unfamiliar shape... Anything out of place.

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - deific - 11-03-2015

[font=arial" size="1] “Run diagnostic.” The voice demanded. A cyan HUD immediately flickered up in his visor. Several numbers, scanners, distance calculators, and miscellaneous accessories blotted across the screen. The systems went through their check-list, ensuring that every function of suit and visor were synchronized perfectly. It was customary to do, as proper PCCs and PCIs were necessary before every mission and engagement. Once the diagnostic was complete, the unneeded accessories cleared from the mainstream, leaving the essentials for today’s mission; a hunt and capture.

“Subject of Interest.” The suit’s HUD responded in a computerized voice. “Rhailo Destros. Auroun. Age unknown. Physical characteristics: White hair, long. White eyes. White skin. Height approximately 66 inches. Weight–unknown. Wanted by S'zari syndicate, rewarding 50,000 credits for the following: Grand theft, payment avoidance, assault and battery, subterfuge, vandalism,–” He cut off the list, satisfied with the aforementioned reasons. In all honesty, he didn’t even need a reason to do the work he carried out. All he ever asked for was money, such was the circulation of life. As far as he was concerned, all was fair.

“Mission ROEs” (Rules Of Engagement) The same computerized voice sounded out again from inside of the visor. Wind billowed about, whirling around the Mandalorian from where he stood. “Subject wanted alive or dead. Capture accepted. Extermination accepted. Body required. Damage control disabled.” This meant he had no limitations on his actions.

“Carbine. Check. WESTAR. Check. Kal. Check. Beskad. Check. Duraplast. Intact. Accessories. Accounted for.” Everything was systematic, by the books and standard. He did it no other way. This bolstered his productivity exponentially.

His armor was light, though made of fine Mandalorian material. It was Shocktrooper armor with a jetpack installed. It glistened against the several lights that brandished the streets above and below, carrying small reflections where the armor wasn’t dulled by use. Demagol Sento was considered an exceptional worker in his field. An uncounted mass of successful missions gave him a name that instilled fear in all those who knew of him, for failure was unheard of in his wake. A resolute temperament. An almost unparalleled physique. A sharp mind. Demogal was in his prime.

Upon arriving on Nar Shaddaa, Demagol found his place of duty to be just as repulsive as about any other planet he flew to for bounty. Criminals had a way of going to the same type of places. Run-down, gang-encompassed, murky cesspools of grotesque living standards. So typical that he would find himself here, even if the subject was worth her fair share of credits. He wasn’t one to complain, by why the fuck did they have to drag him here? “You’d think some of these criminals would live the high life..being worth so much.” It was almost a grumble, but was completely inaudible to anyone except Demagol because of the unrelenting winds that accompanied him. He found his comment to be ironic, considering where he was standing right now. While Rhailo was in holding, Demagol had been contacted to retrieve her for the S'zari syndicate. It was supposed to be an easy mission, one that he wouldn’t have to fret over using his weapons in. That of course was until the subject decided to escape from her holding. Because fuck you and your mission, that’s why. This led to Demagol having to personally track down the finer details on this Rhailo criminal. The ease of information on subjects tended to depend on the reward for their incapacitation. High rewards meant big crimes. Big crimes meant big ripples. People effected by such grew in number, and in slums like these, word carried quickly. These people were more than willing to give up information on the subject, Demagol didn’t even have to threaten them. He kind of wanted to. Mandalorians get what they want. But this female had evidently pissed off a multitude of people who were willing to say her whereabouts up to her very address. With that being said, it wasn’t difficult for Demagol to initially source track Rhailo’s movement. She moved without expertise. Linear, predictable, patterned.

This made her almost no fun to track thusfar. Demagol enjoyed a challenge. It was one of the only luxuries of his job. Certainly there is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter. He raised his lightly armored gauntlet up, visually inspecting that the compartments were ready for what was about to happen. He couldn’t afford any malfunctions, not that they ever happened anyways. You can never be too careful! A deafening boom resonated from the sky above, a streak of yellowed lightning jolting across the atmosphere for a split second. Lovely, a storm was moving in. Maybe that was a good thing, it’d make the mission more interesting. Rain pocked and bounced off of his armor, which was primarily a metallic black and blue coloration. On his right shoulder he bore a crest, an insignia; a pair of red wings with a black sword and comet. The opposing shoulder harbored Mandalorian inscription, which translated to ‘I soar on wings of fire.’ Demagol was not often referred to by his first name, but by his reputation’s name, the Astral Phoenix. Phoenix, in short.

“Phoenix.”, the transmission cut into Demagol’s preparation unexpected and to his dislike, as he did not enjoy being interrupted. The voice belonged to a S'zari messenger.

“What do you want. I’m busy.” It was more of a demand than a question. Demagol hadn’t time for niceties.

“It’s information concerning the subject Rhailo Destros. She was last seen ent-” He was cut off by the Mandalorian. “District E. Apartment complex 2. 71st story.”

“And she is in r-” The cutoff repeated. “Room 15, primary hallway. I know. Go away. I have work to do.”

The transmission ended abruptly and Demagol’s HUD cleared up. The mandalorian carried quite an impressive armament about him which allowed him to be ready for just about any situation. From over his shoulder he drew a single shot plasma cannon, in which he now calibrated the shot’s strength. “You made this easy, living so far up.. I guess some people like being right underneath the roof.” The cannon charges and Demagol aims it downward, as he was standing directly on the roof of the building Rhailo Destros resided in. He had calculated everything. Where the building was. The floor. Where her room would be in relation to where he would have to place the blast. Even the placement of the room’s door. He also needed to make sure the blast wasn’t too strong to where it punched through more floors than necessary, such would throw a monkey wrench in the mandalorian’s plans. Demagol took pride in his work.

The smell that overtook Rhailo’s senses was that of superheated plasma concocting within the weapon system. The sound of buildup grew in loudness until finally the necessary ratio had been met and the release mechanism engaged. It fired downward and spread the superheated plasma along the roof’s surface, vaporizing the floor directly beneath the mandalorian’s feet. This sent him into a free fall to the female’s room. The sound was deafening and caused the building to slightly shake, especially as Demagol smashed down into the floor from above. Ironically, this was directly in the view of Rhailo, though he landed on the opposing side of the room.

As the dust and debris settled from the air Demagol emerged, removing a WESTAR-35 from its holster. He didn’t aim the weapon system at the female yet.

“Rhailo Destros.. The S'zari syndicate sends their greetings.” The mandalorian towered at 76 inches tall and looked at Rhailo from across the room. His presence was sudden and unforgiving.

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - Kat - 11-03-2015

Had it not been for the roof top caving in under the the Mandalorian's efforts to penetrate her apartment, Rhailo would have counted herself lucky. Only one bounty hunter. Surly, secretly, she considered her crimes worth at least a small squadron-- but this one seemed to be cut from a different cloth than the usual syndicate bred meat heads she danced circles around. This wasn't her first chase, after all. Rhailo didn't think there was an Auroun alive who hadn't kept to the winds with the dogs of credit chase nipping at their heels, but with such power came great and unforgiving responsibility. There was, to put it lightly, secrets at stake.

Crumbling framework and heavy concrete battered her bedroom, essentially crushing the contents, which included but wasn't limited to the materials she meant to gather. Falsified paperwork, ocular implants for retinal scans, beskar grade upgrades for her armor, said armor. Irreplaceable in their own right, fear quickly shifted to anger as the suited hunter made his appearance within the plumes of smoke and dust, giving just enough information to ensure Rhailo wasn't out of the loop. The name wasn't unknown to the woman, and it was entirely possible she owed them far more than the rest of the syndicates combined.

"I'mma give you credit for showmanship." Rhailo said coolly, tonguing the corner of her lip as opal orbs dragged along the stranger's gear. While she wasn't an expert in what determined quality of supplies, she did know solid craftsmanship when she saw it; his was no amateur job. Whatever set of hands or claws or machinery brought that suit to life wasn't fucking around, and the Auroun made note of what she could see. It wasn't obvious the way she detailed his figure, though she also continued to speak, as though considering what it would take to track the audio while also assessing how she might garner information from his appearance. "I'm sure what you're wearing is a real hit with the ladies everywhere. You know, I always loved a man in a mask. Gives that certain, uh, what would you call it? Allure? Mystique? Sense of wonder?"

Meanwhile, idly, the heel of her stiletto pressed firm into the tile of her entryway. A flicker shimmered through her appearance, almost too brief and too quick to linger on. After all, she was just standing there, speaking.

"I used to have this ex. Real crazy guy, you know. Got big into masks and gear. Hell, he had this thing where his biggest fetish was when he couldn't breathe through his shit, so he'd flop around like a fish." The figure before Demagol gave a sort of shimmy, all hips in those form fitting jeans, arms still content to rest beneath the swell of her breasts. Goodness, was she attractive, all starlit and seductive, lips curling into a curious smirk as eyes watched him. Empty eyes. Eyes without soul. "I think he still hangs down is Kerkirik's from time to time, though he moved on to picking up the Oorkanian's walkers by the dock, and I'm not keen on sharing. You know what I mean? Bet a guy like you doesn't share-"

The mirage, if that was was it could be considered, was starting to fade. The imprint on the fabric of the realm was slipping, lost as time ran out on the illusion, leaving nothing but the faintest whispers in the air. "You got a girlfriend, stud? She know where you are now-"

Rhailo was running. Back through the door she had sneaked, going so far as the elevator, though she reconsidered this course of action as she realized he'd likely blow it up. He didn't seem like he was keen to fuck around, especially when the imagery she left behind ran it's course, as no one liked falling for a decoy. The Auroun cursed quietly, and retreated to the opposite side of the hall, darting towards the stairwell that likely only saw use by the hookers who roamed this darker side of Nar Shaddaa; she was lucky they hadn't crowded the entry point. Despite wearing heels, Rhailo had a certain glide to her step, and her body moved without much movement at all- a glide that rippled through the air like she was floating.

Half in, half out.

Auroun weren't a pleasure race made for servitude. No, they were weavers of fantasy and creators of dreams. They embodied an existence beyond the flesh lands, and though space, and technology, and universal scaling made the entire feel of reality minuscule, their abilities transcended the cosmic concept of space and time. Rhailo knew little of it, but she could phase shift through walls and create near perfect clones of herself, and those small additions seemed to add flavor to an otherwise abusive lifestyle. In all fairness to a rather impressive race, Rhailo was shit at what she did, as there was more to learn, and she never had interest to bother. A bag of tricks was all it took to wreak havoc, and the rest?

