Professional Courtesy

There was no love lost between smugglers and mercenaries. Even less so when one of the former was killed by one of the latter. It was like the bloodiest gang war on the largest scale. It was also the reason that several members of the Black Sidhe were out for Red Haze blood. They had another reason for hunting down the most dangerous of Red Haze minions, yet none but themselves knew the reasons.

The bartender jerked his head towards a young woman in a cloak who was drinking alone when the men asked him about members of the Red Haze. "But I wouldn't suggest messing with her." The warning fell on deaf ears. Sighing as he put up the glass he'd been cleaning, the bartender shook his head. When he looked up again, he frowned. "Oh no, not her. Every time she comes into my bar, things get broken."

The dark-haired woman he referred to didn't seem to notice the muttered comment as the Black Sidhe men laughed at the bartender. "Aw, that little lady ain't gonna be no problem."

"She's not a lady," the bartender retorted. "You're taking your life into your own hands."

"We have backup," one of the Black Sidhe smugglers snarled. "She won't be a problem."

The bartender winced and began tallying up all the breakable things in the bar as he went back to cleaning glasses.

"You Red Haze?" one of the men growled.

Slowly looking up at the men from behind her glass, the blonde spotted him with a cold stare from her sea green eyes. "What makes you ask that?" she questioned coolly. She wore a Jedi-esque cloak that covered her body and shadowed most of her face. The only difference was the black shade of the robe and several patches sewn onto the sleeves. A few tendrils of blonde hair snaked their way out from the confines of the hood.

The man growled deep in his throat. "We're Black Sidhe."

"Out of curiosity," she asked, sounding like her curiosity was not a good thing to have focused on oneself, "what makes you assume I'm Red Haze?"

The man paused. "The patch on your shoulder. It says Red Haze."

A smile that didn't even hint at happiness fell across her lips. "Very good. Now that we've established you can read, what else does it say?"

"Hawkbat." The man angrily waved his hands in the air. "Oooo. Trying to scare us? I'm not afraid of some lackey."

"That makes us even." The girl turned back to her drink. It was a deceptive movement, making them think she'd taken her eyes off of them. In truth, she knew everything that was about to transpire and was ready to block the chair hurled her way. "Now, is that anyway to treat a lady?" she asked, standing.

"The man behind the bar said you ain't no lady!"

She shrugged. "He'd be right." Her sudden movements caught the men by surprise, allowing her to incapacitate one of them. She suspected he'd be spitting out teeth when he woke up.

One of the other men tried to imitate her crisp martial arts moves and failed, at the expense of his nose. The sharp snap of his nose breaking brought a cold smile to the girl's lips hidden in the dark depths of her hood.

She turned to the final man and cocked her head toward the left. "Care to dance?" she purred. The victories - though easy - were like sweet nectar to the robed figure.

"Let me call in the reserves first. You'll like this dance partner," he replied cruelly, motioning with his hand.

The blonde turned to see whom he was indicating, keeping all her senses alert for any other signs of movement. If she hadn't been so paranoid, the sight in front of her would have captivated her entire being.

Breaking the path of a shaft of sunlight was a tall, dark figure. The reptilian skin armor that she wore seemed to be an outgrowth of her being more than it seemed to be clothes she wore. Tall boots crawled up her legs and clung to her powerful muscles. Coiled like a snake at her hip was a long whip complementing a dark blaster.

The blonde preferred understated power to outright displays, yet she couldn't help but be awed by the sight of the tall warrior. If this was the one she'd heard of, then perhaps she'd found a worthy adversary. Taking an almost formal bow, the blonde shrugged off the cloak that had before then hidden her from the view of her enemies. Underneath the cloak was a well-shaped body, blonde hair, and a mask. This mask did not - like the cloak - hide her nature from the others; it revealed her nature in its blue-black depths. It was a familiar mask to most people who had been trained to fear it. She suspected this warrior wouldn't even break her powerful strides. In fact, the only one who reacted was the man who'd called forth the war demon. He smiled, fading back into the shadows.

