Myrkr's Open Terrain

Malora drained her drink, removed her feet from the table, shouldered her knapsack, and rose, trying not to look too eager to get-the-kriff-out. "Boys," she drawled, giving the three dejected looking males at her table a mock salute. "Gotta jet. It's been massively irritating, let's not do it again sometime." And she was out the cantina doors before the butt-hurt could begin.



"...I don't like you, but you've got some abso-kriffin'-lutely amazing timing," she said as Xima led her on-wards. "Another minute of 'how about a foursome in this situation!' and I'd have riddled all of them with holes." It wasn't a thank you, her tone was still icy and they'd never be friends, but she couldn't deny that his imposing nature had its uses. Nevertheless, Malora stayed as far away from the Falleen as she could and still be able to speak with him, and she kept her hand near her blaster. If Grimo was still holding a grudge after all these years (even after she paid him fairly), there was no telling what she'd be walking into, and if Xima was a thorough, capable 'servant' (definitely was), he had to know about her past with the Hutt.

Well, here we go… She'd used Xima's momentary absence to send her coordinates to Wrench with a 'will call later' message and stealthily retrieve a few tiny packages from her rucksack, drop them to the floor, and kick them into opposite dark corners. She flipped her coms off and tucked it into her bra, left her pack at the entrance to the audience chambers and her blaster holstered, and made sure the zip on her shirt was pulled down dangerously low, because Malora wasn't here for a fight. She wasn't here to play it by the book, there was no brilliant contingency plan, she had no real leverage to get what she wanted. No, she was doing this classic Malora style. Make it up as you go and hope you don't die along the way. It'd worked for her so far. Did it leave scars? Did she end up in deep shit ninety-nine percent of the time? Well, yeah, sure. But even the best plans weren't foolproof, and no matter how careful you were, you never came out of any situation without a scratch. Call it reckless, call her stupid, but she'd had lots of practice being both. No one knew reckless-stupid like Malora. If anyone could play a situation like this by ear and come out with goal achieved and heart still beating? It was her.



"Thanks, Greenie," she said, giving the Falleen a wide birth as he stepped aside to let her pass. Swagger in her step, sass in her smirk, the smuggler ignored the terrified twisting of her insides, mustered every ounce of fearless bravado in her body, and casually strolled into danger.



"Grimo!" Her voice rang loudly, dripping with schmooze. A few of the dancers startled, missing a step or two, throwing the trouble-maker dirty looks. Malora plastered on a wide smile, arms open at her sides in a universal 'best buddy' greeting as she sauntered towards the dais, laying it on as thick as she could. "My main Hutt! How long's it been, huh? Did you gain weight? Bigger looks better on you for sure, and I gotta say, I'm lovin' what you've done with the place, too. Cleaning is overrated. Dangerous gloom is definitely the way to go."

"Payment?" Malora did her best to look surprised. "Payment?? Hold up a minute." She stopped a ways from the Hutt, slapped on an offended expression, and jabbed her index finger towards Grimo. "I paid you back fair an' square, pal. I even threw in a little extra. You wanted that idiot's gadgets and I botched the job, so paying you what you would've sold them for was the least I could do. I'd say that's a fair win for you."



The smuggler sighed dramatically and sauntered forward, head cocked, adding a playful pout to her ensemble. "C'mon, G, you've had years to track me down and spank me for being a bad smuggler." Malora reached the dais and, bending at the waist, leaned forward to rest her hands on the carpet-covered platform. "Go look at your records, the credits are all there. Besides, we're so beyond that, right? Water under the bridge?" She offered a saucy smile. "Can't stay mad at me forever."

Her cheeky manner diminished somewhat. Slowly, she turned towards the Falleen, and fixed Xima with a facial expression akin to flipping him the middle finger. "No." Malora moistened her lips. "And without Rik Vane to show you how all his tech crap works, even if I had been able to get my hands on some, it would've been useless to you anyway. No, I've got something better."



