There had been light once.
A flash.
A single sun-drenched moment.
It was lost now, along with the rest of it.
That was good. As it should be. As it had always been.
There was, however, no shadow either.
No dark, no rage, no hatred, no blistering passion.
Nothing.
Even a Jedi might approve.
The thought might have twisted a smile on his lips, if he had been other than what he was now.
Revan had told him. The part of his mind that had once cared about such things spied her Republic boyfriend tensing for action as his own numb fingers had clutched at her robes. That same part of his mind noted with cold efficiency the hot tears that ran down his face, the cold 'crete floor beneath his knees.
That part of his mind was all that was left of Atton Rand.
The rest of him died in that moment.
He wondered idly whether the others in the room had heard the crack when it happened.
All those things that had been him – no matter what identity he carried – all those things were gone. His hair had been the first to go, the first thing that everyone else had noticed, anyway.
Because she had loved it.
Because she had touched it.
It had to go.
He studied his own face without interest – a dark dusting of stubble over his head, grey-in-grey eyes that peered intently from his pale-grey face, refracted many times over in the cracked mirror.
Yes, it had to go.
Even Pazaak occupied a space in his stomach that twisted with pain. As he hunted his targets, that single, irritating part of his mind felt it necessary to inform him that money would be easier made with a hand of cards than an assassin's contract. Fortunately ease no longer mattered, so he hunted to live.
He lived to hunt.
There was no other reason. The former Dark Lord Revan had taken his revenge for him, long before she had told him, had broken him.
There was no light. There was no shadow.
Even his guilt was gone, because she had forgiven him.
There was, occasionally, hunger. So, he hunted for money. Money for food.
There was always pain, just nipping at his heels, so he ran. Money to run.
He knew that part of his mind would know which planet he was on now, but he couldn't be bothered to ask. He was here. The target was here. The target would die. He would get paid. He would run a little farther.
It was in this manner that he had killed his way across the galaxy. Again.
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Bowen Jef crossed her booted feet and leaned back in her chair in an effort to quell her own shaky misgivings about the trail she was on. The Devaronian smoothed back the grey fur on her cheeks, but stopped as the cold eyes across from her registered every single move she made.
The bounty hunter was whipcord thin, with smoke-coloured eyes and a skull that looked freshly shaven. His face, what she could see of it in the dim light, was all hard angles and sharp planes – and as devoid of life as any corpse she'd ever laid eyes on.
"Let's keep this simple, shall we?" Bowen flashed her formidable fangs in a cheerless grin. "You come highly recommended, and I come very well funded. I'm told you don't have any particular interest in the …erm … political leanings of your marks, nor are you likely to ask inconvenient questions, and that proves useful to me at this point."
She paused here, waiting for the man across the table to confirm or deny the statement, but her words sank in the dank, humid air, unanswered. Bowen Jef was no fool. She hadn't clawed her way up the ranks of the Exchange by allowing herself to be intimidated by scruffy, dusty, ill-kept bounty hunters. She knew about negotiation, and knew that silence was, inevitably, her friend.
But not today.
Today, the man who half-melted into the shadows of the dingy little room swam in silence, bathed in it. His grey eyes never left her face, and yet never seemed to actually look at her either. They looked through her.
She cleared her throat and the sound disappeared into him. "Right. Well, I've asked for you, because this job's a little more difficult than most. Your target is rather high up in the emerging Sith order."
She waited for some sign of shock, fear, even surprise. When none came, she continued. "V'loren Coltro was last seen on Ulicia – scab of a planet, that one is. She's completely fallen under the radar, but there's no sign that she's left Ulicia's surface."
"Now, the difficulty lies not in Coltro's affiliations, but that we don't have any images or holos of her – only some varying descriptions. We know, obviously, that we're dealing with a woman, black hair, brown eyes – but those are things that can change, of course. We do have some intel that suggests she carries some impressive tattoos, deep blue over her head and shoulders. We also have no indication that she is, in any way, Force sensitive."
The man didn't move, but, for a spit second, all of Bowen's fur stood on end. She hurried on.
"We will, of course, pay for your transport to and from Ulicia over and above the agreed-upon fee."
She felt better here, discussing hard creds and contract details, but irritation was starting to put her off her game. Well, how am I supposed to negotiate with a man who won't speak? This is ridiculous!
Regardless, she slid a datapad across the rickety table. Finally, the bounty hunters eyes left her face to contemplate the dimly glowing screen between them. Bowen found herself holding her breath and counting her own heartbeats.
If she had so much as blinked, the Devaronian would have missed the split second it took for one lithe hand to reach out and tuck the datapad away in some unseen pocket. A second blink would have left Bowen wondering at the man's disappearance.
But Bowen Jef didn't blink if she could help it.
When she was sure he was gone, she slumped in her chair and released a shuddering breath – the same one she'd been holding the whole time, she was sure. Rolling her neck in a futile attempt to ease the tension coiled there, she took a few more deep breaths before standing up to tap gently on the wall behind her.
The panel that shifted sideways revealed the massive inky shadow behind it. At almost 1.9 metres, Bowen was on the tall side for her people, but the newcomer's cloaked figure towered over her.
"You owe me, friend. That was not pleasant." Bowen's fingers gently massaged the place between her horns where a monster of a headache was looming.
:No. I did not expect that it would be.:
Her companion's voice rumbled low and vibrated through the places where her fur was still on high alert. She hissed at him through her teeth.
"This had better be worth it. If it goes wrong …" She couldn't even finish the thought.
:We have no guarantees, Bowen. You, of all people, know that. We only know that this is our very last chance. She must be taken care of.:
The woman sank back onto the derelict chair. "If we're wrong …"
The gloom seemed to deepen, even as the sun was rising.