Well, the rest was saved for scholars and psions. Rhailo didn't have the drive to excel. Just to squeak by.

The bottom floor came sooner than it should have, but she was cheating by hopping the railing to drop several floors in her haste, as he was likely coming to find the doppelganger disappearing. Pushing back out into the street, fatigue already ate at her muscles like the gnaw of termites at the foundation of a home. Just chipping at the typically energetic being as a means of punishment for pushing herself; she wasn't entirely confident she would get away. Yet, despite it, she made a run for it. Back through the dark back alleys and filthy streets of Nar Shaddaa's most urbanized crime sector. If nothing else, he would need to be quick and agile, as she slipped through the thin cracks with ease due to her lack of heavy gear.

One such spot, a fracture of space between two towering apartment complexes, was where she impractically stuffed herself into; physically pained at how thin it demanded her chest and waist to be for entry. "Stupid fucking curves.."

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - deific - 11-03-2015

[font=arial" size="1] “Suit, run thermal.” He stood there relatively still. There wasn’t a need to be excessive right now. He left a marking in the room, it hid itself in plain sight. He knew what he was chasing. These creatures weren’t the type to act and react like most others he was after. They had abilities. Unfortunately For Rhailo, she was not the first of her race that Demagol had hunted before. He knew what her kind was capable of and his helmet was specially adorned with a duraplast and armorweave that could put a barrier between Demagol and psionic waves. Just as she had mentally predicted, he wasn’t fucking around. The scariest part was that he knew exactly what Rhailo was doing with the mirage, but simply made it out to be that he didn’t. His thermal vision was easily able to see through the ploy and spot the female as she made a break for it. My, was she in for a surprise. Her footprints were visible by their thermal traces and her figure gave off a powerful-enough signature that Demagol was able to track it through the wall. She was sleek, but right now she was nothing but a rat in a maze, and Demagol determined where the exit was. Beneath his visor he smiled an oh-so sinister smile, looking upward at the hole he made in the roof. Stairs? You know who didn’t use stairs? The Astral Phoenix.

“Soar.” The simple command activated the jetpack that was attached to Demagol’s armor, erupting him upward through the hole that he created in the roof. Like a bird of prey he swept through the air, his high-tech thermal vision tracking down the unique signature of the Auroun. All he needed to do was download her body’s personal signature into his system’s cache, and she had given him plenty enough time to do so while she yammered in the room to him initially. Immediately his diagnostic kicks back up, relaying an on-the-spot trail that the female created. The storm still cried out overhead, but this made Demagol an even deadlier aerial predator as he propelled through the air like a falcon.

Perhaps this was a bit unfair, afterall, Demagol was one of the best. Did they really need to send him after this female? Was she that big of a pain in the ass? He didn’t pay it much mind. Sure, she had a stellar looking body, but that fact could be just as deadly as any blaster that one could pull. Looks kill, and sometimes you need to know when they’re going to. This one didn’t seem like a fighter, but to her inevitable dismay her flight maneuvers would not be good enough to rid Demagol of her trail. There was a reason that Demagol didn’t talk much while on his missions. Speaking gave up information one way or another. Already he knew what type of a person this Rhailo was, a trickster. Her pattern of speech indicated that Demagol would need to be precise in his actions and judgments. If he caught her, he’d likely have to be thorough with bindings. If the ex was a true story, and he was somewhat reluctant to believe that it was. Then that would simply be another subject that Demagol could track down and force to speak if this went awry.

However, there was no need. Everything was going exactly as planned. That is the way of the hunt. Through the air he soared, plummeting downward so that he flew near the roofs of the lower buildings. His jetpack propelled him in small bursts, giving him a sort of 'hop’ as he began to close the distance between the subject and himself already. Poor thing, she probably didn’t even know that he was this far along already. She already showed fatigue in her body and the Mandalorian’s suit gave him a definite advantage in the game of endurance. In all honesty he was overestimating the abilities of the female, as he had run into a psion in the past. That fucker was hard to kill. It was the main reason Demagol’s suit had the personal customization to it. What if she turned out to be just as big a pain in the ass? Thanks to his jetpack, the Mandalorian wasn’t nearly as restricted in his movement as the female criminal was. The buildings even helped to obscure his approach, and so did the storm overhead.

It was show time. Time to show the female that she wasn’t as slick as she thought she was. Demagol liked to put on a performance in his hunts. Damage control was disabled. Oh how he had waited for something like this. It was probably because of this scum of a planet that the engagement criteria was so boundless. I mean, what the fuck could you call valuable around here? When Demagol made his presence known, he made it known. He lowered his altitude further so that he was flying between buildings now. An arm began to carelessly throw what looked like cases with blipping lights in either direction. One on each building that he was passing. They attach to the walls as if they’re coated in adhesive and as soon as they do, that lovely sounded countdown began. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1.

Satchel charges. The sound of steel twisting and contorting to the incredible power of the explosions behind Demagol was enough to encourage any intelligent citizen to stay inside of their home. Buildings rippled and partially crashed inward upon themselves in the Mandalorian’s passing. Not only would this cause a massive amount of mayhem to instill fear, it would clear the streets. Less people made it easier to track. This was still a concrete jungle. Hunting grounds, perfectly acceptable.

The ground shook and Demagol closed in for the second engagement upon the female, Rhailo Destros. The Mandalorian was in hunt-mode now, and the female would receive no breaks in the pursuit that he bore after her. Hunting was a game, and Demagol never lost.
As the distance between the two dwindled Demagol decided to up the ante on the seriousness of this situation. Ahead, there was another figure beyond Rhailo, systems registered it as a Bith. The stupid fucker had decided to stay out despite the explosions.

“Calculate distance and propulsion trajectory.” Immediately a quick diagnostic is run. “250 meters. Trajectory sets target at 5.6 seconds based on approach.” That same sinister smile gleams from beneath the mask. “Good.”

“Override fuel cells, close that distance quicker.” The suit responded, sending Demagol through the air at crashing speeds. In mid-air he drew his beskad, a long Mandalorian saber used for melee combat. Before the Bith can even understand what the situation is Demagol is upon him. The blade’s edge was sharp, able to scratch even the toughest of most armors. It skewed the Bith through his upper-chest and nearly went as deep as the handle, exiting through the middle of its back. All that could be heard from the Bith was a high-pitched squeal before his ultimate demise. Demagol raised the impaled Bith up into the air with but a single arm, turning his body so that he was systematically casting the lifeless corpse of the scum-dweller off of his blade at the same time his gaze met Rhailo’s. It was a demonstration of ferocity, of the Mandalorian’s lack of hesitation to end a life. He didn’t know who that Bith was. He didn’t give a fuck. If taking lives was a job, then he was a reaper. The Bith’s corpse laid there motionless on the ground, blood seeping toward the underground sewers thanks to the storm overhead.
Lightning streaked across the sky, giving Rhailo an all-too-well look of her persistent pursuer. The light it gave outlined Demagol’s figure against the background behind him. Such an eerie position she was in now.

“Check.” He spoke in Chess terms.

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - Kat - 11-03-2015

[/img]"http://i.imgur.com/FXQBglf.png" style="max-width:25%;float:right;margin:0 0 18px 18px;" style="avatar]No stranger to being found in precarious situations, it didn't bring any semblance of shame to Rhailo's pinned personage when he closed the gap between them, his bloody demonstration lost in a wash of constant rain. Both were being pelted, but she hadn't dressed for the change in the weather, and while thunder clapped and the streets were filled, the Auroun shivered under soaked apparel. The thought hadn't yet crossed her mind that the hunter would see the curves of her physique as her shirt turned into a water tight second skin, the cold driving the flesh on her exposed extremities to raise. Flashing a smile seemed almost too natural at the bounty hunter's comment, because for all intents and purposes, she seemed caught. A prize to ponder over, or simply haul away to the S'zari syndicate.

"You didn't waste any time." There were distant calls from her neighbors on the block, shouts over toppled structures and damages the Mandalorian caused mid-flight. Now that Demagol was grounded, he seemed more dangerous than before, though Rhailo was under the impression he got his kicks playing apex predator. Perhaps the woman would be lying if she said she didn't enjoy being treated like prey; but he didn't need to know that. Their game had only just begun, after all.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were in a rush." Palms pressed into the buildings the Auroun had been trying to wedge between, flattened so she could break away from the structures. In the movements, fabric to her pants would seize and shift, threatening to rip if she wiggled too quickly or pulled away with haste. Hazardous wardrobe in focus, Rhailo realized the heels should be discarded at some point, as energy was becoming a precious commodity, and gliding about without stepping foot on the pavement ate up the reserves faster than anything else. No one particularly looks forward to running barefoot in dirty rain water, but practicality was it's own pressure she didn't need to think twice about accepting.

"Are they paying you well? Figure I only get chased this hard when there's a good deal of credits on the table..." Pausing, her tongue ran smooth against her lips as though she could taste something he wasn't privy to. "Or you have nothing better to do than torment a poor, defenseless woman." Rhailo had a way of pressing buttons she had no right to push, and though finally freed from her makeshift hiding spot, there was no immediate escape. On the contrary, her stilettos marched her closer to where he waited, arms seeking to rest folded beneath the swell of see through linen so the outline of her breasts was unmistakable. "Shouldn't you be camped out in some skeezy cantina, making eyes with serving girls?" Rhailo tsked thoughtfully as those opalescent orbs of hers danced along the front of Demagol's armor, searching for any sign of wear.

"You need to blow off steam, and I bet if you were to look, there are better outlets for you." Rhailo shared a smirk before adding, "I'm not going anywhere with you, Tin man. So, you're either going to get bored, or tired, of chasing me around this shit hole city." And such words were enough indication, as the Auroun's body vanished in a sparkling cloud of ethereal energies, only to reappear several yards away, immediately sprinting down the nearest alley. On her heels, reality seemed to bend, and from it, a copy formed. An almost exact replication- with a heat signature and a pulse, and matching garb down to the frayed knees of her jeans. Another soon followed suit, created at the original's front, and the three ran in their row until reaching the mouth feeding out towards another set of streets.

The original didn't need to say a word; they each took a direction and didn't stop to think about what would happen to them if he caught up. One moved left, backtracking towards where the initial meeting with the Bounty Hunter was, while another ran the exact opposite way, off towards the lights and sounds of the city's downtown. The third headed straight, looking to continue weaving around defunct droid piles and homeless denizens taking shelter from the storm. All the Rhailo's making their escape were equally fast, but one kicked off their shoes after a brief pause so they were less impaired.

