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« Last post by Syren on March 17, 2024, 05:43:37 PM »
“Now that the truth is just a rule that you can bend
You crack the whip, shape-shift and trick the past again.”
-Metric
Chandaar: Republic Capital
Surface: Ambaril
Cadranel Hills
The party is certainly hip but in the most generic way.
Kinsa is only present because Quinn dragged her to it which predictably begins with a slew of photo ops when they arrive. To be fair, they look spectacular. Those stylists Escara Wu sent over really do know their shit. What was this event even for again? Oh, right, the city has been thrown into chaos yet a moderately successful, mostly unproblematic actor/singer on a real streak still found time to launch a new line of liquor. Because of course, she thinks, sipping a drink plucked from atop a seemingly lethargic service droid. Admittedly, the cocktail is pretty tasty which is…annoying.
Since her brush with the law, she’s kept as low a profile as someone like her can. She met with some producers and expressed interest in a few choice complex roles. Murmurs were exchanged, a handshake or two, people telling other people they would be in touch. She’s been smart with her career which has paid off but not without a price. Little do they know she is playing the most challenging role yet – her own life! She hasn’t lost any time since but is still no closer to understanding how Janessa wound up being the central figure in a capital murder investigation. Worse still, Selene hasn’t tried to make contact which could mean she is either not as useful to them as they thought or she is being brushed off. Either way, Kinsa is convinced Selene is mad at her.
Kezlan Roan is here, fresh off a dismissal for a rather bankable Holoplex star after allegations of bad behavior on set led to threats of litigation. He spots them and heads over, once he is done mugging for the cams, of course. Kinsa introduces him to Quinn even though they’ve met briefly before, but Quinn acts as though she has never seen this individual before in her life. It is truly a talent to be that aloof and, even better, too pretty to be mad at for long.
Mercifully, Quinn excuses herself to a gorgeous group of hammered models and leaves Roan to entertain her.
“Worn any suspicious jewelry lately?”
“Hilarious.”
“Too soon? Forgive a counselor's poor attempt at humor.”
“It wasn’t so bad even though I am not sure whether that insults your Bothan side or your human side more.”
“Not sure you’re ready to see my Bothan side, Miss Cavanaugh.”
She laughs, “Oh, cheeky! That’s the first time I’ve genuinely smiled all night so thank you.”
“Of course. What’s the matter, are you not feeling the pretentious vibes?”
“It’s complicated.”
“With you, I have no doubt, but why attend? You don’t seem like the kind of woman who does anything you don’t want to do.”
“I wish,” Kinsa mutters, taking another sip. “But I could ask you the same question. Why are you even here? A booze launch doesn’t seem like your thing.”
He shrugs, “Need to establish a presence and relationships with the potential client base even though that makes it sound sleazy. You know how these things go; gotta be seen, blah, blah, blah. However, I am not that guy.”
“Says all guys.”
Roan arches a thick, furry blonde brow, “Not a fan of hybrids?”
“Not a fan of men in general, really. Species has nothing to do with it.”
“Fair enough. Friends, then?”
“Can you deal with it?”
“I’m an excellent wingman.”
She chortles lightly, touching her nearly empty glass against his, “Well, then, let’s rustle us up another round.”
*
Lower Downtown
Agent Ollo knows it’s over but that doesn’t stop him from trying.
He kicks the cluttered ottoman beside him, startling his assassin enough for him to lunge for the hall. Quentin corrects quickly, firing a shot through Ollo’s knee. The blast is nearly silent, indicating modifications that belie a professional job. Someone hired and sent. That is telling in and of itself yet someone not only knew what they found but that they were looking for it in the first place. Given the timeline, he would venture to guess someone was waiting for it.
The older agent growls, stumbling forward as he pulls his weapon free of its holster. He manages to twist around on the way down but Quentin lands a kick at his wrist that snaps it cleanly and the blaster spirals away from him. He lands hard on his back with a hateful grimace.
Quentin looms over him, “The Empire thanks you for your service.”
Now he knows where he recognizes him from. He and Vrent had spent hours sifting through an inordinate amount of photage investigating the Cavanaugh lead. The boy had been in several stills and linked to Kinsa’s sister, Quinn. Had they all been operating on Imperial orders?
Ollo’s face softens as he realizes, far too late, that they want this outcome and would use the RSB to facilitate it. His death would further bury a man they hoped could be stopped before he destroyed everything they stood for and worked to build. His procedural brain continues whirling even now over a futile course correction that would likely never come. Not in his lifetime.
