An Eye for the Darkness

It was like descending into another world, a world outlined by Dante. Every city has its dark parts, those places that you’re advised not to go, or instinctively know are dangerous. Coruscant was different. The transition was subtle; it always took her by surprise. One moment she would feel safe, and the next, steps later, the fine hairs on her neck stood on end. Instinct prevailed in those moments, and she gave into it.

Down and down she went. She traveled out of reach of the rays of daylight, and through the blanketing clouds of trapped moisture in the air. She traveled further down, flickering signs providing the only source of light; the light offering the illusion of solace, while the signs advertised blatant evil and corruption. She was careful in her steps, her eyes constantly scanning the area. She walked near the light, but on its outskirts so her path was lit, but not her face. She was cowled and robed; an attractive human female was prey, regardless their combat abilities.

When she deemed she had gone far enough, she looked down the path that led deeper into the Underworld. She had never walked down that road. There was hardly any light, just the flickering of dying signs that offered the same artificial promise as above, but almost as if they were less confident in that promise.

Artemis had no doubt that that darkness was host to a multitude of evils. She was comfortable in darkness, to an extent. The deepest realms of Coruscant’s Underworld put that comfort to the test. Fear seeped in, challenging the bravado she often donned like a shield.

She dismissed it. Her place was -thankfully- in the Upper Underworld tonight, or was it the morning? Time was irrelevant here, defined by the incessant drone of techno music that was only interrupted by the screams of victims.

No one would answer those screams.

The triumphant light of Coruscant’s security force waned into nothingness here.

She meandered down the street, becoming more at ease with each step. She knew where she was going. She was no doubt expected. News in the Criminal realm traveled fast, and a bounty offered by the Besk Kadjic was news. She wondered inwardly who was hiding him, or if he was believing himself safe because of the nature of Defels.

It didn’t matter. She was patient. Intolerant, but patient. Greesh would be found. Her eye could see through his chameleon hide.

She finally found the place.

The cantina was typical, albeit more filthy than upper level ones. It stank of all manner of sentient fluids -vomit, sweat, urine and excrement- and Artemis’ nose flexed instinctively to try and shield its host from the smells. She surveyed the room quickly, instincts taking over. She noted the exits and entries, the number of people in the room, guessing roughly their combat effectiveness, and how many people had noticed her. She smiled, stifling a chuckle when she noticed the air freshener hanging nearby. No amount of flair could hide the true nature of where she was standing.

Females of a variety of species were lined up near the entrance, and each looked her way briefly before catching her disposition and looking away. Only a few were privileged enough to be wearing clothes, but each had a necklace with a number on it. An Echani and a Trandoshan were talking nearby. After a few moments, they seemed to reach an agreement, and No. 17 was called forward. She slinked toward the Trandoshan. His eyes were filled with lust. Her coy smile did little to hide the raw fear in her eyes.

Artemis moved deeper into the cantina. Music was being played in an effort to entertain, or maybe in an effort to drown out the noises being emitted in the back rooms. Artemis was apathetic to the misery that surrounded her. The misery around her was merely the lifestyle these people had been born into. A whore remained a whore because she lacked the courage to attempt escape.

Artemis settled into a chair, the leather squeaked underneath her weight. A bug hurriedly tried to escape, running onto her forearm, frantically seeking a safe exit. She caught it between her thumb and pointer finger, watching it squirm for a second before squeezing until its shell cracked underneath her fingers. She flicked it away.

She watched the room, waiting for the informant she was supposed to meet. The informant wasn’t a Defel, obviously, they were too loyal. But, he was rumored to know Greesh’s whereabouts. For his sake, Artemis hoped he did. She yearned to have her bowstring drawn taut between her fingertips, to hear the satisfying twang of an arrow rushing toward its destiny, the thunk as it entered a target and something -bone or sheer meat- stopping its forward progress.

((Does Artemis take note of anything interesting? Is there any sign of the informant? Does anyone take particular interest in Artemis?))

A man with a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip sits at a table not too far from Cara. He looks a shambles and she can smell him from where she sits. He's a large man, clearly out of shape, but carries himself with an authority that can only be cut from the underworld. He's bald on top with a comb over of greasy brown hair that glistens in the neon strips hanging overhead. He takes the cigarette from mouth and flicks the ash accumulating at the tip onto the floor. He hasn't taken his eyes off Cara since she entered. Placing the cigarette between his puckered lips, he takes a long drag and puffs the smoke from his nostrils in two jets. Then with a stubby, yellow-tipped finger, he beckons Cara to him.