The second shamelessly removed their shirt when they reached the redlighter's corner, using the crowd they found themselves passing through as a means to camouflage.

The third, which perhaps seemed most likely to be the original, was hopeful they could recover the goods they wanted at the very beginning of this wild chase they found themselves in. Of course, it meant climbing over massive towers of concrete while avoiding a sea of glass and debris otherwise, but there was time for such scaling. Clambering as it was. Split attention between the three meant their perception of details wasn't anywhere near as good as it had been when they were one, but the original had pulled this trick enough times to have a grasp on all three consciousnesses at once. They were a team, following dictation through the direction of the original, who knew she was running out of options.

'We have to get to the S'zari.' One communicated through their telepathic link. 'If we turn ourselves in, he gets no bounty. No prize, no chase.'

'He'd chase without prize.' Another shared. 'He's going to be mad over this.'

The third seemed the least hopeful of the separated triad. 'I can't outrun him forever. Another cartel might be the best option.'

'Calrathiions?' The first asked.

'No. Better to keep our limbs than pay blood debts.' The second said before suggesting, 'Maybe the Tara'ridarium? Roth Khanians?'

'Perhaps... Roth Khanians have a soft spot for women. Their hive mother is considered sacred... I might be able to convince them to house me while I pay off my debts. I'll plead to their sense of chivalry.' The speaking Rhailo was avoiding a pair of fondling hands while the messages were relayed, still topless and still scooting through the crowd, though they were quickly managing to make progress on said plan.

To the Roth Khanians in Doo-Lah-Khan's Casino, who hated the S'zari syndicate more than they hated her.

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - deific - 11-03-2015

[font=arial" size="1] “Suit, calculate distances, mark trails, predict paths.” A complicated situation it seemed, but this wasn’t the first time someone had attempted to thwart the relentless bounty hunter. The words the woman had spoken went in one of Demagol’s ears and out the other. He didn’t attempt to break them down, nor did he have any sort of reaction for them. Demagol’s system readings flushed over, thermal scans lighting up with unique trails belonging to the woman and her clones. As figured, they were all going in directions that would force the Mandalorian to commit to one or two quickly, while leaving the third with some time to get away. One of the paths appeared to go back through the dismantled buildings that Demagol had pursued through. While this seemed odd at first, the intentions were perceptually predictable. Valuables. While Demagol had made a mess in the female’s room, he hadn’t completely destroyed it. That isn’t to say he left the room without his presence before he left. In his eyes, homes weren’t safe havens, they were traps. With that being said, the Mandalorian honed his sights on the alternative duo that were fleeing.

“Soar.” That familiar command. Demagol had already considered the speed difference in which he would catch up to the two he had in question now. The one with the removed top would attempt to use the crowd of people to her advantage. It would slow him down inevitably, even if damage control wasn’t in effect at the moment. The other, which appeared to maneuver left and backtrack the area seemed like a quicker option. The way Demagol saw it, the faster he caught one, the faster he was either correct in his choosing, or able to move onto the next. As he erupted upwards into the sky and twisted himself he reached out his left arm, craning it straight in the direction of one of the buildings the first subject was in line of.

“Lunge.” He would need to be quick, as his suit’s capabilities were top-notch, they were not without their own boundaries. The thermal readings were exact and without error, but they could not last forever, nor go for an endless distance. A grappling hook fired out of a notch on Demagol’s bracer, exceptionally hooking on the top skirting of the building in question. Once the hook is locked in place Demagol removes the slack hastily, sling-shoting himself through the air considerably faster than if he was only going to use his jetpack. This way also conserved fuel, which Demagol was also not limitless with. By using this technique, the Mandalorian could move throughout the city without fatiguing himself, as the grappling hook’s workings would not tire, and the momentum belonged only to physics. Distance would be closed faster than expected–again, but at this rate, Demagol could not afford to waste time.

The grappling hook fired again and again, each time bringing Demagol closer to his objective; the first subject. Already was she in his sights, which honed in with expertise. Every detail was being calculated. The way she moved. Reacted. Her pattern of movement and predicted path. Her final destination was still a mystery to Demagol, but at the same time that didn’t matter at this point, she wouldn’t make it there anyway.
Once Demagol felt he was within a suitable distance from this first subject he altered his movement technique again. His grappling hook retracted and a short burst from his jetpack stopped him from landing on the ground too hard, though his suit was built to withstand shock. Upon landing his boots skid across the wet surface of the ground, but not long before momentum was given again. This time it was manual as Demagol’s jetpack fired up at his back, propelling him forward as he jetted across the ground like a racer. Showmanship was everything, right?

To any unlucky being who was between the Mandalorian and his prey at this point there were only two outcomes, brutal trauma or even death. Demagol stopped at nothing to close the distance between himself and the subject breaking through small, fragile shacks and bowling people over into heaps of pain and agony. Their screams weren’t music to his ears, they were just sounds that blended in with everything else audible around him. No, the noises he aimed to make overt were the Auroun’s. It would be silly to assume that Demagol did this silently whilst he crashed through the street. But was speed was stealth, and he would be upon the female before she was prepared for his arrival to begin with. Maybe he would do the same to her as he did to the Bith? No, it was too risky. He wanted her alive. To kill her would cease all of the fun immediately. He could let loose, but not all the way.

“Arm dart assembly. Predict path of travel. Fire.” The Mandalorian’s bracer rotated over, placing his grappling hook assembly on the bottom side of his forearm and the new one in question on top. Notches shifted in his armor, his visor’s HUD working together with a targeting system while the darts were being armed. Everything was coordinated. Target. Trajectory. Time of trajectory. Wind speed. Wind alteration. Shot adjustment. Nothing fell short in preparation.

Demagol was within 50 meters of the first clone, and as the dart shot out of his bracer it wasn’t guided by just velocity in itself. It was uplinked with the female’s signature, which meant that it would follow her in the same way a heat-seeking missile would fly toward an aircraft. Eventual impact was unavoidable, especially as the two came into a clearing ever-so conveniently when the dart was fired. Additionally, it was even more difficult for the female to make a narrow escape because of her limited ability of perception.
The first dart found its mark, burying itself directly into the lower back of the female. Immediately two more darts are fired from Demagol’s assembly, both of which close in upon the female in similar fashions. While the Mandalorian races forward his suit’s visor picked up the impact of the other two darts. One of them had found its place in the back of the female’s neck, whereas the other ended its trail in a location Demagol swears was not intentional, not even a little bit, her right asscheek.

The way Demagol’s dart assembly worked was like a catalyst combination. The first dart was geared with a powerful tranquilizer in which could take down even the largest of beasts within five seconds of impact and injection. The second was geared with a powerful muscle and nerve toxin, which spread paralysis in the victim’s body to anywhere blood flowed. The third possessed a more refined version of signature discrimination, down to the very buildup of atoms.

By the time Demagol’s systems picked up the path of toxins spreading throughout the female’s body he was already upon her. Now would be the time in which he figured out what his first choice was; original or copy. The findings would be inevitable, as the dart’s form of discrimination was without error. Even the most minute difference between original and clone would be picked up.

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - Kat - 11-03-2015

The original was preoccupied with strutting through the crowd to a chorus of whistles and a series of winks following closely behind, but there had been no sign of hunter anywhere, which left a bad taste in her mouth. Reaching out, the telepathic tethers between herself and the clones were tugged as a means of figure out just what was going on. Initially Rhailo received nothing, and ultimately presumed the worst, but through a soft static, one eventually responded. Her heart skipped a beat in it's excitement and hastily, she reiterated her initial inquiry. Hopefully not too desperately that they got the wrong idea of her own circumstances.

"Where are you?!"

The voice in response, a mental capture of what her own voice sounded like, commented, "Think I've got company."

The corridor the middle Rhailo traversed was narrowing, refuse and filth making her path difficult as though testament to the decay of the landscape. This clone didn't have the capacity to linger on how ironic it was that space trash like her creator was running from the law on one of the most lawless planets in the quadrant, but she could try and keep her maker alive. That was the goal anyway as she sidestepped through a collection of huddled derelicts trying to keep warm. The rains were heavy, dowsing the murky alleyway so puddles formed in time worn ditches. All it took was one misstep and she was off balance, twisting into the motion to limit the damage done to her ankles, though it knocked her sidelong into the nearest wall.

Clutching the surface, a whizzing sound erupted from behind the clone, and in her paused state, she was caught off guard. Completely so, it seemed, because the concept of a tranquilizer wasn't one she could fully grasp, and further conceptualization didn't allow the possibility that he might fire more. The copy hazily stumbled forward, assaulted by the three projectiles that lodged themselves in her torso and neck, quick to inject their toxins. The figure crumpled to the water washed ground, muscles twitching as a last message was relayed to the others.

"He... Shot me."

With that, the middle clone was incapacitated, though Rhailo severed the connection as she received word, and the body of the figure before Demagol bubbled face first in the hole that had ended her running. Without motor skills, or perhaps the spirit to process what life they were leaving, the woman would drown in the shallow grave he set up for her if he didn't stop her. Such was the life of clones.

Meanwhile, the other clone was sprinting back up a flight of stairs in search of the belongings they were tasked to find. It took them a while, though with the hunter busy elsewhere, the concern for their safety was muted. On hold for the time being. Clones didn't have the mental capacity to juggle the full range of thoughts and emotions their creator did, but they were competent enough to be tasked with menial duties. Returning to the apartment for the contraband was their goal, and until that goal had been satisfied with some sort of result, the uncaptured copy proceeded under instructed duty. After a few moments trek, Rhailo copy arrived back on the 71st floor where the air was heavy with dust, and the door to the once home remained precariously open.

Their bare feet were soundless over the tile as they entered, scanning the still unlit interior for possible trouble. The search was over quickly as they could only assess what could be seen in the dark, and nothing particularly noticeable seemed jarring after the first scan; so, the trouble was long gone from this place. Or, at least the clone believed it was, given they made no more efforts of caution, instead traipsing through towards the bedroom with one thought in mind: the goods. Through what was left of the living room they went, onward to the massacred bed and the crushed closet space, feet absently stepping over rubble without investigating.

And then some went off. A loud series of bangs erupted from the corners of the room, and the clone shrieked as she was deafened. The mental ties between the copy and it's maker returned just in time for the siren call of concussion grenades to alert the real Rhailo of the problem. The shock was so immense that the original buckled where she stood, dizzy and disoriented while her counterpart clone screamed through the telepathic link.