God, she hated Hutts. Despite her smuggler status, her dealings with the giant slugs had been few and far between, but she'd met enough of them to know that when it came right down to it, they were all the same. Powerful, paranoid, greedy, ruthless, lecherous, reeking worms. But Malora would still rather kiss a Hutt than touch a Falleen. She watched Grimo's knobby, puckered green body jiggle excitedly, stubby arms flapping, gaping mouth slick with yellow slime as he ran his massive green-grey tongue around the corners. The fetid odor drifting from his dais washed over her as his tail snaked back and forth in irritation.



…Okay, maybe she'd been hasty about the 'kissing a Hutt instead' thing.



Malora choked on a gag, pushing off from the platform and backing up a few steps, trying to regain her carefree-and-confident composure. It came back quickly. Always did. The trouble-maker turned, giving the Hutt's audience of criminals a quick look-over before facing the worm and his green puppet with a saleswoman smile. "Names! Names of all the super-secret black market reps you don't already have in your pocket, and guarantees that they'll do business with you before anyone else. Or how about a list of coordinates? Numerous hidden caches, full of ancient riches and priceless tech for those with enough balls to go take it." Out of habit, Mal rested her hand on her holstered DL-44. "Just let me take a quick look around your pit fighters and it's all yours." No leverage, no right to ask given their history, no better plan, but she pressed on. "Your Falleen pet already has one set of coordinates and it checks out… C'mon, lemme do this for you. I'll settle my 'debt' right here, leave you a little richer, you can show off your infamous gladiators, and I'll get outta your hair."

She laughed. Then she saw the Weequay guards, ever-serious. "Wait…restrain?"





"Slave quarters? I—"




"Prize?!" Well that went south real fast. Malora's schmooze routine took a swift hike, clearing the way for outrage. Her mouth opened, eyebrows scrunched together as her blaster was rendered useless. In a twisted, round-about way, her gamble had paid off. She'd end up in the barracks with access to all the pit fighters like she'd wanted…except she'd be a prisoner on the end of a chain, dangled in front of a bloodlusty gladiator champion. Definitely not an avenue she wanted to go down again, but as usual, life wasn't giving her a choice, and she HAD elected to follow the 'no strategy' path. She'd expected as much from Grimo, and his argument made sense. He'd look like a nice guy if he let her off the hook for her failures. Can't be havin' that when you're a crime lord. She figured maybe he'd lock her up for a few days, or torture, or dishwasher duty. But being conscripted as a prize toy for some kind of gladiator sweepstake was not something she'd just grin and bear silently. She was no ones slave.



"Hey, Grimo, c'mon," she half pleaded, half yelled. Weequay Number Five grabbed at her arm, binders in hand. She wrenched it out of his grasp. "Let's talk about this!" The binder-wielder tried again. She elbowed him angrily in the face; it was more furious reflex than an actual attack, but the movement seemed to excite the other guards holding her at stunpoint, and she didn't relish the idea of anyone handling her unconscious body, so the smuggler brought it down a few notches. "You're throwing away a fortune here, G, don't be an idiot!!" she said in warning as they finally locked the binders over her wrists, pulling her away from the dais. One of the Weequay relieved her of her useless blaster, the other ripped the pack from her shoulder.



Malora had words ready in a last ditch effort to persuade the Hutt to change his plans in her favor, but they vanished when she caught sight of Xima, reptilian eyes sharp with scorn, watching her struggle with restrained glee. It was the same way Xaxan Zadicus used to look at her. Unbridled hatred surged through her, dark, powerful, and she pulled fiercely at the grips on her arms and shoulders, barely registering the guard's nails puncturing her flesh as she broke their hold and charged forward, snarling. "You. This was your idea, you sick little shavit!!" She was yanked backwards before she could go much further, hauling her away from Xima with effort. "Xima! You weak karghr!! You'll pay for this. I promise."

"God, this place stinks." Nose crinkled in disgust, Malora dragged her feet on the sandstone floor as the guards half lead, half towed her through the winding hallways and gaping archways that tunneled under Grimo's criminal empire. "Seriously, do you wash these hallways or does Grimo just lick them clean?" Silence answered her, but she could tell from their tightening grip that her running commentary wasn't appreciated. So she kept blabbering, kept a sharp eye on her surroundings, trying her best to memorize the turns and twists. Would be easier if everything didn't look the same.