Artemis rubbed her fingertips together, wiping off any remaining residue from the dead beetle’s shell. The friction on her calloused tips felt good, it reminded her vaguely of the heat a bowstring creates when drawn to her cheek. It was different, though, a twang wouldn’t follow this particular friction.

She had caught his eyes earlier, but had acted oblivious to it. She’s found that staring at someone causes them to stare back, and she hadn’t wanted to misidentify the contact. The look had held something that wasn’t as common in the Underworld and usually served to set one apart from the crowd: intelligence.

The whites of his eyes no longer held the purity he was born with. Instead, they hosted a pale yellow hue to them, no doubt from the cigarette and its ilk that rested on his lower lip. Where in most cultures it would probably be labeled merely an inconvenience or an eventually fatal habit, in the Underworld it held different meaning. This particular man had lived long enough to allow the cigarettes to imbued his eyes with the yellow stain, and that spoke volumes about his ability to endure the Underworld. His presence, if his eyes were overlooked, reiterated the authority that could only be achieved through long tenure.

She appraised his body, as she does with nearly everyone she meets, searching for ability beneath whatever the exterior might present. If he had fighting ability below the excess rolls of skin, it was buried deep, probably unobtainable. The hair on his head was thinning and greasy, and his clothes offered a similar conclusion: he may have cared at one point, but such illusions had been lost along the way. She came back to his eyes, and matched his stare with a look of her own that said simply, “What the hell are you looking at?”

He seemed bored. Or, at the least, not threatened by whatever Artemis projected with her gaze.

He took a final drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke through his nostrils. Artemis watched it waft through the air, some clinging to his hair, but most reacting to the neon green light above him, giving him an almost eerie visage. He curled his finger toward Artemis and beckoned her over. She wiped her beetle-slaughtering fingertips on the leather seat and stood.

She walked over to him confidently, her eyes scanning the surroundings while her hands made a quick show of checking her knife was cleared of its sheath. She doubted the man was interested in fighting her, but one could never be too careful in the Underworld. Those who lived by a creed other than “Might Makes Right” found themselves at the bloody end of Might’s blade.

She sat across from him, but leaned slightly toward him to provide any onlookers with what they might expect to see: a beautiful girl whispering to a dirty man. “You know, in a place like this I might charge you for staring at me as long as you have,” she said in a manner so genuinely friendly that more gullible people would have been fooled. Juxtaposing it with abrupt venom, she asked, “What do you want?”

She doubted anything she did would shock the man, but she hoped he was wise enough to see the intelligence in her eyes and the authentic danger in her voice. She supposed he was.

((What’s the ensuing conversation? Who is this man? If he’s the contact, what information does he provide Artemis with?))

He just snorts at Cara's jest. The laugh degrades into a wracking smokers cough. He had the civility at least to turn from the woman and not cough into her face. The answer to her question is obvious to him and he blinks. The gesture says "keep up, kid," but he ignores her tone.

"You want the Defel , or not?" He asks, cutting to the quick. Taking the cigarette between his thick fingers, he picks up a glass and downs the dregs of his drink in two swallows. The man looks up, past Artemis, and signals two fingers to the bar. He waited a moment, catching the barman's eye and then turns back to the woman, "'cause I might be in a position to help you, if you do a small thing for me."

The man's laugh had a definite tone of infrequency to it; the cough that it devolved into was testimony enough of that. Artemis doubted that the man had much to laugh about in the Underworld. She thought dispassionately about what might amuse him, and surmised those events were rooted in perversion, or pain. She wordlessly appreciated him turning his head. Those who specialized in professional intimacy would not be phased by a smoky cough in the face, and Artemis wondered how she would react if the man was not as... considerate.

The modicum of courtesy spoke volumes to Artemis. The man was either raised in a family that valued manners, or he had been in the informant position enough times to know that prospective bounty hunters and assassins didn't appreciate being the victim of biological assault.

"You want the Defel, or not?" he asked dryly. At least Artemis wouldn't have to keep up her charade much longer. She had no interest in having to keep up the pretense of courtesy when all she wanted was to put a multitude of arrows in a Defel.

Her thoughts changed abruptly when the man signaled the bartender for another round. She sighed audibly. It seemed her meeting may have another drink's duration, and the man had been nursing his drink until the last few swigs. Artemis nodded when he caught the man's eye. "Cause I might be in a position to help you, if you do a small thing for me."