"HELP ME-" But the thoughts were cut short, again, as Rhailo disengaged her consciousness from second other copy so not to be burdened with whatever mess they found themselves in. It was a mercy killing, in a way, as the one in the apartment suddenly slumped over from the loss of free will, sending their body crashing into the next layer of the trap. Flames erupted to encircle the room, triggered when the woman tripped their sensors, and the body of the creature fell headlong into the blast. The discarded clone was dead before they stopped jostling across the floor, their airway boiled shut with the heat of the explosive.

With one unconscious and the other a charred corpse, Rhailo found herself once more alone; as if that was anything new to her. Everything about Nar Shaddaa was created to instill a sense of loneliness in it's residents, from the love bots to the pleasure dens to the casino's geniality towards their customers. The planet was a vacuum, and it aimed to suck all life from it's residents, robbing them blind of their basic rights and their credits in hope to further line already full pockets. Rhailo hated everything about this place, and more so, she hated that it took a bounty on her head to get the point across. Still on her hands and knees from the resonated shock of the shared experience with the now deceased clone, the Auroun crawled off towards the stoop of her destination before rising back to her full height.

Already partially exposed, it took little effort on the femme's part to further her disguise into a reason she would be at the Doo-Lah-Khan's casino. A second was used to slip out of her heels briefly to escape her jeans, then the heels returned to her feet and both hands were raised to tie up silver locks in a messy ponytail. Down to a g-string and stilettos, no one seemed to question Rhailo casually sauntering through the primarily topless bar, and grabbing a serving tray, she fell into playing the part. A playful smile crossed lush lips as a hand raised, and upon approach, she asked, "What can I get you?"

In the crowded casino's main floor, she highly doubted her hunter would be as careless of the environment as he had been previously. Not with the Roth Khanians running half of uptown and the strip; he's have a fleet on hunter's after him. No, he'd have to stalk her through the patrons, and Rhailo was mindful as she skirted neighboring tables to pick up more orders. The Auroun's body seemed built for the setting, with an ass that shook tantalizingly as she walked those long legs around the peripheral tables, and with her bare breasts bouncing to accentuate perked nipples, she wasn't surprised by how many orders she ended up with. One would have a hard time believing Rhailo wasn't actually an employee with her demeanor, all flashed grins and mischievous smirks.

Yet her eyes wandered, glued to entries and exits in between seeking out one of the high ups. Someone from the cartel would be here. If she found them before the Mandalorian found her, Rhailo could skip away from this whole fiasco scotch free.

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - deific - 11-03-2015

[font=arial" size="1] A strong hand reached forth and grasped onto the clone that was falling apart. It was apparent. His first choice was not the original. Even if it were within his power to stop this being from completely falling apart, Demagol had shown no intentions in doing so. He had a mission, he was going to complete that mission. His hand wrapped around the clone’s neck and raised her above his head as if she were a helpless paperweight, only to smash her being down into the ground and finish the decay process for her. His hand impacted into the ground and cracked a tile, and at the same time caused the clone’s body to burst into nothingness. After a moment of having his fist flattened against the ground he stands, straightening his body out.

“Subject 1. Terminated.” The Mandalorian wiped his hand free of the clone’s pathetic leavings, pausing for a moment to survey the situation. Just as he was about to turn his attention toward the clone in which had headed for the apartment, his calculations had reached fruition. A small tab appeared at the bottom left corner of Demagol’s visor interface. He opened it up. It was the small video chip that had been installed above one of the incendiary explosives he placed into the female’s apartment. The video starts itself right as movement is initiated in the room, the camera having an infrared detector. Everything had gone according to plan thusfar, which would make the rest of the mission easier–or so he had predicted at that point. The trap activated. The concussion grenade successfully distorted the individual enough to keep them in place while the incendiary devices in every corner of the room did their job. As Demagol made clear by his philosophy, homes are traps. He watched the small recording until it was clear the individual had dissipated. Then he closes it. They too, were a clone. Two down, one to go.

“Subject 3. Terminated.” This left the final individual, who Demagol had tracked was heading directly toward a gang-infested area of the planet. Lovely, perhaps he could spice up his mission a little bit. While lightning had ceased to dance and fly in the sky, the rain proved to be more stubborn. But now, with his sights honed, Demagol grew excited. The open, now clean hand, tightened into a fist. The Mandalorian turned in the direction of the final trail.

“Increase the brightness of that trail. Divert energy from alternative trails and channel into last one. She’s not getting away.” Like miniature, individual beacons, each one of Rhailo’s footsteps came alive. They glowed so brightly in the Mandalorian’s visor, but to everyone else, they were invisible, transparent. He moved with speed, following the trail like a true predator, sights set on what he would eventually find.

There was a mix of feeling resonating from the fact of where the actual female was headed. Demagol knew the Roth Khanians. They knew him as well. He had even done work for them in the past. The cold hard truth was that most of the syndicates knew who Demagol was. Of course, they knew him by his signature tag, Astral Phoenix. Likely, they wouldn’t get between him and his mission. But if that woman was indeed part of such a crime group then this mission might get more complicated than the Mandalorian was expecting of. Still though, he constantly relished over one fact. No damage control. The S'zari must have done this on purpose. Maybe they even predicted that this would happen. He knew the two syndicates did not get along in the least bit. What if this was some undercover idea for them to covertly strike out and do damage to the Roth Khanians? What if this was a front for outright war? Such thoughts were indeed intriguing, but didn’t last long in Demagol’s head. He was here for one thing and one thing only. The capture or extermination of Rhailo Destros.

If the need arose, Demagol would fight up to just about anyone or anything he needed to. At this point it wasn’t just a manner of making money, but of holding a standard. Failures did not do well for standards. The only possible thing that would deter the bounty hunter would be a termination of his contract, and even then he would need to be reimbursed healthily. He felt that this woman didn’t actually have that much money to her name though. Her apartment was nothing fancy, and she chose to live in a pretty shitty district to add to that. Additionally, she didn’t attempt to simply pay Demagol off, which many had tried to do, and a select few succeeded. Did that make Demagol feel like he was bad at his job? No. Sometimes when you let people live they repay you with the greatest of gratitude, which varied heavily among individuals. To the victor go the spoils.

Yet, there was that ever small tingling of dissatisfaction whenever Demagol didn’t meet the exact requirements of his benefactors. It was no doubt that he had enemies. He did work for just about anybody. But how could they blame him? He was merely a sword, not the arm that swung it. As he moved deeper into this new territory he saw a different crowd of people. There was a sense of ownership here. He had entered it, the Roth Khanian zone. These people had a suitable group of workers, but most of their expertise was founded in the extravagant manipulation of people’s inner desires. They were more entertainers than they were fighters. Still, they held their own for a reason. These people weren’t to be underestimated by any sort of common folk. Then again, Demagol was not a common person. A true demonstration of presence could be seen already as he maneuvered through the streets. He didn’t use his jetpack at this time, as he wanted to save fuel. Nor did he use his grappling hook. This was all on foot, though it be speedy. Those that saw him and knew who he was also knew what he was doing. In their minds they all thought around the same thing, 'Stay the fuck out of that guy’s way’.

It was true. A lot of these people knew better. When you work for big groups your name tends to trickle down the system.
“Hey, did Jorrkan ever end up getting away?”

“Nah, some fuckin’ crazy big guy in a suit of armor and weapons got him after a couple days. Some Mandalorian.”

“Did he have a name?”

“Astral Phoenix? I don’t fucking know. The guy doesn’t talk to anyone. I just heard that codename from the higher-ups.”

“So he’s the real deal, huh?”

“Let’s put it this way. If he’s ever after Your ass, we don’t know each other. Ya got me?”

“Painfully clear.”

Some people shrank away into the shadows at Demagol’s passing, whereas others who knew him stood there in stoic respect, just staring. It was common knowledge that you don’t get between a bounty hunter and his prize. If you didn’t, you might get to live your pathetic life at least a little bit longer. The footsteps began to get brighter and brighter, which meant that the Mandalorian was closing in on his final destination. Upon an immediate glance he saw what appeared to be a large casino, Doo-Lah-Khan’s. “Gambling with our lives already, are we? We’re on business, Demagol, no fun yet.” He spoke to himself underneath the obscurity of his visor. and approached the entrance of the building.

For a moment he is attempted to be stopped by two bouncers who didn’t recognize him. Upon further inspection at a closer distance they saw that insignia marked upon Demagol’s right shoulder. One of them knew better and stood silent, whereas the other was about to say something until Demagol paused and gave him a special sort of stare through his visor. A stare that said “Let me do my job if you don’t want me to fucking kill you.” It was convincing enough, as the bouncer went weak in expression and bid the Mandalorian entry.
Music greeted his ears, along with the display of bodies, desires, and drinks alike. However, the real problem became clear immediately. The female’s thermal readings were all over the fucking place. It was blinding at first, and there was no way to really track where she was accurately in the building. He squinted.

“Suit, thermals off. Engage standard relay. Keep target’s face up for immediate comparison and speculation.” It was an image he had captured of Rhailo’s face when they were in that apartment together. Key features would determine validity in choice. The room’s colors changed immediately and a small tab resided at the bottom corner of his visor. She was in here, somewhere. He would find her.

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - Kat - 11-03-2015

Hips moved to the thump of the bass. The minimalist techno music played like the vocals of a synthetic, the tone set a stark contrast to that of the streets beyond the lavish entryways. As Rhailo moved, so too did her figure shift and snake seductively from the bar to the tables the drinks she carried belonged to. Over the course of her rounds, however little time she had been there obviously didn't affect her tips, as the woman had accumulated a hefty stack of credit chits for her efforts. Tucked in the string of that barely existent thong, they were enough to cover a night out on the town; or enough to get her the hell out of Nar Shaddaa. Whichever came first really. The creature continued observing the entrances and exits, opalescent oculars attracted to any figure taller than waist height.

Any moment now, she expected trouble to waltz in wearing a familiar mask of silent cruelty.

Doo-Lah-Khan translated, roughly, to 'buried in sand'- meaning a hidden treasure of sorts. Perhaps this particular casino was indeed such an oasis. Rhailo was generally one to argue quality of hedonistic cesspools, but at this point, she didn't have attention span to find out for sure. After all, the familiar bounty hunter was arriving in his suited armaments, and security seemed tense. Various armed figures around the room held up their wrists and pressed buttons just beneath their ear lobes; relaying messages among themselves, and to their superiors. Perfect. At this rate, someone worth more than their blaster's value would show up, and that would be her chance to plead sanctuary with the Roth Khanians. Old races stuck to such primitive values because over the course of generations, no one within their collective opposed their practices, and those who thought to try were quickly removed.