Flipping a snake-like braid behind her shoulder, the warrior approached the girl. She stood in a position of relaxed defense, wondering how the warrior would attack. Upon closer inspection, the black-haired woman's hands and face were covered with the small sort of scars one acquires over the years. The eyes that were set in her near-perfect face were of the utmost interest to the masked mercenary. Eyes blacker than space that seemed to pull in all light from around them, throwing a decisively dark aurora around the warrior.

Neither spoke as they carefully circled each other. Black hair with vibrant green tips swayed with every sinewy motion as the other's braided blonde hair hardly moved in its traditional ponytail. Suddenly their intricate dance became deadly. The dark-haired warrior kicked at the masked mercenary, forcing the girl to duck. As the masked one went down, she lashed out with her own foot, near toppling the warrior.

It would not be that easy. The warrior leapt forward, and a three-pronged blade swished into existence in her left hand. She didn't strike at the masked girl, knowing that her first strike would be met with possibly equal strength unless it was timed perfectly. The low lights of the cantina found the blade and lent their light to it, so that the weapon gleamed. The blonde stepped back a pace to better evaluate the warrior's intent and found her foot ensnared by one of the men she'd downed earlier. The hiss that made its way from her clenched teeth seemed more feline than human. The man released her foot.

But that time - measured in seconds - was more than enough for the dark warrior to strike. The masked woman hissed again, a tense admission of a wound, not the admission of the pain it must have caused her. The warrior held the knife up to strike again, but the masked girl was quicker than anyone in the cantina expected. She seemed almost to disappear as the knife clawed its way through the air to where she had been.

The surface of the knife was no longer gleaming silver. Instead, it dripped with deep red blood, giving lie to the rumor that the masked warrior's veins ran with ice water. The cut on her back was a little more than surface and less than mortal. She channeled the pain into her desire to defeat this smuggler.

It was her turn to bring out hardware. Not a dramatically three-pronged dagger, but an exquisitely-decorated throwing knife. The warrior must not have seen it or known its purpose, because she moved out of striking range. She was not, the masked girl noted, outside of throwing range.

With a quick movement to the left, the masked fighter disguised her toss. A tearing sound and a thud lent themselves to her cool smile. The sight of the warrior's blood seeping through the lizard-skin hide on the dark woman's stomach was reward enough. She was mildly disappointed that her knife hadn't penetrated farther. She'd thrown it hard enough. It must be the hide, she decided. It was thick and strong.

The warrior stood a little straighter as she pulled the blade from her side. Its elegance was not lost on the warrior's senses. She inclined her head to the weapon and tossed it over her shoulder. The warrior did not need to turn around to see that she had scored a banthaseye in the dartboard behind her.

Suddenly, the warrior leapt at her slightly smaller opponent. Despite being surprised, the girl moved out of the way. The girl held up her arm to block the chair that was winging its way towards her head. Aggression... the girl snaked her foot out as she'd done before and this time succeeded in knocking the warrior to her knees. There was no time to celebrate the small victory, for the dark-hair fighter was clawing at the masked figure's legs with a knife.

She had enough room to leap over the warrior woman, so the masked figure did. Landing in a crouch and facing the black-haired opponent, the other girl succeeded in pulling another knife of her own and applying it liberally to the warrior's shoulder. More blood. The entire cantina seemed focused on the two seasoned killers in their bloodsport. Each time the red liquid showed itself, more beings were further entranced. This fight would end in nothing less than death. Not even the lawmen who had been called in dared to disrupt the two fighters. No one, law or outlaw, messed with either Red Haze or Black Sidhe.

Now the two were locked in a deadly embrace. Blood from one's shoulder mixed with blood from the other's arm, coating them in the sticky stuff.

"They'll die. Just like I told you they would."

Neither was too ignorant of the outside world to miss the words from the Black Sidhe smuggler. No fighters of their league could afford to focus entirely on one target. By silent discussion, they agreed to see what new affliction beset them.

"We'll rid the galaxy of two travesties of nature. Just like I planned."

The masked figure brushed dirt off her arm and raised her eyebrows. The warrior woman caught the expression and its meaning. Not even a terse nod was exchanged as the pair split and approached the man in silence. Every breath in the cantina was held as the women neared the man.

"I will have destroyed them!" the man boasted again.