Artemis drummed her fingertips on the table, sucking on her lower lip as if debating whether to proceed in negotiations at all. She paused the steady rhythmn of her fingers and found the man's eyes, assuming the passionless, business tone of the women around her, "My rate is higher than the women around us, and most of my clients don't survive the ordeal."

She let the words hang in the air for a long moment, as if to give the man the illusion that she was serious, or that he might survive long enough to enjoy himself. She considered briefly telling the man to go screw himself, that she wouldn't be a lackey or that she couldn't be swindled into favors. The truth of the matter was the man knew he had her. She wanted to find Greesch, and if he withheld his information, the probability of the Defel getting away in the Underworld was pretty high. It was a labyrinth to the untrained eye, and Artemis was pessimistic enough to assume the Defel was in areas she wasn't familiar with.

She watched the man, allowing herself to memorize his features should she need to resume this conversation with an entirely different goal in mind. The greasy hair sat atop his head in a vane attempt to cling to the health of youth, his yellow-tipped fingertips that attached to large arms that hosted coarse, black hair, and finally, his stained eyes, their brown irises appearing intelligent and bored, but nevertheless demanding her attention at least a little while longer. He was cut from the same cloth as everyone in the Underworld, but had risen above his peers, most likely due to the intelligence his eyes hosted. She would find him by those eyes, should the need arise.

She cut to the chase herself, determined to finish the conversation before he could enjoy his drink, granting her some semblence of victory. The charm that had previously dripped from her tongue evaporated in an instant, "Jerk me around and I'll kill you." While she could think of more inventive threats, she doubted they would be ones the man hadn't heard before. Simplicity would probably serve her better in this situation. "What is this 'small thing'?"

((What favor does the man ask of Artemis? Does anything else of note happen?))

The man looks intrigued by the threat and quirks a grin. The teeth are yellowed from the nicotine as well. He's kept alive in the underworld long enough to not balk at idle threats. The man straightens in his chair and narrows his eyes, evaluating the woman before him. He had not thought that this simple meeting would degrade to threats, but he thought little about it. "Two way street, missy," he says, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray. He fumbles in a hip pocket, grumbling to himself, as he pulls out a pack and lights one. Almost as an afterthought, he offers one to Cara.

"It's nothing big," said the man, taking a puff on his cigarette. He makes a face to blow the smoke away from Cara. "Greesh, or some of his buddies, makes no difference, has something that belongs to an associate of mine. Understandably, he wants his property back… and since you're going in that direction…" the man shrugs and lets Artemis fill in the rest. "Simple as that. And you will be compensated for your trouble."

The drinks come, two glasses of dark brown ale. He takes one of them and spends a second inspecting the contents, then his nicotine stained eyes flick to Cara.
"So what you say, missy?"

Artemis grunted noncommitally at the man's two way street comment before waving her hand to decline the offered cigarette. As the man sat up straighter in his chair and began his quick inspection of her merit, she did the same. She wondered what his quick inspection would reveal, if he would consider her a competent opponent. She watched the smoke from the cigarette whaft into the neon green above, its vapors joining the light and the other smoke in the airy dance that defined the cantina's atmosphere.

"It's nothing big. Greesh, or some of his buddies, makes no difference, has something that belongs to an associate of mine. Understandably, he wants his property back... and since you're going in that direction..." The man's shrug offered a punctuation, or illipses, and he finished with, "Simple as that. And you will be compensated for your trouble."

"I don't suppose you'll tell me who this associate is? I don't have a dog in any fight besides Greesh, but I'd like to at least know what sort of property I'm looking for, and whether or not I should leave the thief alive, assuming it's not the Defel."

She paused her queries when the drinks arrived -two- and watched the man for a moment. His eyes traversed the rim of the mugs before focusing on the contents within. The whole thing had a feeling of habit to it, as if he had seen one too many of his colleagues killed by a poison-laden rim or "bad ale." She didn't have much experience in the way of checking a mug for nefarious contents, so she pushed the mug in his direction with a polite shake of her head.

They both watched the server leave, and after the man had judged they were out of earshot, he flicked his eyes up to Artemis and spoke first.

"So what you say, missy?"

Artemis shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as if to indicate she thought this conversation had gone on long enough. "I say that I have never been very fond of the local brewery, but would be delighted to recover your friend's property, should the compensation truly be worth the extra time."