Her own people weren't lucky enough to be considered an ancient race, or even a fully functional race. Some argued they weren't a race at all. Instead, Auroun's were an anomaly that occurred initially through botched genetic testing on Q'ior. All rumors, as Rhailo would explain, and all were used as a means to further the propaganda against a potentially limitless breed of psions. Fear of their capabilities made them sought after for testing, breeding, and in some sectors of the universe, they were deemed hazardous. Extermination of Aurouns was legal on more than 400 planets across the known universe, which always left Rhailo curious just where the hell she was supposed to go if she left Nar Shaddaa.

Auroun as a species were little more than gypsy trash of this universe, chasing after a means of freedom while other alien races chased them; it was a cat and mouse game that no Auroun was excluded from. Because of these preordained facts, Rhailo had lost everyone close to her in one disaster or another. Some sold her out. Others had been helpful, and their kindhearted actions cost them dearly. While she had never been one to reminisce, that sort of weight on a relationship of any variety was met with an almost impossible sense of guilt. To get close to the woman was a sure fire way to make yourself a target in the process, and despite feeling guilt, Rhailo didn't risk her life for anyone. When it came down to fight or flight, she was already gone, leaving little more than the mess she created.

Pausing at an empty table, Rhailo leaned into the edge and bent at the hip, her figure languidly placed over the side so she could collect glassware individually. How it must have looked to anyone watching made the corners of her lips twitch, as she knew damn well there was little separating her body from the rest of the planet, but wasn't that the fun of this disguise? The barest coverage to accentuate a form some would kill for. Literally kill for. The Auroun slowly straightened to shift her weight from one leg to the other, her ample rear jostling with a few jiggles as though she was unaware of such attachments. Her skin seemed to shimmer in the light, specks of gold swirled amid a palette of alabaster. Easily, the woman held the empty drinks across her left arm while the right one remained unburdened in case her hunter wandered her way.

Oddly enough, Rhailo's best bet was to seem as natural as possible in the face of a chase. If he approached her, she would deny she knew what he was talking about. There were witnesses and, with the disguise, she was just an employee being assaulted by a disgruntled customer. It couldn't possibly come off otherwise- not when her ass was the main attraction to this club, and the patrons were in awe of her prowess. There was a time and a place for modesty, but based on her earnings in the short time she had been falsely playing waitress, Rhailo Destros was a vision. Now all she needed was some sorry sap dumb enough to stand between herself and her hunter friend.

'Or to have one of the Dynasty brothers make an appearance...' The Auroun commented to herself as a dark skinned fellow the size of a small tree walked through the club, just inches from hitting the crown of his head against the high ceiling. His eyes were a gold, and gold lightning-esque markings cut through the ebony of his hide, decorating him with an almost ombre sheen. Flanking him was a small army, all fellow Roth Khanians, with their gem embedded skin looking like cracked geodes over their exposed extremities. While it wasn't a good idea to make an approach since his guards would be quick to apprehend her, Rhailo did her best to garner the massive creature's attention in other ways. Puffing her chest out so the swell of her breasts were all the more noticeable under the somber lighting of the stage lights, long lashes batted seductively.

'Yeah, that's right... Look at me. Come a little closer, and I'll make you look at me.."

With any luck, Jaxisher Dynasty would catch her eyes before her Mandalorean tracker did. Word down the grapevine hinted he was recently single, and in such a case, Rhailo could be his bedroom bunny for as long as it took to get the whole bounty situation cleared up. It wasn't something she really wanted to do, but as life seemed to prove at every turn, doing things against your wishes was the best way to keep one's self intact. Relatively intact. Why did the S'zari want her anyway? Why didn't that come with the standard intimidation greeting? A deep breath escaped her as Jaxisher turned around, leaving her to set down the tray on the stage for a second to adjust her accouterments(which was literally just a thong).

"C'mon, stud.. Look at me..." Rhailo whispered, not realizing she was speaking to herself, but also wouldn't be particularly concerned had she noticed. "C'mon, baby, you know what you want... Just fucking look at me so I can work my magic..."

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - deific - 11-03-2015

[font=arial" size="1] “No.. No.. No.. Wait. Pause. Zoom in.” The Mandalorian was doing a speed-scan of the room in front of him. Since there was a large quantity of different species it was easy to tell who fit the bill. To the Auroun’s lack of luck, she was indeed a rather rare specimen. It wasn’t difficult to spot her in the bar, even if she tried to make it out like she belonged there. Well, honestly, it would have been completely possible for her to do such. But that didn’t matter right now. The Mandalorian had to think fast, as Rhailo wasn’t the only one who noticed the arrival of the Dynasty brother. They were a rather popular specimen of their own. And also had a bounty on their head by the S'zari. What a rare opportunity! Two birds with one stone? Perhaps this mission had just begun to tip the fun of the iceberg.

“Subject spotted, ten o’ clock, ten meters. Dynasty brother spotted. Three o’ clock, fifteen meters.” Perfect, he was placed between them. But Christ, the brute must have been over 14 feet tall. No wonder he had such a bounty placed on him. Needless to say, Demagol was going to need to take out the Dynasty brother first. Though his mission detailed Auroun as the primary subject, the Mandalorian could not risk any interference, especially from someone who had a bounty on their head..and looked like a small tree. At the moment Demagol was playing his options. This was going to get rough, very rough. The added group who stood behind the Dynasty brother weren’t a chief concern, but they would prove to be problems as soon as the Mandalorian opened fire. For the first time in a long time, Demagol couldn’t come up with an immediate solution.

“Fuck. This is going to get ugly.” A moment was all he gave himself to clear his head of any second thoughts that came to mind. It was go time. As he returned to his mission’s demanding mindset he immediately made his way through the crowded casino. His actions weren’t as blunt as they usually were, he just shifted through spaces, didn’t push people over or cause a scene. Not until he put himself directly between Rhailo and Jaxisher. This was it, the ultimate decision. Was Demagol physically prepared? Definitely. Was he mentally prepared? Most definitely. Was he ready for whatever the fuck was about to happen? Probably not. But fuck it, right?

“Jaxisher Dynasty..” The insignia on Demagol’s shoulder flashed underneath the loom of the overhead lights. The eyes of the Mandalorian and the Roth Khanian met. They knew one another, or at least, knew of each other. These folks were known for their brute strength, but lacked in their coordination and intelligence. Demagol would have to take advantage of that. For a moment, there was silence between the duo. The group that stood behind Jaxisher knew the Mandalorian simply by the attire he wears. Some of them showed dislike in their expressions, while others showed a visible fear. A simple nod was exchanged between the small giant and the Mandalorian. Then, the silence was broken.
“..Phoenix, what brings you to Nar Shaddaa? Are you on a hunt?” Jaxisher inquired, knowing well of Demagol’s work. He didn’t speak to the Mandalorian as if he trusted him, he knew there was a bounty on his head as well. What if the Mandalorian was actually hunting him? The idea wasn’t as farfetched as one might think. Demagol had taken on people of equal size before.

“As a matter of fact I am, Jaxisher. She’s an Auroun. I just recently tailed her into this place. I require her. Now.” Demagol spoke with demands and no fear in his tone. But it was true, he didn’t fear Jaxisher. He didn’t fear anyone. Unfortunately, the Roth Khanian didn’t seem too keen of Demagol’s demands.

“You mean to disrupt this casino with your work? I know why you’re here. You cause trouble. You think I don’t know there’s a price on my head too? Get out. Or I’ll make you.” What a challenge Demagol had been offered. But he didn’t budge. Didn’t move a muscle. His visor held staring forward at the Roth Khanian undaunted. He knew he was making a scene already. Some of the music in the casino had actually stopped and there were people staring. Bouncers didn’t know what to do. Some people even crawled underneath tables. It was a showdown, and no one wanted to be an unnecessary casualty.

“That’s a shame, Jaxisher. I won’t be leaving. The S'zari syndicate sends their greetings..” Demagol’s HUD kicked into overdrive it seemed, readings starting up all over the place. Outlines of armed individuals highlighted across his interface, the weapons they carried, how they were posed, where their hands were. Calculations popped up like a line of text. The Mandalorian soaked in all of the immediate information before he made his move the next moment. He raised his arm quickly, unexpectedly. His grappling hook was still on the underside of his arm, which meant that his dart system was up to the plate. These one weren’t blended with a specific signature so the Mandalorian would have to manually aim with aid of his HUD. It wasn’t difficult, he just couldn’t be as lazy as before. Three darts fire in succession. The first one struck one of the groupies to the left of Jaxisher right in the throat, injecting its tranquilizer toxin directly into his bloodstream. The next struck one on the right of the giant in his exposed shoulder, injecting the paralysis toxin. The third struck the groupie directly to the right of the previous, but with no immediate reaction. Demagol cursed to himself. “Fuck, third one is a signature marker.” He fired again, sending another tranquilizer dart just to the right of the last dart in question before he lost that split second of time.

Unfortunately while Demagol hastily dispatched Jaxisher’s attachments, the giant charged him. Before he could react he was bowled backward by the Roth Khanian in the form of a tackle, smashing through a couple tables and breaking chairs and glasses. The commotion caused a mass of screams as people fled the establishment in a hurry. This fucker was heavy. But Demagol hadn’t lost his wits, even as the giant attempted to smother him. Inevitably Demagol took a few hits to the body from Jaxisher, whose fists felt like steel hammers when they came down. The body shots hit mostly armor, but the Mandalorian only thought of what they’d do if they hit exposed body. He couldn’t risk that. So he taunted Jaxisher. “Come on you stupid fuck! Don’t you want to see what’s under this mask!” The Roth Khanian responded just as Demagol needed him to. While maneuvering his head from swinging fists with agility he sent in a quick jab to Jaxisher’s jawline, popping his chin upward toward the ceiling. At that same moment Demagol gripped onto the giant’s throat with one hand while bending the elbow of his other arm. The grappling hook fired upward and pierced through the ceiling, and at the same time Demagol spoke one word up to the Roth Khanian. “Soar.”

