Log:The Show Must Go On

The Show Must Go On

OOC Date: November 7, 2021
Location: Chance Castle Theater, Nar Shaddaa
Participants: Xavier Harcourt (GM), Netep Muri

After hours at the Chance Castle Casino are no different than any other hours on Nar Shaddaa. There is no closing time. No last call. The lights of the slot machines are always flashing. Pristine tables housing various games of chance are always shuffling the cards. The buffet runs the entire length of the longest wall only to double back and run the length again filled with delicacies from all over the galaxy. The lum runs free and in the high roller's section, millions and millions of credits are won and lost per minute.

The Chance Castle Theater, however, is another matter completely.

In between productions and catering to some renovations, the staff here is minimal. In the lobby, sentients and droids alike sell tickets for future shows and attractions but otherwise the common throng of people usually seen trampling the high-traffic carpet is absent. The theater itself is empty and dim. The seats are all cleaned; the carpet vacuumed and the stage smells of lemony cleaner.

Backstage is practically abandoned. The bulletin boards are empty. The schedule cleared. It's eerily quiet in these narrow passageways where organized chaos usually performs nightly. Dressing rooms are cleared of the personal affects that actors and actresses bring with them for inspiration.

But the last dressing room at the end of the darkest corridor glows with a soft, yellow light that beams out onto the adjacent wall.

She'd marched over here on a mission, Netep Muri did, but after getting this far, past the noise of the gambling hall, past the buffet and plate full of sticky sweet roll she'd wolfed down, she's...lost steam.

Some steam.

Her powerwalk has lost its power, surefooted steps lost their purposeful rhythm, and the crypt-like quiet of the cavernous theater seems to have seeped in as deeply as her bones. Citrustastic astrigent scent aside, the ambience is tomb-like enough to sending a creeping crawl up Muri's spine and open her ears to the tiniest of sounds. Least of which were hers...until now. Now they are very quiet, very tiny, so she might steal herself away into parts before unexplored. Rather than ignite her taclight, she waits for her eyes to adjust accordingly before pressing on behind the curtain, before slipping soundlessly through a door, and prowling deeper into the lair of this haunt who persist ever so in her dreams.

Breaths are drawn in through nose, out softly through mouth so as to minimize even that telltale sound of existance. Netep peeks into deeper darks room by room until her feet have only one left to approach. That warm, beckoning light is a lure and she edges closer to it. When at last it's almost within arm's reach she stops. Listens. Contemplates her next move.

The hubbub of the casino and the theater's lobby are choked the moment the side doors close behind Muri; cutting her off from the high life ambience of excess that Chance Castle is renown for. One of many proud and established locales of Nar Shaddaa that can boost such a claim.

Slipping past the dense, multi-layered curtains of the main stage, the dim house lights are snuffed out; unable to find even a crease in which to sneak in a thin trail to mark her way. The dark, foreboding halls of exposed scaffolding, hanging costumes, and stowed way props threaten to repeat loudly any small noise she may make.

Large set pieces of fiberglass beasts watch as the Lorrdian passes. Grand palace colonnades and retractable staircases seem to withdraw further into the shadows as if to give her a path.

That path leads her past the barren dressing rooms and to the end of the hall. That pale yellow light like a beacon leading ships to the rocks. Peering inside, she sees the source of that light: the iridescent bulbs framing the vanity mirror.

And there, sitting in the chair with his back to the door and away from the mirror, is a dark-haired man. No sound. No movement.

Except for a gentle, silent tapping of his finger on the chair's arm.

One purple eye peers around the door's frame, sighting the dark-haired man in residence. Pointedly faced away from reflection. Away from door. Sitting here in a dressing room without production to dress for.

Muri's tongue flits across her bottom lip, seeking to recollect moisture which isn't there. Her rant waiting in storage to be unleashed upon he who demands obedience without explanation has been rehearsed countless time in her own head for the duration of that taxi ride that ferried her here from the club. But now? Now she's forgotten how it begins. There are unsettling doubts seeping in, some part of her consciousness whispering the word 'trap' into ear. IS it Xavier, sitting there? She cannot see, from here. How perfect are the angles to ensure she cannot!

Two options: Lie...or confront and either way she's apt to find out who it is she's actually stalked, yes?

"Juran." Her voice comes starkly from the quiet outside that room, just half her face peeping in for now and one hand gripping her taclight on belt like a potential club. Why? She's not hundred percent sure herself.

In the relative desolation of the theater's depths, the air is stale and dry. Several stories up, the ventilation is at least recirculating but here at ground level, one could see the dust particles floating lazily in the halos of two dozen little bulbs that frame the mirror. The figure in the chair does not shift to her approach. Either he did not hear her or he did not care to rise.

