The smell of gin violently filled the nostrils of those in the crowded hall. An old time remedy to eliminate perspiration. Donovan Elwin stretches out his hands appear to mimic a man being crucified. "You will not persecute a man by giving him only a gun and not the necessities to live!" Donovan berates the senate, a handful of them in the arena not expecting to take such a tongue lashing. "We send our citizens to war, taking them away from their friends, family, and places of work and when they come home they find themselves unable to take care of their loved ones and their jobs no longer available." Those in the proletariate class leaped off their seats and cheered wildly. The upper class frowned.
"Maybe one day we can elect good people willing to prioritize lives rather than live in a make believe world where the fate of the universe lays in the hands of a bunch of Clones and droids." Donovan quips. He sweats from head to toe. His brilliant red vest is now damp. The large shimmering lights hanging over his head like a guillotine did him no favors. Donovan appeared weak, feeble, but his voice ever strong despite his throat being dryer than a Tatooine desert, and he could swear his back was beginning to ache. He's been up on stage for the last two-hours keeping up the same passion as he began. "It isn't only the banks we are slaves too, but to those gangsters financing those in attendance!"
When Donovan closed his address the split in reactions was easy to see. Nonetheless, the politician was confident in his ability to shame his colleagues into giving the unpaid soldiers their dues.
"This way, Senator." One security guard told Donovan hastily, grabbing his arm. The escort decided it be best to cut through the middle of the arena. A number of would-be assassins tried to slice through the kitchen, only to be deterred. The service tried to convince Donovan not to give his speech as it just make his enemies angrier. He persisted.
"Don't we have another group to meet with?" Donovan asks wryly.
"There's no time, sir." The guard explains him. He shoves people out of the way without remorse, some asking for autographs, some wanting to try their luck and swing for the senator's jaw. The commotion caused the security guard to reject his planned decision. But where else was their to go? The arena was surrounded by newsman and protesters from both sides of the isle. Where was his backup? "Rum. Rum. Rum!" He called into his collar to no one.
"What happened to Kiko?" Donovan remembered one of the other guard's names. He tries to remember them all, but he's terrible with names.
"I am trying to reach him, sir." The guard huffs, turning his head away from his assignment later to feel the senator's sleeve slip from his tight grip. Baffled, the guard turns to see what had happened. Donovan had been gravely injured by a blaster shot to the chest and another to his lungs, blood splattered on the security guard's trembling hands. Those around them didn't seem to notice, thinking the crowd caused the senator to merely faint. What had just happened? How did this happen? The mad crowd refused to disperse. Desperate, the security guard bellows out at the top of his lungs. "Medic!" He bellows sorrowfully. "I need a medic!"
The streets in Coruscant's biggest city are drab and miserable, looking ten times worse in the dead of night. The eeriness of the night setting made the toughest of folk flinch at the mere sound of rats scattering across the various puddles spread out on the ground.
But the only sounds that are audible are the boots clapping against the sidewalk. Mykle's chests heaved, each breath harsher than his last.
"How fast is he?" Mykle thought. As he began to slow and labor with each step, his suspect grew quicker and more agile. Scaling fire escapes, Mykle could only climb the slippery iron made steps in attempt to keep pace. Eventually they've gotten so high up an on-coming speeder almost separated his head from his body. The air began to thin, but Mykle fought off the surging feeling of wooziness.
"Nowhere left for you to run, chump!" He huffs, satisfied his target finally ran out of rope. The poor fellow tries jumping over the fence secluding him to this one area. The fence is too high even for him to pull off. Mykle assured him nothing bad would be done, so as long he'd cooperate. "I have some questions for you."
"You'll never get me to talk." Mykle rolls his eyes. Great, another 'tough' guy. Don't these people know everyone rats each other out sooner or later? They've been conditioned by their overlords to think this isn't the case. But it is.
"You think those you're protecting would do the same for you?" Mykle asked. He approached the cornered man, who began to resemble a scared pet then someone involved in a conspiracy plot.
"I don't even know who it is you want!" He protests, growing anxious as Mykle intended to take him in for questioning. "You're better off killing me."
"I won't be doing that." He says.
"Then I'll die a worser death because of your ineptitude." Mykle is perplexed. "They saw me run, safe to say they've seen you catch me. They can assume now I've spilt the beans to you and will look to shut me up."
"That's why you have to come back with me." The man shook his head, then thought. "I-" before he could answer a stray shot from out of nowhere nicks the poor soul in the neck. Mykle hits the deck. His lead had bit the dust. The second one this month. Every instinct in his body told him to run for it, but he remained stomach first on the ground. A minute goes by, Mykle rose back to his feet and proceeded to loot the man's jacket. A pistol. Empty. It's design far from generic. Sculpted leaves on the barrel, a dewback pin on the grip.