It'd taken them three hours to 'clean her up'. Three kriffin' hours. They'd even painted her nails. She'd managed to chip a few of the toes already, and the bottom of her skirt-thing (because a few sheer bits of fabric wasn't really a skirt) had collected a decent amount of dirt from the floors. She'd tried in vain to whack the Weequay guards in the face with the strands of polished beads hanging throughout her hair, but was unsuccessful, and while she actually kind of loved the dark leather bodice, it was pinching her under the arms, and sweat was already trailing down her cleavage. She hoped her makeup ran. Malora had done what she could to ruin all their hard work. Maybe if she was a mess by the time she got to 'the champion' they'd have to take her back in and fix her up, giving her more time to make an escape plan before she found Wade.



But, no such luck.



A doorway loomed in front of her; beyond, a long hallway, the scent of blood and sweat, and somewhere above their heads, the clash of battle and the roar of an over-juiced crowd. The barracks. Malora's heart picked up, and she fell silent mid-quip, eyes peeled as the guards pulled her along. The hall was lined with shallow alcoves carved from the sandrock, shrouded by thin curtains meant to give the dwellers some form of privacy. They were pulled back from the inside as she passed, beings of all races watching with curiosity. Malora whipped her head from side to side, scanning each room, each face, straining against the guards steady pace to make sure she didn't miss anything, but no one looked familiar. She did notice they picked up a few more guards on the way, trailing behind her like dogs waiting for a bone. A Sakiyan, couple Twi'leks, a human or two. Their eyes burned on her back, but she bit down the urge to say anything for fear of missing something.



The further down the barracks they got, the harder panic pushed at her mind, but Malora kept her game face on. She caught the eyes of a few of the fighters, digging her heels into the dirt to slow down, and opened her mouth on a slightly desperate whim. "Hey, anyone know a Wade Connors? Human, dirty-blonde hair, best fighter this side of—AAHHHGGG!" She choked, jerking as one of the guards activated the shocker in her slave collar. Malora coughed, her throat and neck numb, limbs a little rubbery. Low setting, she figured, or she'd be flat on her ass right now. She let the Weequay lug her the rest of the way without another word, saving her remaining energy, keeping her eyes on the alcoves.



They passed the last room, nearing the slightly more elaborate door at the end of the hallway. Probably the champion's room. She hoped there was food in there. Her stomach was growling. Malora noticed two more corridors branching off on either side; one looked more like prison cells, and the other was lined with more curtains. She swallowed, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her confidence rose just a little. Wade had to be down one of those hallways. There was more to search. Now all she needed to do was figure out how to get away from whoever the champion was, grab a disguise, and get to it.

…Man, even saying that sounded stupid. Get away from a pit fighter champion? Chyeah. Maybe when it snows on Mustafar. She'd have to actually use her brain on this one. And she would. She'd figure it out. She always did. Somehow.



The doors opened, flushing the air with spicy incense and freshly cut fruit. Heavy silk fabrics in deep reds and bright oranges were draped across the ceiling and down the walls, creating a tent-like effect. The floor was covered in plush rugs, elaborate furniture scattered throughout the room, the corners piled artfully with seating pillows. Green ferns, exotic flowers, and a shallow stone bathing pool added a desert oasis appeal. The whole thing bore Grima's mark. He always did like over-rewarding his fighters when they made him enough money. Malora cleared the last of the numbness from her throat and pulled on a half-smirk, ready to sling another sassy one-liner.



Then she saw the pillar in the middle of the room, chain dangling from the top, awaiting its prisoner. Panic spiked.



"Ooooohhhhh FUCK no." Malora grit her teeth and scrambled her feet backwards as the two Weequay yanked her into the room by her arms. "No WAY am I getting hitched to a pole again, not happening, nope!" The guards were struggling, and for a moment, she thought she might have a chance. Then there was a hand on her lower back, someone snickered in her ear, and she was shoved forward into the room. The extra guards. Great. The smuggler stumbled against a table and fell to the floor, the beads in her hair clinking, but she rolled to her feet as smoothly as she could in her current outfit and whirled to face the six men gathered inside the champion's room.