The silence shatters like thin ice. The name uttered; a hammer.

The tapping finger stops abruptly.

"Curious."

That voice is not Xavier's. Nor is it the softer, musical tones of his youth. The accent is wrong. In fact, it's a discernible accent instead of the amalgamation Xavier is known for. This voice is a deep, mirthful baritone and in one word, it is clear that Basic is not his first language though he speaks it fluidly.

"That name has been lost for many decades. I wonder, then..."

The chair slowly spins around to the door, revealing a man of black hair neatly combed over. Grey is creeping in at the temples and his face long and squared off at the jawline; a goatee completing his features. It is too dim to see the colour of his eyes, but they are dark and dancing with amusement.

He doesn't rise.

"How did you come by it?"

Skrag.

Rooted to her present vantage point, half in and half out of the room, Netep weighs her new set of options. No way THIS is a coincidence, right? Someone else who knows his name who happens to be /here/ right now.

She makes a mental note to thank her little spy eyes VERY explcitly for their mistake. And as the seconds tick by, her odds of coming across as innocent and dumb lessen. By lots.

"Mm, not Juran, then. S'my mistake, please...carry on with your brooding." Both palms go up in show of surrender, one holding fast to that little flashlight as she edges her other half back 'round the frame, into hall. "S'public record, the performers what come in an' out o'here. Might be I'm a bit of a...lover of the arts, m'self. Was here on business one night and heard'im singin' but never caught a name, so I went pickin' through." The best lies are interwoven with truth, yes?

"S'not a problem...is it?" Asked from behind marginally improved cover, save for that one eye keeping tabs of the situation.

The stranger's head tilts just slightly. "Is that right? A love of arts. Mmm, not many of those to be found on this particular rock, I dare say. It is rather refreshing to see the younger generation with a healthy interest for the performing arts. Though Juran?" He gives a saddened click of his tongue. "I'm afraid he's been dead for a long, long time, my dear. None like him since on the stage."

He speaks so casually. Effortless. It's as if he is sharing idle chitchat with someone while they wait in line at the local bureaucracy. His voice is low, soothing. A lullaby that snakes into her ears and seems to take residence in the frontal lobes of her mind.

"Why don't you tell me how you came across that name? Why you seek him now?"

Somewhere along the line, the man rose from his seat; a pair of steps taken on polished dress shoes, edging closer towards the small woman at the door. His expression tightens just a moment; scratching the surface of her mind. Those thoughts at the forefront.

Her purpose for coming here.

Dark eyes brighten just a little and that smile grows wider and all the more cold. "Bad dreams? Such a pity. Does he haunt you, child? Tell me."

The voice lowers into a demand. "Where is he."

Dead? Metaphorically, surely. Dead talent. So his music career came first before...before whatever. War. That sly Lorrdian eye seeks to read this stranger, milk every ounce of info from what's said and what's not that she can. She /thinks/ she's got the upper hand in this conversation.

She thinks wrong.

'Bad dreams.'

That small woman at the door stiffens, insides suffering a brief shiver within the warmth of her belly. 'There are monsters larger than me,' Dream Xavier's voice reminds lowly in her other ear.

"Not here, evidently." A little attitude, brassy veneer to coat 'round her unease. When put into a corner, 31 year old Hajep-Neti is no better behaved than the 13 year old version. The hand holding that flashlight lowers back to belt, slipping it back through the loop. "Which is unfortunate." Hand on hip. Her other hand rubs over face, brow and temples in particular, tucks curly strand behind ear and comes forward anew with a half-smoked cig between fingers. "I was rather hoping to shove my ire up his arse."

And in the meantime, that hand on hip shifts just a few fingers, hooking index 'round the leathery strap locking her sport knife in place and pops it loose. The strap, that is. A tiny clearance of obstacle.

The man stops a moment to consider the empty vanity to his right; the glow highlighting his features on one side and drowning the other side in shadow. He listens with the ear turned towards her but his gaze is elsewhere. Probing somewhere in the middle distance as if reaching out to feel as a snake smells the air with its tongue.

He can feel it. Her tension. That shiver reverberates the air and sings to him like a string instrument finely tuned. Black eyes close and he breathes in the sensation with a blissful grunt in his throat.

It ends with the soundless pop of her sportknife’s strap, pulling his head to swivel unhurriedly back to her. "Petulant." He didn't need to dwell into her mind to suss that much. "Persistent." His approaching steps resume. "Pathetic."

The lights of the vanity flicker but do not go out. "You will tell me everything I need to know, child. You can do so willingly. Or you can do so screaming."