"Not," the masked figure said, speaking in his ear, "if they destroy you first."

He turned and gasped at the fire that seemed to have possessed the girl's green eyes. When he looked at the warrior for help, she offered none. "And we shall destroy you," the warrior intoned as if passing down a decree in some half-forgotten language.

"What?" he said, trying to recover what dignity he had left. "Impossible. Red Haze -" he spat the name out "- and Black Sidhe are blood enemies!"

The masked female shrugged. "Call it professional courtesy."

He reached backwards and grasped a bottle off the table behind him. The masked woman saw it and muttered a warning to the warrior. She, too, had seen a projectile coming, but from another avenue. Each ducked the danger she saw coming, only to fall prey to the other.

Once more blood poured from the two outlaws. Each had a gash on her forehead that spilled out life's necessity. The warrior witch shook her head harshly, sending splatters of blood over the general area.

The man backed away. He was out of the reach of their hands... but not the warrior's whip. The whip wrapped itself around the man's neck and jerked him closer to the pair. He gasped for air and clawed at the bind around his neck. The masked figure moved herself closer to him and smiled with more iciness than the depths of space that were reflected in her companion's eyes. Pulling another knife from the recesses of her black outfit, the masked warrior let the silence in the cantina carry on for a few minutes.

Just when he'd begun to believe that they might let him live, the knife danced across his throat like the first sandstorm across a moisture farmer's homestead.

"Nom! Nom Da'Gara! Get your black leather butt down here!" Seijoutai Priire shouted for the third time.

"I do not understand the necessity of shouting so indecorously when one can utilize the intercom," Nom Da'Gara said, frowning.

Priire shrugged, lifting the leather jacket that cloaked her shoulders. "I felt like it."

Nom frowned. "I still do not..."

"You don't need to understand," Priire smiled sweetly. "Hand me that knife."

The warrior picked up the knife. It was a throwing knife - beautifully decorated. Nom frowned for a moment before she handed the knife to Priire. The tall warrior had always wondered... she slipped the elegant knife into Priire's gloved hand. "Thanks," the blonde said with a grin. Priire bent down and slid the knife into her boot. "Anything else?" she asked, as she straightened and tucked her hands into the pockets of her black leather coat.

"No. Where are we going?" Nom questioned as the pair strode away from the Jedi Temple. The Dathomirian's cape flutter in the slight Coruscant winds as she walked.

Priire shrugged. "There's a dingy little place a few levels down. It looks really disreputable on the outside, but the inside's even worse."

To most people, that would have been a good reason to stay away form the cantina. No one could, however, accuse Priire or Nom of being most people. The pair had a tendency toward seeking out such establishments for the mere purpose of beginning brawls.

It was a long walk through the slums of Coruscant. Any being not bristling with teeth, claws, or weapons was usually assaulted and robbed, if not worse. Something in the powerful movements of the Dathomiran warrior and her ex-mercenary companion kept even the bravest souls away. Their walk was a learned one, suggesting each woman was in full possession of her surroundings if not in full control of the companion she walked with. No one messed with them.

"Hey! No droids!" the young barkeep yelled as Priire and Nom crossed the threshold. An alarm had gone off to warn him of the presence of the unwanted machines. Nom's neural interfaces had set it off.

With a lazy movement echoed by her companion, Priire turned her green eyes on the man. The look in them coupled with the half smile on her face suggested a careless power akin to an unstable thermal detonator. Nom's black eyes threatened to pull the man into their deadly infinity with their space-black depths.

The boy gulped and hid behind a large customer.

"So," Priire said as she propped her black-booted feet up on the table. "Have you heard about..." She didn't get any farther into her sentence before she was interrupted.

"You laaaadies driiinkin' aloooone?"

Priire raised an eyebrow. "Yes. We are. And we'll stay that way." A tight almost-smile tickled her lips as she saw Nom reach under the table.

The offending man took no heed of Priire's statements. "Miiiind if Iiiii join yooou?"

"We do not wish to share your company," Nom told him, flatly. "Leave, or we will be forced to remove you from our table."

"Coooome on, laaaaadies," the man slurred. "Let meeee buy yooou ooone."