The jetpack combusted against the floor below the two, but as Demagol called in the line of the grappling hook enough space was given between the jetpack and ground for the deed to be done. The duo rocketed upward and the Mandalorian used all of the strength he could muster in his arm to slam upward with the hand which gripped Jaxisher’s throat. At the apex of their climb Demagol angled his body and threw all of his weight into the arm in question, brutally slamming Jaxisher’s head directly into the roof above. The sound of cranium striking hard metal was loud and even grimacing to the ear. In the moment the duo are hovering there at the ceiling Demagol managed to dislodge his hook from the ceiling and disengage his jet pack. Velocity becomes inverted as the duo began to crash back toward the floor of the casino. With Jaxisher stunned, and obviously heavier than the Mandalorian, Demagol was able to turn himself so that the Roth Khanian plummeted first. The hand was still gripped at the throat and as the two met the end of their fall Jaxisher was mercilessly choke-slammed against the ground.

A stunning spectacle, literally, but nothing less was expected of the Astral Phoenix. Additional groupies proved that there was no time to waste, as Demagol leapt off of the giant’s body and wheeled himself behind a turned over table to avoid blaster fire. Ironically, there she was, right in front of him. Rhailo Destros proved to be unavoidable when she was looked upon, mostly naked figure and all. The Mandalorian didn’t pay her much mind, but took another shot of her figure with his visor for tracking purposes. Seriously, it was just for tracking purposes. Immediately after he drew his WESTAR-35, took a breath, and wheeled out from behind the table. Several well-placed shots incapacitated what’s left of the groupies in the vicinity who weren’t already taken care of by Demagol’s darts. In return for taking those out the Mandalorian had been shot three times. One of the blasts reflected off of his chest plate. Mandalorian engineering strikes again! The second did the same, but from his bracer’s shield. The third, however, grazed by Demagol’s unprotected side, leaving a gash and blaster burn which forced the Mandalorian to bite his lip underneath his visor. Pain wasn’t inflicted upon him often, but it had a way of burning away his patience like a fuse. He turned his attention and pointed at Rhailo, then pointed downward. It was a wordless command for her to stay put.

Onto his next matter, Jaxisher Dynasty. The individual wasn’t dead, not yet. But heat like this wouldn’t go unnoticed and as Demagol stepped on the unconscious giant’s chest he pressed his blaster to the being’s temple before he spoke. Jaxisher had to die, his bounty said so. “You knew better, Jaxisher. You knew better.” Without a frame of hesitation he unloaded a blaster shot through one side of Jaxisher’s cranium and out the other, killing the giant where he laid. He needed something, something for proof of his work. He wasn’t going to let this bounty go to waste. So he did something that probably seemed unimaginably terrifying to all of those around him. He pulled out a small canister from his gauntlet, reached downward, and ripped one of Jaxisher’s eyeballs straight from his broken skull. After carelessly plopping the eye into the canister he placed it back into his bracer. As a means to direct attention, he also reached into a compartment and dropped a cloth to drape over the dead Roth Khanian’s face. The cloth held an insignia. The insignia of the S'zari.

After stepping off of the giant’s body a second time the Mandalorian swept around to face Rhailo Destros. He was bleeding from his side, but he didn’t pay any mind to it. Time was of the essence, now. It wouldn’t be long until word spread and more of the gang arrived. Now that he was pained, he wasn’t putting up with any bullshit. He conveniently decided to blame that entire interaction on the Auroun, because well, he could.

“Rhailo Destros.. You’re coming with me.”

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - Kat - 11-03-2015

Fast forward two minutes.

That's really all it took, as the spectacle was nothing more than one brute beating the shit out of another, give or take a few wayward laser bolts. Bodies covered the floor, the ceiling of the club looking reminiscent of the disarray her apartment was left in, and Rhailo was just standing there with her arms snaked over the swell of her chest to cover her upper half. Someone had struck the hunter in the club foray - that much she caught - though that was after he put an end to a great deal of the Roth Khanian guards. The corpse of her once meal ticket Jexisher Dynasty was a massive bulk on the lighted flooring, his weight caving the tiles directly beneath where he and the Mandalorian had made impact. The mound of male Roth Khanian stared back at the woman with half his head blown off, an eye socket vacant as it bore holes in the space between them.

Rhailo tensed more than she thought was possible as, inevitably, Demagol was finished cleaning up what security was within firing range of their location. Narrowed gaze sunk from the helmet to his crest, and then lower to the grazing where the Mandalorian had been shot, perhaps investigating the severity of the wound as quickly as she could before his attention was solely on the Auroun. His glance intimidated her; lost behind beskar embedded visor, but without a doubt, found solely on her figure. The male spoke her full name when the demand was made, which struck her as comical considering the options otherwise had thinned out greatly those active few moments she had been watching. Considering all the Auroun had just been witness to, her hesitation to follow direction was less noticeable. Quelled behind starlit features, her disobedience felt the significance of their situation more than it did the persuasion factor coaxing pressure from his tone.

Rhailo knew damn well what the Mandalorian's intentions were for her. Another day, another bounty. The anger attached to being categorized as just another job was there, but swallowed. Stifled for the pettiness of the thought, but also because she didn't associate herself with being a bounty. There had to be a way to shake that tagline. Now though, there simply wasn't time to permit much choice on her part. Another wave of security personnel began swarming the building, siren calls echoing in replacement of techno bass drops. As the crowd thinned around them, it was clear the pair actually couldn't stay put. Not without coverage of some kind. The Auroun let her arms drop to once more bare her breasts, suddenly over the semblance of modesty that escaped her previously.

"Where?" Her expression was as confused as could be expected. Oculars carefully sought to follow the Mandalorian's mannerisms as a replacement to having no face to judge, but his stillness was mechanical in nature. The suit didn't need to shift to adjust to better accommodate positioning. For all it's fancy tech and weaponry, it paled in comparison to real flesh, and Rhailo was left pitying Demagol in a strange regard. Coated in a form fitting suit, putting an end to countless lives for profit... What did he even hope to buy? Did one have time to shop when they were always combing the universe for bounties? The whole concept caused a knitting of the Auroun's brow, frown moving to overtake a visage too lovely for such unhappiness.

"You don't have to take me, you know. You could get away easier without having to drag me along." Already, long legs backed up towards the platform, though she didn't break the contact of her attention on his helmet. "Is my contract really worth it? You got Jexisher, and I know he had to be worth more than mine... So, can't that be enough?" Rhailo was halted when she hit the curved framework of the stage, and there was a moment when she waited, because she didn't have much juice left to make scarce. She would do one more thing - just one - and that was left as only the most desperate of game plans on her part. Certainly it didn't need to be now given how persistent Demagol seemed with her. He wanted her alive, that much the woman gleaned through the chase thus far, as it seemed illogical he hadn't put a shot through her if his intentions were otherwise. Wasn't she just baggage now?

Rhailo didn't want to be shot. To push more buttons when he was injured and in a hurry. Without a word, she was left like a deer in the headlights; watching him. Waiting on his plan of action. This ceased to be her show anymore, so the Auroun made it perfectly clear that he would need to lead the way, regardless what way he thought best to take them. All his captive could hope was he didn't honestly expect to escape with his jetpack- Not with the weather as it was. Not when he was within airstrike range of every surveying sentry cannon on the countless rooftops along the strip. Especially not with her in tow, because for one thing, Rhailo had no need nor desire to be whisked away in such a manner. It was already bad enough that her company loomed over her like an emotionless robot, ready to snuff out what made her unique just as quickly as he was to cart her along for his journey.

At some point while she waited, Rhailo stepped out of her heels, picking them up to hold them in a set of manicured digits. Wouldn't do well to lose her now singular pair of shoes. Thanks to him. Thanks to the bounty hunter. Not only had he chased her all evening with the objective of selling her existence to a cartel notorious for torturing, enslaving, and gruesomely deforming women, but he also ensured the creature had nothing in the way of belongings. No clothing, not mementos, no personal effects. Nothing. In essence, he had destroyed what had been known of Rhailo Destros, and she had nothing left to do with herself but hold onto the credit chits and shoes like they were her only lifeline to the outside world. Beneath the surface, fear wormed through her core, working to bind her stomach in knots.

Either Rhailo was going to die, or she was going to become a slave; neither of which she wanted.

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - deific - 11-03-2015

[font=arial" size="1] Despite his intentions, Rhailo’s words sank into Demagol deeply. A flush vortex of thoughts encompassed his mind and drew up more than half a dozen scenarios. One thing was painfully obvious, he didn’t have much time to ponder his choices where the both of them were currently standing. No, as said before, time was of the essence. At first, his actions were completely wordless as he took steps toward the Auroun. By ignoring the pain in his side he kept himself from limping, but it was inevitable that he was losing blood and energy. The line that Demagol gave Rhailo probably wasn’t as descriptive as she had liked, but in his eyes, it was enough for now. Enough for until they got out of the vicinity. “With me. The rest will be spoken of later.”

With that he holstered his WESTAR-35 and brought an arm around the female’s waist. There was a certain carefulness about the motion as the Mandalorian heaved her up over his shoulder. It could have rooted from a large number of reasons. Perhaps he simply was looking at her as a package and didn’t want to damage her when he turned her in. He knew of the S'zari and their workings, but had never given much thought as to what would happen when he turned this female over. At the same time, how could he feel sorry for a criminal? How could he show pity for someone who had caused so much bad that there was such a high price on their head? Demagol was conflicted. Was he saving a damsel? Or was he aiding a criminal? Maybe it was both. Even as he effortlessly carried the female out of the casino and to an open street the thoughts were still rushing about his head like rapids in a river. He guided her around a building that would obscure them from the roof of the casino. It would grant them safe passage to use the sky to their advantage. He must keep his strength up. His, no, both of their lives depended on it now. “Soar.”

The two of them flew upward toward the roof of an adjacent building, one taller than the casino in itself. Demagol’s landings had become softer than before because of the new subject he carried. This was for a multitude of reasons, one of which being that she wasn’t clad in Mandalorian Shocktrooper armor like he was. Why did Demagol come off so cold and robotic as he did? Because of shit like this. Because emotions had no place in a job. They made one second guess themselves and their objective. They coaxed one to put their own desires above the mission. To his very core, it was nature at work. He couldn’t help it. Something about this helpless damsel seemed to be worth saving. He had quite literally destroyed her life in his onslaught to catch her, though, that was his plan all along. But they had to stay low for now, those cannons on the rooftop were rather high caliber, high enough to punch holes through even Demagol’s armor. The situation might have been different were he wearing a heavysuit, but that’s not how he worked. For sake of speed, Demagol sacrificed near invulnerability.