"Petchuck." Muri adds to the 'p' words of insult, cept aims it his way with a little half nod. Her retreating steps match his approaching ones, stained and weathered boots scuffing over the floor. Distance preservation is self preservation...right? Each reach of leg into the darkness behind is a controlled measure rather than flighty one. Netep Muri may be small, but she's faced down many a hungry predator in the wild and survived THIS long to tell lies about it...

"How's bout a question for a question? Answer for an answer?"

Step....Step....

The shadows grow thicker as the two move away from the solitary light source of the vanity. Each of his casual, predatory steps are matched by her; backtracking and keeping distance. Now they take their dance deeper into the corridor that only seems to get longer and longer as the conversation continues.

Both hands splay out from his sides in an empty-palmed shrug. "I'm afraid it does not work like that. But it's no matter. You've made your decision."

It comes at her without warning.

The man's arm snaps out straight in front of her, fist clenching though he grabs onto nothing. Seemingly. A tug of his arm inwards pulls a large, hollow prop from it's cubby. With a grinding of heavy fiberglass, a Bonegnawer sculpted in a squawking, open-winged pose smashes into her from behind at full force.

The glee in his voice is immeasurable. "Screaming it is."

Muri's evasive reflexes see her dodge the grab with a backward jerk of shoulders! HAHA!

For a fleeting second, he can see the flash of smugness is the whites of her eyes, the challenging sneer of teeth.

THUD

That same, petulent and persistent face is sent sprawling to the floor at his feet. Pathetic.

Muri hits stale carpeting with a muffled whoosh of air from her lungs and a clatter of beads, blaster, and datapad. Something might've crunched. A rib? Her skull? Her screen? All of the above?

The next breath mewls its way into her lungs, one hand snaking through her heap of hair to clutch at the nausea-inducing throb at the back of her skull. She draws a knee forward in toward chest - leverage against the floor to push...roll over, off the flesh of her screaming arm. The fresh tattoo is TALKIN. It, coupled with her regular, boring arm in jacketed sleeves fold protectively over skull.

"FRELL YOU THINK I CAME DOWN HERE FOR!?" she screams. "Sure as shavit wasn't t'see you..." some other unintelligible muttering tapers off.

The hollow set piece is still bouncing a bit from the force; coming to a stop on it's back held up mostly from the floor by the wingspan that is now chipped and cracked but holding.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Amidst her grumblings of pain and disorientation, dress shoes on the floor close in They come to a stop at the top of Muri's head as she curls up in pain upon the floor and the man looks down at her.

"I know why you came." Laughter weaves in and out of his words without actually vocalizing to a full chortle. "Are you his new plaything? A pawn? A tool?" His fingers dance above her, flicks here and there as if twining his fingers around invisible threads like a puppeteer would his marionette. "Bait, perhaps. Or---" Now a chuckle crawls its way from his throat. "A pest."

A clamp begins to tighten around Muri's throat; denying her breath just enough to get her heart to race. It is slow. Meticulous. He wants her to feel her lungs begin to burn. See the peripheral of her vision begin to fade.

Suddenly, it lets go.

Seconds later, the man is slammed into the blank wall of the dead end corridor, his own breath knocked from him. His calm demeanor broken as his wild eyes look into the shadows.

Beyond Muri.

To Xavier who stands with his own arm still outstretched and tense.

The wheezed note of surprise is markedly surprised, even when all vocal inflection turns to the same garbled gasp for air as Muri's trachea threatens to collapse. The pressure! What in the hell is going ON?

"Min min..." She fights it, clawing at unseen fingers squeezing the hollow of her throat. "...vil ut val--le.." a spamsic cough manages to drive some out but fails to draw any back in. "...Nharquisssssss..."

Here lies Jeric and Hund Hajep-Neti of Omwat, strangled by nothing.

Hexing all the way.

The crackling spots distorting her vision make her blind to anything else coming down that corridor, but when her attacker is suddenly tackled beyond her sight by some invisible force, the tiny bit of conscious Muri still left flailing around in there can hazard a guess. Her breath is restored immediately with a greedy gasp....and a retch.

She's still curled up there, but a very shaky hand is migrating south toward her belt. Finding the knife. Tugging it free.

"Arxius."

A minute flick of Xavier's gaze towards Muri on the floor as she takes in the telltale gasp of air and the understandable retch that follows. Oh, he's been there. Many times. "Get up." While not unkind, Xavier's tone does not offer comfort, either.

He's too focused on the other man who is already rebounding from his the hit. "There you are," the stranger growls in both pleasure and annoyance. There is a slithering hiss to the statement; a familiar inflection Muri has only heard once before. "As insolent as ever. And sloppy."