After seeming to consider it for a moment, Priire shook her head. "I don't think so."

The man snarled. "Whaaaat's wrooong? Dooon't liiike meeen?"

Priire glanced at Nom. "Now's he's getting on my nerves."

"Agreed," Nom said. "I believe that we should dispose of him so that we may continue with our conversation."

Both women stood. They seemed a powerfully imposing pair, each tall and clothed almost entirely in black. The power was not an illusion. Nom grasped the man's shirt and jerked him out of his seat. "You will leave," she commanded, her eyes boiling over with threats.

"Or we'll make you." The threat in Priire's voice was implied in such a way that it sounded as if she'd rather he stay so she could make him leave.

The man ripped himself free of Nom's grasp. A knife appeared in his hand, making him snarl at the two. "Whaaat are yooou goooonna doooo noooow?"

Priire smiled coldly. "This."

The barest scrape of metal against leather was heard as a blaster seemed to materialize in Priire's hand. Matching her smooth movements was the warrior witch beside her. Not even a word was necessary for their plan. It was as if it had all been done before.

Nom's blaster fired a split second before Priire's let loose its deadly bolt.

Before now, the confrontation had garnered little notice from the other patrons of the bar. Now that blood had been drawn, everyone turned his or her eyes to the scene.

One blaster bolt had been aimed artfully, destroying the man's knife. The other had hit a rather flammable container of liquor so that it burst into nova-hot flames. Screams poured forth from the man's mouth as he beat at the flames engulfing his left side. Priire let her carelessly dangerous green eyes fall on him. Her face turned up in a half-sneer as she inclined her head to the door where a bucket of water sat.

The mercenary and the smuggler regained their table just in time to be accosted by another male. This one leaned close as if he was afraid of being overheard. "I know who you are," he whispered. "Or who you're trying to be."

"Pardon?" Priire asked in the same soft tone. "Just who do you think we're trying to be?"

"Them," the man said, trying to hold back the fear that usually permeated the voices of beings who spoke their names. "The Mechanic. And her friend. The Hawkbat."

The blaster that Nom had been fingering suddenly found itself pressed hard against the man's temple. He tensed and sighed. "Look..."

Priire held up her hands. "I'm not sure how much you know about outlaws, but some of them just don't get along. Like the -" Priire lowered her voice "- Black Sidhe and the Red Haze. The Mechanic was Black Sidhe, and the Hawkbat was Red Haze. The two organizations did not get along. They didn't even pretend."

Emotionless, Nom took over. "The Mechanic has no friends. Neither does the Hawkbat. I would suggest that you are mistaken."

"Gimme a break!" the man said, trying not to move as Nom's finger tightened on the trigger. "I saw them. They were sitting in a bar just like this, sharing a drink."

The Dathomirian shook her head. "No. Mercenaries and smugglers have associates, not friends. You were mistaken." Nom's eyes flashed as she glared at the man.

In a matter of microseconds, Priire flattened herself against the table and kicked her chair out from under herself. She heard the retort of Nom's blaster and kept moving. While the three had been talking, others from the cantina had come up behind them. Priire's foot whipped out and tripped a man. As he fell, she loosened her blaster from its holster and let the deadly energy fly. The falling man wouldn't get up again. Not with the gaping and oozing hole she'd put in his chest.

Priire lifted herself off the floor and fired her blaster several more times. One of the men who had been raising a chair to hit Nom fell without use of his left arm. The stump that was left dangling from his shoulder gushed with deep red blood. Priire shook her head. She didn't envy the cleanup crew.

Another blaster bolt sizzled into being beside her. Priire shot a glare at Nom. The warrior witch didn't seem fazed as she raised an eyebrow. The blonde rolled her eyes and swung her blaster backwards, listening to the sharp crack as it connected with some being's head. More blood spilt onto the floor.

Swiping a black gloved hand across her chin, Priire removed some of the blood that had splashed on her.

"I think we have availed ourselves of all the opportunities in this cantina," Nom said as she slid her blaster back into its holster. "I believe that we should vacate the premises before officials of the law become numerous."

Priire surveyed the scene one last time before stepping through the door after Nom.