The rooftop’s skirting was high enough to obscure most of their figures by itself. But they were still too close. He kept Rhailo upon his shoulder and crow hopped to another couple buildings farther away. Right now there was no immediate destination, only the desire to get out of the Roth Khaanian-controlled zone. Once they were out of such things would become much smoother. Time was ever-dwindling though, and those who followed up in the casino would see the cloth draped over Jaxisher Dynasty’s face. They would see the S'zari’s insignia. They would call for war, without question. It was quite the move on Demagol’s part, but he needed to do something to divert attention from himself and the Auroun he carried like a prize over his shoulder. He commanded this ship, all responsibilities ultimately fell upon his shoulders. Keeping the both of them alive wasn’t just a mission, it was a means of survival at this point. When the duo landed on a rooftop even higher and more obscured than the last the Mandalorian placed Rhailo on the ground in front of him.

“Your bounty was worth 50,000 credits to the S'zari. Jaxisher’s is worth over 250k. In reality, you are meager in comparison. A small tidbit to add to the profit I have made today.” Demagol’s voice didn’t sound outlandish, not even from behind that helmet which covered his head. He actually didn’t sound very alien at all. The voice actually sounded almost human. Any thoughts that stemmed from this were interrupted by the Mandalorian’s next words. “I could turn in this bounty of Jaxisher via a small port and instantaneously have enough money to get me countless worlds away from this place.” A moment of silence passed and Demagol peered over his shoulder, still not satisfied with where they were. They needed to get inside. The woman was quite literally almost naked. If he wasn’t careful she would suffer hypothermia. So he picked her up and took off again, this time skyrocketing the two of them toward a massive hotel complex. It was out of the Roth Khaanian zone and resided in a neutral area, probably hard to find for the most part on this terrible planet.

Ever so carefully Demagol landed the duo on a balcony on a floor about halfway up the building. The actual number of the floor was completely unknown, but the Mandalorian looked through the outer door to make sure the room was vacant. It was. Though the door was locked, something as simple as this would not deter the Mandalorian, who, quite literally, ripped the door open sideways. With a slight shove he moved Rhailo Destros into the unoccupied room and stepped in, forcibly closing the door behind himself. Steel grated against steel and proved the door would likely not open ever again for any regular being. The room was nothing extremely spectacular, but it was definitely multiple steps above what the female had been residing in beforehand. Lights were available. There was a chest for personal belongings. A single bed. A desk and a couple chairs adorned one of the corners. Now, to the injury which festered Demagol’s side. His suit seemed to have just about anything, but combat salve was an obvious need for any mission. After removing some from a compartment on his left bracer he exposed the torn flesh of his injured side and lathered it with the salve. A low, jaw-clenched growl omitted from the Mandalorian as the wound began to seal itself. After a few passing moments it was mended flesh. The placed it back in his bracer afterward.

“So, tell me, Auroun..” The Mandalorian turned sideways and reached upward toward his helmet, grasping upon the lower rim of it and speaking a couple words.

“Helmet, disengage.” A slight hissing noise emitted from mechanisms that synchronized helmet with suit, and in a tantalizingly slow manner Demagol removed the helmet from his head. What the female saw may have shocked her, but perhaps not in a bad way. Demagol was indeed human. Matted, 3-4 inch long black hair was reminiscent of a once kept comb-over. His skin was white, not quite as pale as the female’s, but only a little darker. His eyes were a dark blue, showing that they may have once been brighter in years passed. For the most part his face was unmarked, save for a scar which curved along his right cheek and traveled toward the top of his ear. His jawline was chiseled, overall facial structure giving him a handsome appearance that was more often than not lost behind the obscurity of that helmet he wore. With a light clunk he placed his helmet upon the nightstand upright and turned to face Rhailo Destros.

“I could buy out your contract here and now and you would be free of the S'zari, forever. However, that would make you my property, to do as I tell you. So you will pick. Either I drag you to the S'zari myself and turn you into them to be whatever they want you to be.. Or I don’t, and keep you for myself instead. It is obvious that complete freedom is no longer yours to bargain with anymore. The decision is yours. Now, choose.” He left the ending responsibility upon Rhailo. In reality, he had no ill intentions to do upon the Auroun. In reality it would have been absolute that the S'zari treated her worse. Afterall, they sent Him after her. No bad blood was between the two as far as he was concerned. It was just a job up to this point. But this, this would decide whether or not the job continued.

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - Kat - 11-03-2015


There was no other choice but to go with him. Not that Demagol seemed keen to allow her any space to argue on the off chance she hadn't wanted to be taken. An armored grasp encircled her waist, and with as much fear one could harbor without knowing what they were afraid of, Rhailo looked at him again. Really looked. Really, honest to ancient Gods tried to see something in his visor besides the reflection of her tears. The Auroun hadn't meant to cry, nor did she have some secret desire to shake against his hold, but some things were to be expected. Nothing was quite so intimidating as being taken into the arms of a stranger; couple that with a bounty on her head. Of all the things that could go wrong, the woman presumed her choice was a relatively safe one. It beat being shot by ground guard Roth Khaanians, and if need be, she still had some time to get away from him before they were anywhere near the S'zari. Perhaps she would seize that opportunity at some point.

For now, Rhailo was hoisted over his shoulder, leaving her exposed midsection to rest flat against cold beskar steel. "Please don't take us-"

And then they were airborne from outside Doo-Lah-Khan, and Rhailo could recall screaming, even if the action of the boosters rocketing them upwards drowned the sound. Weightless. The woman certainly wasn't wearing enough to stave off the cold winds whipping at their figures, but terror was far more imposing than the chill of night air. Even when airborne, her priorities were elsewhere. Lids shut to block out the wind while the Auroun did everything she could not to move, arms partially linked around the Mandalorian's shoulders as if that could be enough to ensure there was no opportunity to plummet towards the stretched crossroads of Nar Shaddaa. The city was so centralized from the sky, congregated towards a towering center mass while the outskirts were slums. Just skirting flop houses and twisted remains of lost business ventures. The creeping death of forgotten peoples, slowly eating at the outer levels at a rate Rhailo assumed would choke out the metropolis within the next decade or so.

Decadence in decay. Nothing was meant to last forever.

Hopping from roof to roof, Rhailo was caught off guard by how careful her companion was being. It wasn't a rough ride, despite how she hung precariously over his back, unable to direct any of their traveling. By the time he came to his first stop on the trip, Rhailo was gently lowered onto the building to stand awkwardly nude near her captor. Opalescent hues blinked open, and absently, hands were moved to wipe tears. The shivering hadn't stopped at any part of their journey. Initially, his messaged seemed to fall on deaf ears, perhaps ignored. Fingers were curled slowly to return circulation, icy to the touch. In some regards, the Auroun looked miserable; in a state she didn't rightly know what to make of. Just trying to remain coherent, as a hostage who couldn't grasp their situation often found themselves replaced. As they were alone, she worried that he was growing tired of having a tagalong. What sort of bounty hunter was content being saddled down with near useless cargo?

"So, you'll be 300,000 credits richer." The statement had a hint of disapproval attached. "How nice."

Something about their location didn't fit the bounty hunter's plans, and in such, Rhailo was once more carried away to their next destination. Here, a balcony awaited her, and the door keeping the duo outside of the hotel was unceremoniously ripped from it's hinges so she could wander inside. The setting was assessed with vague interest, and almost immediately, the Auroun left him with his task of refitting the door to crawl onto the bed and seek heat from the blankets. Around bare shoulders the comforter was wrapped, her legs crossed where Rhailo sat at the end of the bed. Never did she really seem to take her eyes off Demagol, took curious and too frightened to give him any space outside of very brief interactions with the rest of their environment. His stunts at the club had cemented a hatred for him the Roth Khaanians wouldn't soon forget; they would see her as an accomplice. She knew at least a handful of the employees saw her being whisked away by the bounty hunter.

The grave he dug for himself may have needed widening. It might need to fit her as well.

Watchful of how he tended to his wounds, Rhailo commented offhandedly, "Do you expect a rendezvous at some point?" She had been under the impression they were currently waiting for direction from somewhere. Whoever hired him within the S'zari. It wasn't until he finished with applying the salve that he acknowledged she was still with him, sights settling towards the silver haired femme. It took everything to hold an expression of neutrality, her focus all pushing towards ensuring he couldn't tell what she was really feeling. In some small way, it was the only modesty she could afford under these circumstances. The shoes and the credit chits remained nearby, adorning the opposite side of the mattress like a hint at her brief double life in the club. Bringing both hands upwards to rake through windblown locks, Rhailo blinked her silent approval of his appearance.

Not that she would admit finding him attractive. What she could offer as the signs of a smirk teased her lips was, "I thought you'd have more eyes than you do."

The woman cleared her throat as Demagol's tone shifted from that of pseudo-factual quips to an offer of importance. It actually felt like blackmail more than it did a release of any type. Relief wasn't forthcoming. Processing the words was more than she had estimated having strength to accomplish, yet the Auroun found herself asking questions. Several questions, all in a neat row, like she could line them up to cater to his impending answers. "Why? Why would you do that for me? I don't understand why." Scratching roughly at the base of her neck, her inquiry continued. "What do you get out of this? Are you trying to buy me? Was that your plan all along? I-I don't know what you want with me.."

Until that moment, Rhailo hadn't felt anything in particular over being nude. The curves of her body were on display and it had been comfortable in it's own right. She wasn't self conscious about it. Just something that needed to be done for the time being-- But with how foreign eyes seemed to search her, she was quite conscious of the fact. The blankets moved at either side of her to be hugged closer, shielding the swell of her breasts from wandering gaze. "Y-you know I wouldn't pick them." Rhailo stated with a swallow, looking away to ease her tensions; to try and keep calm her frazzled, over worked nerves. "You're just fucking setting me up..."

Straightening with a whisper of an inhale, Rhailo nodded begrudgingly while her milky irises returned to meet his oceanic orbs. "You. I'll stay with you. The lesser of two evils, or something, right?"

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - deific - 11-03-2015

[font=arial" size="1] Demagol’s natural demeanor might have come off as a very coldhearted one as he turned around and reached upward, sliding the curtains closed so that nobody could see inside of the room from outside. For the most part this was for security purposes. The Mandalorian did have plans, but they would obviously be altered. He didn’t say a word toward the female’s multiple questions and feverish rambling until he was certain that she was done speaking. He didn’t care for her teasing or empty compliments. It was all a facade, a lie, or at least that’s what he had convinced himself. In a vain attempt he tried to concoct an immediate solution to the circumstances at hand.