Arxius grabs the threads of the bird prop once more and guides it with a flourish in an attempt to crush Muri beneath it. Instinctively, Xavier's own motion responds by grabbing it and completing the arc. Instead of crushing the small Lorrdian, the plexiglass bird clatters into a stack of crated wires and rope.

In this distraction, Arxius runs past the downed Muri, a second unseen attack hitting Xavier full onto the chest. Picked up off his feet, Xavier meets the rigid, crisscrossed beams that make up part of the scaffolding with a clang; his head snapping back and skull cracking against unforgiving metal.

"... Run." He manages to say to Muri.

That voice...

The voice which slithered through her subconscious, whispering from the encompassing dark. Maybe...maybe it is not the Vong the prepping explorers need worry about. Maybe the barvy professor is, in fact, unreachable.

Brows knit so tightly together than her face hurts from the contorsion, Muri finds her way up from the floor. "You two deserve eachother," she declares in a low voice that's detached from any semblance of emotion. It sounds far away, even to her ears, but that might just be the ringing still plaguing her skull. Swaying on her feet, it looks as though she's considering following Xavier's suggestion. She lurches forward into a bit of a gimpy run that hugs the wall, except rather than pickup speed and go on BY the supremely manicured goatee man - this is ONE time she'll not be a sucker for artfully groomed facial hair - she pushes into a sideways lunge while that knife-hand arcs up with a wide swing, seeking to bury the blade up to its hilt in his kidney, if the force behind it's any indication.

It's enough UMPH to put her off balance, that much is clear. Unfortunately too lately so for Miss Muri.

Staggering from the hit ringing from the base of his skull and into his ears, Xavier gives a short shake of his head before finding Arxius making his casual approach. "To think I had believed you dead, Xavier." Arxius looks over his shoulder only briefly as Muri goes to make her exit. Seems he's uninterested in dealing with her just yet. His target has finally shown himself.

"Yet you crawl from the gutter once more. Like a roach."

Xavier opens his mouth to say something, but it is cut off and twisted into a grimace that seizes his body. Drawing in a deep, teeth-gritting hiss, every neuron in his brain is all firing at once; frantically blaring alarms of pain that stifles his attempt to fling Arxius away from him.

It's short-lived as Arxius is interrupted by Muri's attack. His concentration broken, Arxius nevertheless catches the woman by her wrist without looking; giving a sharp, angry twist as he does so. "A pest," he concludes to himself then finally looks to her.

"You will pay a steep price for your meddling, child."

FRINK!!!!

The torsion in her wrist sends Netep's nerves aflame, from tender, tatted flesh to muscle and tendon to the tiny bones they surround that are wrenched and popped together in a swift JERK of a motion. The knife fumbles free of her air-clutching fingers and falls soundlessly to the floor. Soundlessly only because her yelp is louder.

It's a kneejerk reflex, the hastiness with which that leg comes up, seeking to knock nads back into his belly.

Alas...Muri the pest is doing a fine job of illustrating just how bad she is at jousting with anything cept words.

It makes her all the more mad.

Regardless of whether they've landed a hit on him or not, having two opponents to split his attention is a disadvantage. Muri's kick at his nethers forces Arxius to spend precious seconds dealing with her instead of indulging in a hunter's victory.

With a feral growl, Arxius shoves Muri away with pure, raw, old-fashioned muscle. The motion is followed by both his hands outstretched towards her, palms touching just at the apex of the wrist, and a much stronger burst of energy roars forth.

Pushing off the scaffolding Xavier tackles Muri, large arms wrapping around her and taking the full brunt of the hit that careens them both several feet further down the corridor. Past the rest of the dressing rooms. Past the large, stoic fake statues.

Together they slam into an elaborate backdrop depicting a lovely garden vista complete with balcony. Wood splinters and breaks. A domino affect knocks over the next scenery then the next... then the next. Lighting fixtures topple and snap at the base. Bulbs shatter in their shutters. A clothing rack tips over and is crushed under a shelf of headdresses.

From down the hallway, a snaphiss is heard and the darkness within lights up with a bright, menacing red light.

Xavier struggles to bring himself to his feet, blood trailing down his forehead into his rich brown eyes. Trailing from his nose, the corner of his mouth. A large hand flails for her wrist as he tries to untangle them while the world around him shifts and bucks like a ship at sea.

"Run.... now..." It's not a suggestion as it is clear he intends to do the same.

Netep might as well be a sack of beans, the way she crumples to the ground with a whimper. A cowed dog who knows its beat but can't help the impulse to bite. Wagging its tail apologetically as it does so.