"Out of curiosity," Priire said when she and her companion were out of the slums. "Where did you get that scar on your forehead?"

The look in Nom's eyes told Priire that the blonde should know very well where the warrior had gotten that particular scar. "Where," Nom asked in a strange sort of reply, "did you receive yours?"

Priire resisted the impulse to touch the scar she knew was on her forehead. Nom's question was more than enough answer.

Two women sat in a dark corner booth in a hot and dingy cantina. The blonde woman was leaning against the wall with one knee up and her other leg hanging off the edge of the seat. The other woman was hyperalert in such a way that she seemed to be the sole possessor of all she saw, without letting its taints invade her soul. "Mech," the masked woman said. Both came here often, each with her own purpose.

"Yes?" There was little curiosity in the voice of the other female. It was buried beneath a shield of near-emotionless affect.

Taking little heed of the other's normal coldness, the blonde continued to speak. "I found something that might interest you."

Nothing was said for a moment as the masked female pulled a package about the length of her forearm out of her pack. "Alderaan," she said with a frigid smile, "is known for many things. The least of which is an inventive swordsmith who has set up shop in the Outer Rim. Few know of his fine craftsmanship. I thought perhaps you would be interested in a sample."

By this time, the masked woman had unwrapped the objects. Glinting faintly in the low light lay two daggers. Each was different, incorporating a different animal into the design of the handle. One bore the likeness of a bird-of-prey swooping on some innocent victim. The other showed the image of some reptilian creature slithering around the grip.

The dark-haired woman's eyes lit up slightly. There was fine craftsmanship in every line of the unusual weapon. The hilt was intricately worked with the animal designs, but what was of more interest was the actual blade of the weapon. It was not two-edged like most daggers; this weapon had three sharp edges. The woman flipped a braid over her shoulder and looked at her masked companion for an explanation.

"Sanjigen," the blonde said quietly as her green eyes played over the weapon. Whether those eyes held lust for the weapon or the blood it could shed, no one knew. "Keep it. Professional courtesy," she smiled cruelly. "The design is quiet ingenious." Holding up one of the daggers, she let the light play over its surface as she turned it over in her hands. "It can painlessly pierce a being's heart without killing. The being will only die if they struggle, or -" she smiled cruelly "- if the weapon is twisted, even slightly. Otherwise, the blade can be pulled out - it causes considerable pain, I'm told - and leaves nothing but an oddly-shaped scar."

Holding the dagger in her hands, the dark-haired warrior studied it. "It is a well-crafted item, Hawk," she said softly. "I believe we may be faced with an opportunity to use it."

The other girl smiled. "Wonderful. It's a nice thing to use for executions." She let her smile turn dark. The masked mercenary was not known for her compassion or her leniency. She was, however, known for playing with her prey before it died. "I don't think I've ever used it in a fight. It'll be... enlightening." Her eyes flashed darkly as two men approached.

"Are you the Hawkbat?" one asked.

The blonde stretched before turning her blue-and-black-masked eyes on the man. The sheer intensity in her eyes made him almost step back.

Apparently, that was answer enough for the man. He turned the blaster in his shaky hands on her and fired. With a very slight motion, the blonde was able to avoid the blast.

"That wasn't very nice, young man," the girl said, her voice a deep purr that dripped with malice. Her fingers played upon the hilt of the dagger near her. "I don't particularly like being shot at."

The blonde's dark-haired companion had, by this point, slid out of the booth. She kept her deep eyes trained on the trio and was not surprised when the other man grabbed her arm and held a blaster to her head.

"I'll kill her!" the man said.

Contrary to the worried reaction they had expected, the lounging blonde laughed. It was the kind of short, derisive bark that one favors fools with. "Be my guest," the mercenary told him.

Just as the man began to pull the trigger, the warrior moved. The pure force of her sharp movement made the man yelp in pain. The warrior wasn't the only one moving. Her companion had launched herself from the booth she'd previously occupied. The mercenary jabbed her elbow in the man's throat as she reached for her blaster. Once the weapon was in her hands, she fired. Killing was not her motive at first. First, she merely wished to cause pain. As she used her blaster's lower setting to burn the man, the smuggler woman was involved in her own form of torture.