The truce is a lie. It had always been a lie.
As skeptical as he was over the whole thing, the obviousness of the deception stings worse in those last fleeting seconds.
“Fuck your Empire,” he spits out.
Two shots to the head and Ollo is still.
Quentin holsters his weapon and searches the agent until he finds what he is looking for. The datacard. He slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket and rises from Ollo’s blackened, ruined face. He confirms he has the package and then sets about ransacking the small flat, collecting anything deemed valuable but half-assing it enough to set exactly the stage they want. The next RSB scandal to mutilate any last shreds of their authority and reputation.
A shame to waste such talent, Quentin thinks darkly.
Good law enforcement is hard to find.
*
Five Points/Serinus border
Agent Vrent arrives sooner than she expected.
The lateness of the hour aided in her ability to navigate to her destination without much interference. That is, in this case, a partially constructed residence tower among rows of abandoned warehouses waiting to be snapped up on the cheap. According to records, investors opposed to the ruthless application of the FURA pulled out and left the fate of the project in question. It is not an uncommon situation, as stories on the Holo continue to illustrate. It is not good business when potential tenants occupying a place in the capital city could be detained or worse at any moment. Ambaril is not what one would call a desirable place to live these days.
She sighs but a glow halfway up the building catches her attention. Unclipping her holster, she enters cautiously, passing the empty lift shaft to the open stairwell. Vrent is grateful she is in shape as she finally emerges on the thirtieth floor where she counted she saw the light. Only now, it is moving.
“Ollo?”
Only the wind whipping through the floor answers along with what almost sounds like the clicking of heels. It floats in the air and then disappears. Across the unfinished floor, in the distance, the glimmering radiance of The Menagerie. She shudders, keenly aware of how exposed she is up here. Something doesn’t feel quite right yet she is driven to expose the corruption within the Republic and so she pulls her blaster and follows the light. It seems to be several rooms ahead, obscured by the varying degrees of completed construction. After nearly a full circle, the light stops. Vrent steps into what would be the floor lobby to find a glowlamp sitting in front of the darkened lift shaft.
Retrieving it, she strains to hear anything.
The clicking sound returns – this time louder, distinct, closer - so she whirls around to see a stoic Quinn Cavanaugh casually appear in the lobby and close the distance between them with an uncomfortable speed. The strange incongruence of her materialization here, at this exact place, is why she does not raise her weapon.
It is her final mistake.
As Vrent opens her mouth to speak, Quinn lifts a toned leg from beneath the slit of her gown and kicks a heel into the center of her chest. The agent hits the back of the cool duracrete shaft hard, catching one last glimpse of the model's blank, beautiful face before she plummets silently into the blackness below.
At the bottom of the stairs, holding the glowlamp in front of her, Quinn pulls up the hem of her dress and steps between widening rivers of blood streaming from the open shaft and out into the night.
*
Cadranel Hills
It is way too late, or super early, but no one really cares at this point at any party.
Kezlan Roan has been remarkably good company for the evening. They dance among minor celebrities and make wagers on who they think will make it. He repels some of the more unsavory industry characters which allows her the space to breathe. In return, she helps him entertain relationship prospects, ranking them by career compatibility and potential to wind up needing legal counsel. He is impressed by the thoroughness of the assessment and makes a mental note to initiate a conversation with the top three. They are considering calling it a night when Quinn emerges from behind a table of leering promotion assistants.
“Quinn! Where have you been?”
“I don’t know,” she says distantly, glancing around at the waning scene. “This place is tired. We should totally bail.”
Roan is making eyes at the number two pick but Kinsa frowns sharply and lowers her voice.
“You don’t know?”
“It’s always such a blur, babes! Now, let's cruise."
Roan walks them to their transport, a Vectra-branded hoverlimo to ensure safe delivery. Quinn’s contract comes with so many perks.
“Thank you for a lovely evening, Kez.”
Roan smiles as she slides in beside her sister, “Anytime, Miss Cavanaugh.”
They ride in silence for a while, Kinsa tipsy and spun from the evening while Quinn crosses her legs and pouts out the window. Despite everything, she is glad she came. She needed a bit of fun tonight. Beams of light wash over them in rectangular bars which draws Kinsa’s eyes to something that causes her to tense suddenly. She has to look again to be sure but a thick knot of dread twists in her stomach. There is something on Quinn’s shoe.
A dash of wet crimson on a silver heel.
-TBC
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