She wondered idly if he would be offended at her distrust of the cantina or his appraisal of the beverage. She assumed he wouldn't, and had merely bought two to be gracious or seal the bargain. He probably knew that she would decline and he would "have to" drink the second himself. Nevertheless, she would settle up with the bartender as she left, to assure the contact that the gesture was not lost on her.

She waited for him to answer her questions, but she suspected she would agree regardless what those answers were. She kept her eyes present, continuing to scan the cantina, planning her exit and resolving to leave as soon as possible. She wasn't feeling in danger, but she didn't like staying in the same spot too long, it made her antsy. Mostly, she was itching to be on the hunt, to feel the excitement as she got closer and closer to her quarry, and once finally discovering her prey, feeling the flutter of her heart as the bowstring snapped against her forearm and the arrow went, intent on finding it's new home.

((What information does the contact give in regards to the stolen property and the location of it/Greesh? Is the conversation over? Is anyone else in the cantina interested in the conversation?))

"Greesh has some slaver buddies," the man admits once he is sure Cara is on side. "He has taken to their company as of late. They have a club – it's more of a front really, all the real stuff is done out back – on the Dousna Promenade, over in Cascadia. Name's Neon Electric." The man delivers the information dispassionately, yet fully aware of what he is losing on them.

"As far as what you do with them…" he makes a face and shrugs, "that's up to you. Give them a slap on the wrist for all I care. But her name is Lucris. There is a place in the Toutah hab-blocks: 212905-4V. Bring Lucris there when you have her." He sits back a little in his chair, taking a few gulps from one of the glasses, unfazed by Cara's refusal to share a drink with him. If anyone else was interested in their exchange, they kept their curiosity hidden. The conversation is over and Cara is free to leave.

“Greesh has some slaver buddies, he has taken to their company as of late. They have a club – it's more of a front really, all the real stuff is done out back – on the Dousna Promenade, over in Cascadia. Name's Neon Electric.”

Artemis exhaled a long sigh, having an idea where this was going. She hated being responsible for the life of another. It was just so... motherly. She watched the man’s mouth as he spoke, committing the names of pickup and delivery to memory dispassionately. She thought about how she might go about the slavers themselves, and decided she wouldn’t kill needlessly.

She wasn’t above trying to instigate a fight, though. She couldn’t really explain why the bloodlust was on her brain. She was normally so disciplined, but right now all she wanted was to hurt something. Maybe it was a lingering feeling of justice that the men would hurt the woman, but she doubted it.

"Her name is Lucris. There is a place in the Toutah hab-blocks: 212905-4V. Bring Lucris there when you have her."

He settled back into his chair, and Artemis stood, glad to be rid of him. She stopped at the bartender, paying for her drink and left the cantina quickly. The night embraced her, and she settled into it comfortably. She looked in the general direction of Cascadia, checked the various components to her bow upon her person and started walking, content everything was in its proper place.

Cascadia was far from pleasant. It was the general hub for trafficking in the area, and most everyone who decided to do business there had black hearts and a surly demeanor. If there was a lion’s den on Coruscant, Cascadia was it. Comparatively, though, it was a sheep’s pen and Artemis was the wolf, but who had time to mince words?

The Toutah hab-blocks, on the other hand, were actually in the nicest part, a series of huge apartment-style complexes that housed wealthy clientele. Most of its residents were criminals and ringleaders themselves, who sought solace from the filth they dealt with every day and a way to spend the money they earned. The Toutah hab-blocks provided this outlet, offering the latest comforts and a reputation for security and privacy.

It took her a few hours, but Artemis found herself on the Dousna Promenade. The street was wide, and vehicle traffic was prohibited on it. The constant foot traffic had packed down the road, and the street was fairly clean. It seemed almost... touristy at first glance, but that was the reputation of the Promenade. What originally appeared to be a pleasant street with street artists, eateries and higher standards cantinas were actually thieves, brothels, and the stages for some of the most important criminal occurrences in the city.

It was as if one day the less-than-reputable population decided they wanted to integrate with society, but couldn’t leave their work behind them. In the majority of the shops, a trip to the basement would reveal women and men chained to the ground, imprisoned until they could be sold into physical or sexual slavery. More than that, nearly everyone who had reason to visit the Dousna Promenade was aware of what went on below the welcoming exterior, but couldn’t or wouldn’t do anything to stop it.