The warrior's beauty was tinged with a fear-inducing component. Whether it was the long braids that flared out like snakes around her head or her incredible height, she rarely caused anything other than fear. Now, with a three-sided dagger in her hand, she was even more terrible.

She drove the sword into the man's chest, skewering his heart. The man gasped and gurgled like there was some unknown liquid in his throat. His eyes were wider than any human's had a right to be as he looked down at the weapon in his chest. He tried not to move, thinking somehow that if he would hold still, the awful nightmare would end. Her companion had been correct. This was indeed a weapon worthy of renown.

The warrior gave the dagger a swift twist. There was a sickening ripping sound as the weapon brought about the death of the man. He slid off the end of her dagger and the warrior examined it. She herself felt no pain. It was an unknown sensation.

The bartend coughed loudly. That was when she became aware of two things. A man on the floor screaming for someone to kill him, and two officers entering the cantina's door. She waved her hand towards them, and her blonde companion frowned.

The man who had first attacked the masked mercenary was a scarred mess. His body was covered in burns that exposed muscle and bone in places. She paused, wondering if she should indeed kill him. The girl shrugged and brushed her bangs back as she noticed her warrior companion doing the same. The mercenary offered up a tight and humorless smile at the scar she saw of the other's forehead.

The two lawmen noticed the fallen men and rushed over. One of the officers shouted at the retreating pair to stop.

Neither of the two killers noticed.

"Here is one that looks acceptable."

Priire looked it up and down. "We won't know until we try it!"

The pair walked in without incident. It wasn't until they sat down and ordered their drinks that trouble started.

"You're a low-down, cheating rimmer!"

Priire looked at Nom and grinned. That insult was strong enough to get all the beings from the Outer Rim involved. Nom frowned. "Priire," she said softly. "I believe we are being set up."

A matching frown danced across the other girl's face. "Sith. Any idea by who?" Nome pointed and Priire rolled her eyes. The man Nom had indicated was the same one who had been at the other cantina. "He sure doesn't give up easy."

"Unless -" Nom let her eyes grow cold "- we make him."

Agreement shone in Priire's eyes. "Let's do it."

The returned to their drinks and waited for the fight to come to them. Neither felt the need to talk. They had no need to get to know each other better; they already knew each other well. The matching scars on their foreheads told enough story.

Soon, the two brawling men smashed their way through the pair's table. Priire and Nom stood. The men who had been fighting stared at them for a moment before lunging.

Nom easily sidestepped one man and tossed him over her shoulder. She pulled a knife from her sleeve and sliced at the man when he lunged for her again. She struck a vein, and a pool of bright red blood began to form on the floor.

On the other hand, Priire was pushed up against the wall by her foe. The pretty blonde offered no resistance as the man threw her into a table. He laughed and came at her again.

Priire reached behind her and seemed to be scratching her neck. Nom frowned. The man ran at her... and impaled himself on the weapon that she produced.

The Dathomirian warrior watched, smiling on the inside. Her sheath had been hidden on her back. A simple, easily-disguised motion brought it out of hiding... Nom looked closer. The blade that protruded form the man's back was three-cornered. Sanjigen.

It seemed as if Priire was looking for something in the man's eyes as she held the hilt of her weapon She found it, and didn't look happy. No one could hear Priire's next words except for the man she addressed them to and Nom. "Sanjigen... three dimensions. All three condemn you. The Hawkbat, the pilot, and..." she paused for a moment, "the woman behind the mask."

She gave the dagger a swift twist, and the man's head lolled to the side. Blood gushed out of his chest for a moment before he died. "Anyone else care to dance?" Priire asked severely, wiping the blood off her weapon before slipping it back into its sheath.

Nom had been watching for the man who had hired the lowlifes. She pointed her blaster at his retreating figure and pulled the trigger. He fell to the ground, dead.

"This," Nom said as they walked out, "is the woman behind the mask."

Priire shook her head. "Nah. This is just Priire." Her eyes became unfocused, as if she was remembering. "The woman behind the mask is someone completely different."

Nom didn't question. She knew the feeling. "Thank you."

A smile lit across Priire's face. "It's just professional courtesy..." she grinned.