The Sakiyan closed the doors as the Weequay guards stepped back, letting the others forward. The movements seemed almost practiced, like this was a regular thing for all of them. It probably was. Mal knew what was coming, saw the looks on their faces as they stared at her. The same look Xaxan would get. To try and mentally prepare for it was impossible, and useless. No matter where your mind went during it, you eventually had to come back to reality. No matter how numb you made yourself, you couldn't block it out completely. No matter how many showers you took or how hard you scrubbed your skin, you'd feel the same thing for months. There was no preparing. There was just…the way you faced it.


So, heart pounding, Malora planted her bare feet in the thick rug, raised her fists, and bent her knees a little. She could've played the saucy slave girl, lured them close enough to throw a few punches before they took her down. Could've played the scared, screaming victim (could've BEEN it, really) and run them around the room while she looked for things to use as weapons. Could've just stripped and offered herself first with a bored sigh, pretend to be unaffected; at least it would have been her choice. But when you're backed into a corner and you've already been through this trauma too many times, something happens to your brain, and you really don't think about things. You can't think, and grasping at reason seems like the hardest thing in the world. You're paralyzed, mind and body, and it comes down to one choice for you: fists up, or fists down.




And when she hit hot water, Malora was not a fists down kind o' woman no matter what was comin' her way.




"Well??" She swallowed hard, eyebrows flat over her eyes, lips pursed angrily. "I've got a schedule to keep, assholes, c'mon! Who wants a bruised dick first??" At least her mouth still worked. The guards gaped at her for a moment, somewhere between amused and surprised. That made her feel a little better. Clearly they weren't used to their toys fighting back. Maybe she'd get real lucky and they'd be terrible fighters. One of the Twi'lek's laughed at her. The others joined in, clapping, whistling, mocking her as they inched closer, but that sharp lecherous look in their eyes never left. "Come on!!" she yelled, adrenaline rushing through her veins, the taste of fear sharp on her tongue, but she kept it off her face.



The Twi'lek with the red skin was first to try. He made a wide-armed lumbering grab for her, but she ducked and swung behind him, grabbing both lekku and raking them with her beautifully filed nails, and punched him square in his ugly face when he swung around screeching in pain. He fell backward into the table.

Malora turned back around, ready to go, a grin creeping over her face at the drop in their laughter. But suddenly her world went white, every muscle in her body convulsed violently, and she hit the ground with a strangled scream as hot electricity seared through her neck and down her spine. Yep, they'd turned up the frequency for sure. She couldn't move. The Weequay in the corner took his claw off the shock-caller, barking something to the guards. Orders, maybe. He obviously wasn't interested in the scene in front of him.



Someone grabbed Malora by her hair, dragging her roughly up to her feet and backwards. The red skinned Twi'lek. Her back slammed against the stone column, wrists yanked above her head, chain clinked securely around them, and she let it happen. She didn't have a choice, her limbs were still shaking from the shock collar and she could barely stand, but it would be gone in a few moments, and then…then she'd…well. She didn't know.



She'd figure it out. She always did. Somehow.



They gathered around her quickly. She wasn't sure who touched her first, but it made her angry, and that was good. Anger and fear cleared the mind. So Malora mustered her strength and kicked out at the nearest guard. He went flying backwards with a little more force than he should have, given her sloppy, wobbly form. Weird. No time to think about it. The men seemed to be getting irritated. The Twi'lek she'd humiliated had a hand around her throat, and he was leaning in, saying something she couldn't hear above the rushing blood in her ears. His lekku were bleeding. Good. Fingers twisting to grip the chain around her wrists, Mal pulled herself up a little, got a foot between her and the Sakiyan, who was reaching for the ties on her skirt-thing, and planted her dirty foot in his gut. He didn't fly as far, but he did knock over a bowl of fruit on his way back.



There went the shock-collar again. She was ready for it, hanging limply from the chain by the time it was over. The Weequay growled something else. He seemed annoyed. So did the other guards. The Twi'lek's hand closed tighter over her throat, but it was so numb she couldn't feel it. The human had his fingers under the bodice. One of them grabbed her leg and pinned it.



"You're…all gonna…die for this," she choked out.