A few had tried, over the years. Artemis had been reminded of the stories. One man, a vigilante who favored masks, attempted to toss around the wealth he had accrued over his life and go around knuckle dusting would-be slavers. They had dragged his body through the streets, horribly maimed and dismembered as a warning to anyone else who might try to intervene.

Another had purchased a woman for the evening and tried to flee with her. Her fear of punishment was so intense that she had screamed in resistance, warning the man they would be caught and killed, so loudly that they were almost immediately found and tortured before being killed violently. Ironically, the route they would have taken out of the City was deserted, and they would have made it if she hadn’t of been so vocal with her fear.

Artemis walked down the promenade, smiling at street performers, batting away hands that inconspicuously tried to pickpocket her, and kept her eye out for Neon Electric. She heard the music before she saw it, but she made her way to the entrance. She was dressed simply, but her cleavage was hinted at enough that the doorman let her through.

The crowd and noise enveloped her. There was no need for stealth, one could be invisible and anonymous almost at will in the crowd. They pressed in on her, but she continued slinking through the crowd with a practiced ease. Men and women saw her long hair and the attractive features of her face revealed in the familiar cadence of a strobe light and tried to grab her to dance, or merely fondle her. She pulled out of their reach, making her way purposefully through the crowd to the back of the club.

The crowd was delirious with drunkenness, drugs and sexual tension. A fight broke out in the center of the crowd and people only moved back to give the fighters room. The bouncers around the crowd didn’t even react. The crowd cheered as the fight escalated, one fighter going down hard and not moving.

She found herself in front of a door, guarded by two men. She appraised them instinctively. Hired muscle, and she doubted that any significant skill beside manhandling graced their frames. If a fight broke out, the other guards would have to make their way through the same crowd as Artemis had. It would give her time. Perhaps, though, she could talk her way through.

Artemis approached the bigger of the two guards, the roar of the music requiring her to move to his ear and yell into it her message, “I’m checking on Greesh’s investment. He’s got a soft spot for the girl. Let me through.” She withdrew from his ear, watching his mind process her lie. Her hands were at her side, the left on her knife should his reply be less than amiable.

((What happens? Does he believe Artemis and let her through?))

The man looks confused for a moment and pulls back from Cara, giving her a shrewd inspection. He can't place her and doesn't remember seeing her around the club before now. His confusion verges on suspicion, but it is somewhat placated by the mention of Greesh. However, he doesn't seem to be inclined to move yet. The other guard is watching the exchange whilst keeping his eye on the pulsating crowd flickering in the strobe. The large man standing in front of Cara reaches some kind of conclusion that he doesn't share and he stands aside, opening the door for her.

Beyond, once the door is closed behind her, the throbbing bass line becomes a distant thud. The corridor Cara finds herself in is short, lit by common lumen strips mounted in the paneled ceiling, and there are three doors. The first locked door is a sturdy thing labeled ELECTRICAL. The second is unlocked and ajar and leads into a small office. There are a couple chairs, a desk holding a terminal and a few data-slates, a half-filled ashtray, and a few empty beer bottles. A few filling cabinets square off against a low leather sofa that looks like it has seen better days. The third door holds a staircase that descends into a lower level of the club.

Artemis waited patiently for the man to process what she had said and decide what his course of action was going to be. She watched his eyes most closely, seeing evident confusion, followed closely by suspicion, and waited while his mind came to the conclusion to let her pass. His friend’s interest was more piqued, watching the exchange closely, his eyes alert and roaming over the crowd behind Artemis. She was glad she had not approached him, he seemed slightly sharper than his colleague.

She let the first guard scrutinize her as closely as he wanted, as if she was expecting him to be suspicious and his actions weren’t surprising her. She merely followed his eyes, never straying from them. Whatever conclusion he came to, it was the one Artemis was after, and he stood aside to let her through. They closed the door, and Artemis exhaled her breath, embracing the significantly quieter hallway before her.

She could still feel the bass in her chest, offering a ceaseless melody to her actions. She did a quick sweep around the hallway for cameras, and finding none, began moving more intentionally. The lights above her revealed three doors, the crevices of the hallway collecting random trash, beer bottles being the most prevalent. She examined the lock on a door leading to the electrical room, and noted that should the need arise, it was within her skill to open.