It was almost frustrating. This wasn’t the easy route, why had he chosen it? Why did he even give her the ability to think for herself? Her life was in his hands completely, so why did he give her that freedom? Whispers tugged at the edge of his mind, lecturing him that she would attempt to take advantage of him. It was probably right, especially due to her nature. She’d do everything within her power to escape him and get free. Even if he eventually tracked her back down it would be a tedious process. But yet, a more foolish side of him wanted to trust this poor, lonely female. But why? He placed his hands on the wall in front of himself and hung his head for a moment, closing his eyes. He had to keep her alive now. There was no other option.

“Because I am selfish, weak, and trust you for some unexplainable reason.” There was obvious distaste in the Mandalorian’s mouth, but it derived not from Rhailo, but from his own heart. He felt it beat too strong for its own good. He pushed off of the wall and turned so that he was sideways to the female. A few inaudible mumbles passed his lips as he undid his bracers and placed them on either side of his helmet. Underneath, the exposed flesh had small temporary indentations from the armor being pressed against it constantly. There were marks, a few scars, but nothing too big. A few tattoos crawled their way up toward his shoulders on either arm. For the first time that entire day, he felt flesh with flesh. More than just mechanization, more than a cold, calculated shell. But warm, vulnerable flesh. He forced the grimace away from his expression as he looked to the female cuddled up with the blankets as if they were her final lifeline.

“You’ve done much bad in your life, but so have I. The difference between us is that you acted upon your own desires, whereas I acted upon others’. It doesn’t justify it. Not really. But my way seems to work for me better.” A sigh passed his lips. Then he looked directly at the female with his hand still clutched with the other.

“I cannot give you a perfect understanding of why I do the things I do. For the most part, it is for money. That is it. But this time, I have acted out of emotion. But why? Why should I trust you? Why do you deserve a remote shred of my trust? Why should I even give you a chance? There are many questions I’d like to ask as well. But I keep them in my head, because sometimes it is better to find out the answers for yourself.” The water which initially covered Demagol’s armored suit had begun to leave its final traces, the armor drying off. In this newfound view one could really see the wear and tear on probably the only thing that kept Demagol alive other than his wits. Buffed out scorch marks. Scratches. Gashes. Chips and shards. It became obvious he had been doing this for a long time. In some places, under scrutiny one could see more markings. It was Mandalorian writ again, names. It couldn’t be explained right now, but it had its purpose.

A few steps closer bring the Mandalorian within arm’s reach of Rhailo, but he does not reach out. There’s a coldness about him. Distrust. “Have I been aiming to buy you this entire time? No. In actuality the reason I am buying you is because it is the only option. But if I were to pay you off and then let you go, the S'zari would eventually find you. More importantly, they would find you without me. That would bite both of us in the ass.” He took a step back and turned himself again, beginning that slow and tedious process to take his chest piece off. Hands carefully undid fastenings and locking mechanisms. While he did such, he spoke. “What do I want from you? Cooperation. That’s what I’ve wanted from the very beginning. It is why I did not ever aim my gun at you.” A few clicks and the chest piece separated itself, being lifted above the Mandalorian’s head so he could place it at the foot of the nightstand near the bed. A muscled torso is revealed, though it is covered with a slightly wrinkled, skin-tight, black elastic material. The sleeves stopped at his shoulders like a cut-off. It seemed like a healthy medium of a physique. Not too big, but not too small.

“Ah, but yet. You don’t trust me. You don’t have any good reason to. But you have to trust me. Just like I have to trust you. Neither of us enjoy the concept, but that is how it is.” Demagol began to pace back and forth at the foot of the bed, his eyes looking up to meet the female’s bright optics every now and again. “I was perfectly aware you wouldn’t choose the S'zari. Nobody would choose to go with someone who is willing to pay for their hunt. It doesn’t make sense. Take it as you will. I don’t care.” He stopped and looked at Rhailo, his brows slightly furrowed. “What do I get out of this? Certainly not credits. Certainly not a clean mission. I get you. You’re skilled. I can see it. Maybe here in these slums you haven’t honed yourself.” A flashback of a mission long past flickered through Demagol’s mind before he spoke again. “But believe me when I say this. I know what you are ultimately capable of, and I value it.” In all honesty, it was the truth. The female had abilities which could help Demagol quite a bit. If all went the way he desired, he would have plans for her. They would not be as restricting as she may think.

The weather had died down outside, leaving the couple to be bewitched by silence whenever one of them wasn’t speaking. In some aspects it was peaceful, but in others, chaotic. Silence had a way of affecting everything. The Mandalorian didn’t gawk over the female’s body like many others that night had. No doubt he was attracted to her, but he was of sound mind. She was desirable, but in more ways than just the comforts her body would possess. “Is this a setup? No. This a decision. An innovation. I have no reason to set you up when you are already under my control.” Even then, Demagol was continuing to remove all of the armor from his body. Why was he doing this? Maybe he was tired. Maybe he just wanted to feel human again. The lack of weight which came with taking the armor off was pleasant. But yet here he was, literally undressing himself in front of the female. He didn’t seem to care, and sooner rather than later he was standing in that comfortable, elastic material, covering him from his knees up to his shoulders. A hand reached upward and fingers combed through that black hair, as if trying to push the matted texture back into that combover look.

“Stay with me, and you will be safe. At least as safe as I can make you. Undoubtedly I have heat on me while we linger here on this planet, but the two of us aren’t a chief concern right now. A war is starting. They will turn their attention to us much later. You’ve seen my capabilities, so do not doubt me. Do not try to run, you won’t make it far.” Regardless of how bold it was, he sat upon the edge of the bed with one of his palms flattened upon the surface. When he looked at Rhailo, he did so directly, eyes peering into eyes.
“Stay with me and I will get you off of this scum-infested planet for good.”

RE: Tread Lightly [closed] - Kat - 11-03-2015

Strangely quiet during the whole process, Rhailo found herself just as confused as she had been before the Mandalorian finished answering. Be it the way he seemed so much better informed than she did, or the fact he was candid, the Auroun couldn't help bringing her knees up to further hide her figure; arms wrapping tight around her now bruised shins. What was normally unmarred flesh glared outwards; decorated in scratches, scrapes, bruises, and dirt. An outrage to that vision of a figure she possessed, the woman scratched lightly at dried flecks of blood stuck to her ankles. All that business at the club, she was bound to be worse for wear in a handful of ways, but she counted her lucky stars that everything important was intact. Well, minus her apartment, but she had numbed that portion of the evening off. Maybe with enough concentration, the lack of a home could be forgotten. Overlooked. Narrowed lids shifted to settle on the stranger where he sat, his now armorless body an appealing mess of tattoos and light scarring.

If she were a weaker woman, there may have been attempts made to seduce her owner; to create an illusion while his helmet wasn't on to protect him. Kind or cruel, anything was possible while he was vulnerable... Rhailo didn't do that though. If anything, every effort was made to come off as undesirable in the moment. Her mind needed to focus on words and his closeness only made it harder to mull over responses. It took some searching, but through the fog of her thoughts, the Auroun finally asked, "If I had a choice, a real choice, what do you think I would do?" There was no real way to answer, as they both knew that a long term escape of any variety was unavailable. Even if she managed to trick him, to get away and make distance between their two persons, he would come again. And again. Over and over until the woman's will was broken, and Demagol's patience was nothing more than a memory.

Physically shifting herself to turn away from the hunter, Rhailo continued to respond in her flat tone; unwilling to meet his features where they sought to look her over. "I don't have a choice. I'll stay. I have to." Messages segmented and sharp, they were likely snipes made out of frustration. She didn't want to be near him. His face, as lovely as it may have been, made her infinitely more angry than the mask had. Suddenly he wasn't emotionless and cold-- there was warmth and it radiated irritatingly nearby with him seated there. "I don't know what you're on about otherwise... You think you have reasons? Okay. Sure." Blankets were pushed from her body so her back was exposed, and with the covers discarded, Rhailo stood facing the lavatory. "You didn't even have the decency to give me your name, but I'm supposed to trust you? Fuck you."

With a sashay of hips, the Auroun left her company to do as he pleased, to watch through the door she left open, if he cared to. Rhailo waved her hands in front of the motion censors to the shower to get the water started, then unabashedly slipped out of the last material of clothing she owned. The whole night had been an awful, frightening trainwreck of constant action, and she just couldn't take another word of it. Another moment being lectured about trust? To be told of her past like she had such an awful history that compared to his? Maybe what the woman had done was wrong, but she certainly did it for justifiable reasons. Her own reasons. She wasn't a dog to be ordered around, and she certainly wasn't about to let this hunter treat her like one. Rhailo stepped into the warm embrace of the capsule shaped basin and released the barest sigh of acceptance. When all was said and done, she wanted to unwind, and for whatever reason, his sudden shift in attitudes made her uneasy.

Coating a layer of body wash from the Hotel's complimentary bottles over her palms, hands busied themselves in covering every inch of that tantalizing form in a glossy, bubbly sheen. Her movements didn't seem shy, nor did she pause at any hint he may have been watching her; she left the door open, after all. No, Rhailo had better things to do than avoid granting the male a peep show of his assumed property. That was probably the most concerning factor of their agreement. Had she given up her freedom to someone looking to possess her, or was she being taken as something else? All these skills she seemed to harbor, and the first ones that came to mind were the ones that failed her earlier in the night. Spreading her legs to either side in a wider stance, one hand braced against the shower wall. The other drifted lower to settle comfortably between her thighs, at the place where her torso curved.

What was she doing?

The water continued to run hot, fogging the small restroom while her manicured middle finger dragged lazy circles around her clit. Tip against the cluster of nerves, cosmic hues closed themselves while her mouth parted to give a weak sigh of pleasure. All this running, the chase, the complete disregard for safety. Something about the rush made Rhailo incredibly aroused, and while the solemn solider in the other room waited, she let herself succumb to deviant desires. If he wanted her help, he could have it; her life was on the table. He just couldn't dispel an overactive libido in the meantime. His options were less conventional, leaving Demagol with the option of watching the femme finger fuck herself as those quiet whimpers increased from the other side of the hotel room.

Apparently, the creature was taunting him with her sounds. Or, more accurately, trying to taunt him.

Repositioning, Rhailo flattened her back against the wall and arched over it, using the surface to brace against wild twirls and flicks of practiced digits. It was rather pleasant watching her, the woman's cunt slick regardless of the streaming water, folds spread slightly with how she went about pleasuring her clitoris. Steady attention, drawn as small circles against the nub. Every so often, her eyes would flutter open just long enough to see if he was watching. Fuck him. Tongue running along her lips, the Auroun shivered through her affections; breasts raising with every heave of her panting chest. She hoped he suffered... Or maybe did something about it. It was hard to tell what she wanted. Rhailo was in heat.