She could handle this. She could. She'd figured it out: just get through it. Eyes closed, fists up, eyes closed, fists up...

"Escape? Heh. Dude." She sunk to the floor opposite him with a long sigh, bones spongey and body jittery as the adrenaline left her system. "Do I look like I'm goin' anywhere right now?" The smuggler shook a little, mouth dry, neck tender, stomach sick at how close she'd come to disaster. Too close. Her fault. That's what happened when you rolled in without a clue, but she knew that before she set out on this whole mission, and she knew what she was willing to sacrifice to find Wade.



It burned her up inside, but she let the 'man's property' comment slide, for now. Wouldn't do her any good to piss off the only guy since she'd entered Grimo's empire that hadn't tried to look up her skirt. So far, at least. Malora watched him for a moment, ever-wary, before she picked up on the keen observance in his gaze and realized she'd left the door to her soul wide open. Great. Her expression shifted, brain kicked into gear, and on came her sabacc face. "No, I worked too kriffin' hard to get here. This is right where I wanna be." It was. Hell, he wanted to unchain her. Whoever he was, this was definitely not what she'd expected, and that was a good thing. Maybe this was karma finally getting back around to her. She forced the hope out of her eyes, kept it on the back burner on low heat. Mal jingled the chains at him expectantly. "Wouldn't mind losing the chains, though. And the stone pole thing. This is, what, like the third time this year I've been kidnapped, dressed like a hoe, and strung up in some random guy's bedroom." She gave him a flat smile. "Not lookin' to make it habit."

Despite everything (or maybe because of everything), she was half tempted to follow suit and conk out. The problem with roller-coaster adrenaline rushes was how you felt after it stopped. Like you'd been awake for two weeks in constant movement. The more she stared at him, the better sleeping started to look. But Malora had better things to do with her time.



Like eat all the fruit.



The moment his breathing slowed (which, by the way, was kriffin' weird. Who falls asleep that fast?! Mal spent a good five minutes waving fingers in front of his face, mystified, just to make sure he was legit asleep), the captive smuggler rolled off the bed and ambled towards the little tower of fruit and dried meat on the table in the corner. It was gone in minutes, but she didn't touch the tankard of ale. Wasn't the time for a fuzzy mind, and her limbs didn't need any more loosening, thanks.



Popping the last wasaka berry in her mouth and fueled by food, Malora threw a quick glance at the sleeping champion and made for the door as quietly and as quickly as she was able. Not that she was actually gonna go anywhere, but she was curious. She gave it a try. Locked. Unsurprising. A quick examination revealed she could probably open it with enough time and determination, which raised her confidence levels a little. Worse came to worse, she'd be able to get out. Of course, getting out wasn't the problem. Malora frowned, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip as she moved around the room searching for inspiration and answers, inspecting every nook, cranny, and overstuffed pillow. She carefully gathered a few small items that might be helpful later, stashing them under the rug in a corner, but there were no gaps in the walls, no hiding places, and there was absolutely nothing there that gave her any insight into the room's owner. No pictures, no extra clothes, no knick-knacks, nothing personal at all. Normal if you were a slave. But he wasn't.



Annoyed at her unsuccessful venture, Malora gave up and headed back to the bed. The guy was probably gonna be out for the next eight hours, so she might as well get comfortable. She paced around for a bit before flopping down next to the champion with an impatient huff, rolling from side to side with lots of irritated sighs. She was tired, oh yeah. But she was also anxious to get the show on the road. She wasn't kidding earlier, she did have a schedule to keep. Wrench was waiting, her crew was waiting, and who knew what kind of terrible dungeon Wade was in.

Mal sat up, crawling slowly towards the sleeping man. She caught sight of the collar-shocker button on the bedside table and thought about swiping it, but knew it wouldn't do her much good. They'd just give him another one. The smuggler paused at his side, flipping her beaded hair over her shoulder, and stared at him. The many gruesome scars spread across his chest and torso caught her eye, and for a weird moment, they somehow seemed familiar, but it passed quickly. "The hell happened to you…" she mumbled quietly. She'd seen him walk through those doors with fresh wounds, seen them heal up before her eyes. So where had all these come from?