Moving quietly to the second door, she noticed it was ajar. She kept her body tight against the wall, stealing a quick glance into an office behind. It was empty, and Artemis entered. She endeavored to keep her time brief, unsure when the guards would check on her or when someone would return to this office. After all, she was supposed to know where she was going, or had implied as much to the guards.

The ashtray on the table hosted the remnants of a cigar. Artemis touched the end of it, noting that it was still wet with saliva from someone’s mouth. The other end had evidence of a few dying embers. A sofa against the wall had tangible evidence of a variety of sins, and while the filing cabinets probably held valuable information, information wasn’t her goal tonight.

She left the office and opened the third door carefully, peaking through the crack she created. A dimly lit and unpopulated staircase met her cybernetic eye, which automatically tried to pull in more light to guide its host. She descended the staircase, the sound of distant water dripping from pipes, and the unmistakeable sounds of the Underworld's activities greeting her.

She winced involuntarily as the room below her opened up, her inner humanity raging against what she was seeing.

A solitary overhead light swung lazily above her, revealing a few women shackled to the wall to her left. She went to each one, trying to see if one of them were Lucris. She doubted it, figuring that Lucris was a higher priority asset than these unfortunate women. One sobbed instinctively as she approached, but Artemis figured the sound was a frequent one, and would be ignored by the woman's captors.

A few shackles hung loosely, their metal squeaking as they swung, evidence of their prisoners having recently been released. Looking to her right, she saw a few rooms, stalls really, a simple curtain providing the illusion of privacy. The sounds from beyond were clear enough. A part of her wanted to kill the men behind those curtains, but she had more important things than the plight of a few women.

Opposite the staircase was a door that was ajar, light and laughter spilling from within to the bleak room she inhabited. She heard the distinct sound of a belt finding its buckle, and Artemis moved into a corner of the room.

A man batted aside the curtain of one stall, pulling his shirt on as he moved up the staircase, eager to be away from his deed. The woman was sprawled out naked on a filthy mattress, the shadows of bruises and fluids, blood mostly, revealed in the meager light. Artemis pulled the knife on her thigh from its sheath and moved closer to the light. She kept her back tight to the wall, and looked through the crack to the room beyond.

((What does she see? Is there any sign of Greesh or Lucris?))

(( The restricted view provided by the slim opening of the cracked-open door reveals a narrow, dimly lit hallway which extends about fifty feet ahead in the direction she can see before running into a wall. About halfway to the wall are a pair of metal doors, one on the left wall and the other on the right. Both are shut at present. The glazed duracrete construction of the walls is great for acoustics, allowing Cara to catch muffled echoes of someone shouting at the top of their lungs in what sounds like Rodian behind the right door. ))

The wall behind her was cool, yet slightly damp against her back. Artemis wasn’t sure what caused the moisture, but she was too intent on the hallway to spare moments worrying about it. She gazed searchingly down the long hallway, her eyes adjusting to the light, even welcoming it. While the night may be her element, the bleakness of the room behind her was enough to make her strong stomach roil; a grimace on her shadowed face the evidence of her rising ire.

Had she more time-- No. She may come back, but the lives here were not her concern. They would probably be too deadened by their circumstance or drugs to provide much assistance in her attempt to rescue them. Or worse, blind fear at their circumstance changing could raise an alarm.

The hallway was empty and quiet, the source of laughter having receded into one of the doors to the left or right.

She stepped into the hallway, her stance a readied crouch, eyeing both doors warily lest they opened. Her knuckles were white against the hilt of the knife in her hand, her breath coming so quietly she could be mistaken for not breathing at all. She did not relax until she reached the left door, and the tension she released was marginal at best.

She hazard turning her back on the right door to examine the left. She didn’t think it was locked, which meant the laughter she heard could have found new residence behind it. Abruptly the eerie absence of noise vanished, shouting coming from the right door behind her. Her breath caught in her throat, but she had the discipline to not remain startled for long. In measured haste, she took a step beyond the left door and pressed her body against the left wall.

Her bow was assembled in moments, an arrow nocked and lightly drawn in a moment more. The knife hilt was held tightly in the hand drawing the bow, its blade nestled against the skin of her forearm. It was practiced awkwardness, but an arrow at this range would guarantee at least one dead or seriously wounded, and the knife would be ready in hand.

The shouting continued, more anger than panic, she thought. The few words she caught sounded very much like Rodian. She waited for a few more counts, she half expected the left door to open as someone responded to the shouting, or for the right to open and whoever was inside to flee if the conflict escalated.