"S'matter? Really have hope of usi--"

"--hnnnngh"

It's hard to put a finger on which bits hurt worse - the bodily tackle of a body almost twice her mass or the way her hip punches through someone's on-set carpentry project. Her head, at least, was still tucked close as it could merge with Mr Meatshield Harcourt. So. Just one concussion this evening.

"Ssth...." No, no what hurt the most right now is that attempt to swallow some metallic ooze. Did she bite her tongue?? "th'not emergenthy lithing, ith it?" A grim observation made while struggling her way out of the disaster zone, fingers of right hand gripping Xavier's sleeve like a lifeline. The unsettling red glow is more than enough to add credence to the order to RUN NOW.

With left arm tucked protectively against her belly, wrist probably not supposed to be twisted at the angle it presently is, Muri stagger-tromps free of debris and tugs the battered Morellian along with. Or maybe it's the other way around. Which way is up?

Her feet, at least, remember what it is they were put into this galaxy to do, and that's RUN AWAY. She does, doing her damnedest to keep pace, lest she be left behind.

"THOO WHERE?!?" Because that's an important detail to consider. Maybe.

Awkwardly high-stepping out of the pile that was moments ago the backdrops to a very romantic musical taking place on Naboo, Xavier keeps a grip on whatever part of Muri he can grab in his rush. At the moment, it's a fistful of fabric as she, in turn, clings to his jacket sleeve.

"No." No, it isn't emergency lighting.

Nor is that a fire suppression system that is sending a large, heavy amp flying in their direction. The Force is silent to him now; offering him no aid or guidance. No warning of the impending hit in time to deflect it. Xavier shoves Muri away at the very last second, the amp whizzing between them, clipping Muri's shoulder, and snapping a faux wall like so much particle board.

"Go... go!" Not so much answering her question as Xavier sways to the side, leaning briefly against a line of folded tables, struggling to regain his balance.

Behind them, Arxius is seething with rage; the red light of his blade catching every ridge of his infuriated face.

No time to to stop. Keep going. Xavier grabs Muri again and pulls on her, running the best he can across the empty stage. Grabbing her by the shoulders, Xavier spins her around; his eyes meeting hers through the lines of blood.

"To the lobby." A wave of his hand flings the closest side doors open. "Do not look back."

He looks up at the house lights and with a bang, they all break. Now the entire area is cast in shadows save for the beam of light from the lobby and a humming red that's fast approaching.

Xavier's hands remain a moment longer then release her and his presence withdraws. Beyond the double doors, patrons and staff have been alerted to the ruckus and are quickly converging on the space.

Everything hurts. Everything hurts and everything sucks and Muri's love for the 'arts' is really starting to diminish. As the amp flies by, it chips off the humeral tubercle, smashing the head of her humerus, which is anything BUT humorous, and kriffing the rotator cuff to boot. This is...really gonna muck with her upcoming race.

Y'know, if she lives to think about it for another two seconds, which - OH there's Xavier again!

The yank on the parts of her everything that hurt elicits a sound akin to a dying quadduck but what choice has she got? Her legs, blessedly, still work. Even if they almost buckle out from under her when she's siezed AGAIN and spun about with a fiery OUCH so hot it makes the rest of her shiver. Her mouth's ajar with a silent scream, throat clenched too tightly to actually do so.

Watery eyes speak volumes where words fail, at least.

She's nodding. IS she nodding? Yes, she's nodding. Lobby. Lobby. TO the lobby.

"T-t-taris." She manages to gasp. Instructions of her own? If he makes it to Taris, he's not dead. Right? Right.

And she's running, finally set in motion by the exploding lights with a more abbreviated shriek than the last time he pulled that stunt.

She KNEW it wasn't rats.....knew it.

There was a brief pause from Xavier between the moment she utters 'Taris' and the moment the lights blow. Like he doesn't understand what she's saying or -- more likely -- wholly confused about this entire ordeal.

Why. Why did he get involved?

Because Arxius would've wrenched every scrap of information out of her. More than Xavier would ever want him to know. Yet he revealed himself all the same. And worse, taking an unnecessary blow. Could have just let her die. Easier.

'You didn't want that,' a youthful voice in his head says as Xavier navigates the corridors in pitch blackness.

Xavier growls and all but punches the fire alarm on his way out the back door. Emergency lights go on and more people converge towards the theater. Soon, the place would be swarming with the security force that does its best to police the Corellian District. Someone would have to answer questions.

That someone will not be Xavier as he lumbers down the alley, his shoulder scraping the side of the building as he goes, pouring rain leaving a thin trail of blood in his wake streaking into the sewage drain.