Growling to herself, she waited longer than she would have, but she couldn’t be sure how many people were inside the room. She had confidence in her own abilities, but she was the Spider, not some sort of commando. Attacking from the shadows when the advantage was hers was her style.

You have to move. You can’t stand here exposed like this. Forward or back. Once more into the fray, she thought. Still gripping the bow, she rose and approached the right door. There is still flight, if need be, she thought bitterly. She despised running.

Standing in front of the door, she kicked as hard as the could. She drew the bowstring taut against her cheek, the knife digging more forcibly into her forearm, but not quite breaking the skin. The first clear hostile she saw would get an arrow in their eye, and if the door didn’t budge under her kick, she would press against the left wall and wait for them to respond.

((Does the door break in? What’s behind it? What happens?))

There's a crackle of duraplast as Artemis' foot slams into the door, and then structure gives, the panel swinging back to hit the wall behind it. The consequent bang is followed by silence, the two beings behind the door stunned at the sudden entry.

The first thing Artemis notices is the stench of Rodian, filling her nose and permeating the room. There's one there, his large black eyes turning on her before one sucker-tipped hand goes for the blaster at his hip. The second is a human woman, her face beaten and worn, her eyes sunken in. She goes for no weapon as both her hands are bound before her in metal clamps.

The woman moves to stumble back, but the Rodian is quick, grabbing her and wrapping an arm around her neck to put her between himself and the threat. This may be the slave Artemis is looking for, and the Rodian knows she's a high-priority target.

His tube-like mouth quivers as he speaks, and it's obvious he's demanding to know who the intruder is.

She felt the reverberations through her leg as her foot slammed into the door. The painful sensations stopped abruptly at her hip, as if the transition from lower body to torso was a partition that protected her. The door gave way, the distinct snapping of duraplast heralding the ceasing of privacy for whatever was beyond.

Artemis wondered absently why it was a distinct sound. Did she have a history of breaking duraplast with merely a kick? The bang as the door hit the wall behind it brought her out of her reverie; she couldn’t afford to daydream.

The source of the shouting filled her nose long before her eyes even found him. Rodian musk. Artemis cringed inwardly at the fetid smell. Some people found it pleasant. Pleasant! The musky smell seemed to burn her nostrils. Rodians always excreted the pheromone, but it was stronger when they were attracting a mate, or stimulated in any way.

A quick, dispassionate glance at the battered woman showed what caused that stimulation. Battered seemed an understatement. Tattered clothes hung by a thread; literally a small thread at her left shoulder clung desperately to the remainder of her dress. The dress was a ruin, blood and dirt altered the coloration of the dress so much that Artemis could not even guess what the original had been.

Thoughts of the woman left her mind in a rush. It wasn’t that she was without pity, she merely couldn’t afford it. Deep within her concentration, pity, outrage, even relief at it only being one hostile, were far from her mind. Calm gripped her.

She returned her gaze to the Rodian as he drew his firearm. She had the bowstring taut against her cheek. She almost fired, the Rodian’s big black eye showing rage and a tinge of fear deep in their murky depths, but the woman moved, and so did the Rodian. The girl had courage, though blind courage. Her hands were bound, but she pulled them taut, a few drops of blood leaking out of wrists that had desperately fought for escape from the manacles that contained them.

The Rodian swept the girl up into his arms, a human shield between him and the intruder. He held the gun steady, despite whatever fear was in his eyes.

“Poodoo, who the gfersh are you, hoo-man?” the Rodian demanded, his voice quivering with a combination of rage and fear.

Artemis didn’t wait. She released the arrow and moved at almost the same time. It was a shot she had made a hundred times, and at this range she would be more surprised had she missed than had Apollo walked through the door. The Rodian’s long fingers would assist things, and the arrow was designed to hit the Rodian’s trigger finger, shaving it to a clean stump at the first knuckle. She couldn’t afford the zinging sound of blaster fire, and any ricochet could be deadly. Moreover, aiming for its eye could pull the girl into the path of the arrow.

She heard more expletives as she crossed the short distance and set to manhandling the Rodian. She whipped the unloaded bow around, aiming to hit the Rodian on the side of the head. Dropping the bow, the knife whipped around in her palm, committed to a killing blow against the Rodian’s throat.

The girl could wait, she’s not going anywhere, she thought humorlessly.

((What is the result of the shot and ensuing melee? Is anyone hurt?))