(This chapter and the last was supposed to be one whole but ended up being too long, if you're wondering why so fast an update. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!)

The wheelchair did not bring Obi-Wan any more comfort than it did confidence, but if he were to keep his promise, its presence was necessary. Unconventional in the Underlevels, yes, for not only had it required a half hour to flag a taxi that was handicap accessible, at his arrival at the Crystal Enchantment, Obi-Wan had struggled up a considerable flight of stairs that he had not seemed to take note of before.

The Padawan had hesitated before the door, stomach churning in remembrance. His fear had tickled inside him like in unpleasant sensation, and he had forced it away for Wisper's sake, and also for the fact that he couldn't go crawling back to the Temple with Siri breathing down his neck for details he did not have. He had quashed his fear. He could not let it control him.

Obi-Wan had ignored the welling nervousy in him as he had wheeled slowly into the ruins of the club, putting on an unwavering facade of confidence, one he had held steadily until he found out a frustrating discovery. Today, he had soon figured, was clearly not his day.

"Not in? What do you mean by that?" Obi-Wan looked over the edge of the half-collapsed bar to the tender there, sweeping broken glasses and another behind him mopping half-flooded floors, who continued cleaning as he rolled nearer.

"There aren't any performers here."

Obi-Wan tried to ignore the skitter of a small rodent out of the corner of his eye, kicking aside with his good leg a drifting slab of floorboard and wheeling closer to the bar, repeating, "Not here? Where are they, then?"

The bartender, a gruffly looking Bothan, barely acknowledged the concerned question.

"I know I'm only a reporter, but I need your help. I need to know where a performer is." Obi-Wan continued, dejection tensing his eyes, "If something happened last night, I have to find her."

The bartender scoffed, "Look at this place. Something definitely happened here."

"Please sir." Obi-Wan considered using a bit of Jedi persuasion since the Bothan was not willing to cooperate, but the being met Obi-Wan with small dark eyes, surrounded by reddy-brown fur, and huffed.

His voice was like a deep, rumbling engine, coarse and thick as he spoke, and Obi-Wan took ear attentively.

"Listen kid, if you haven't already realized, this place is trashed. The owners have cancelled any and all performances until we get things sorted 'round here, so she's not here because she's not performing. She doesn't even have a kriffing stage to use!"

He was right, unfortunately for Obi-Wan. The place was destroyed. Few employees were scattered around the main floor, moppping and throwing out trash, in attempt to salvage the club, but it was hopeless. Soon it would become another condemned, abandoned building of the Underlevels, a hideout for junkies and rats and mold and decay.

The rank stench of stagnant water and smoldered fires filled Obi-Wan's nose along with the scent of spilled alcohol, and any previous sophistication the Crystal Enchantment had held was lost with last nights incident. Wind whistled through broken windows and walls, scarlet paint peeling away from them, and surviving cushions and left behind scarves and jackets floated in the water that would have come above Obi-Wan's ankles, if he could stand.

Good riddance, he was tempted to say, but with the eradication of this place of revisited fear, the memories of another lingered, memories quite the opposite from the former.

Obi-Wan glanced over his shoulder to the tiny entertainment area in the distance a few feet away, to the small tables and chairs surrounding a little stage with scarlet curtains, stained and dripping dirty water. Floor boards were smashed and caved in a hole where she would have stood, and Obi-Wan's lips turned, imagining her in her harmonic splendor that night prior.

The smile faded just as soon as it began, his heart sinking in unknowing anxiety. It had only occured to him on his taxi ride there that he didn't know where Lystra was, or if she was hurt, or even still alive. His hopes were pierced by feasible queries.

Could she have been killed like Emalie for talking to him? Was she poisoned hours ago like the waitress? Obi-Wan had asked the staff if they knew anything about the club's manager, the bartenders about any funny business mixing drinks the night former, but all were denied. He had suspected the poisoning hadn't been a bribery, for such never guaranteed complete secrecy, it had the risk of witnesses spilling their information. The assassin, as experienced or naive as he was, had at least thought of that detail and had done the deed himself.

Obi-Wan was tempted to believe the kidnapper had gained his kill and would not seek out the Jedi for nearly foiling his plan, but he had obviously not been pleased if he had risked his cover in attempt to kill them.

In truth, he had really no way of knowing if any of the staff were safe speaking with him. If it was revenge the assassin was out for, and the kind Obi-Wan knew of, no one would hinder his thirst for it. If Wisper was alive, she could be in a dangerous position also; that meant Obi-Wan needed to find her. Quickly.

The thoughts had quickened his breath with dread, and Obi-Wan swallowed and breathed out his doubts. She has to be safe, he soothed himself, I would know otherwise.

The Bothan watched the boy glance about then, softening his tone at the visible disappointment before him, ". . . I suggest you move along, boy, before I kick ya out. This place is dangerous, especially for someone in your condition."

"Do you know where I can find her then?" Obi-Wan didn't expect him to know, but he was desperate, "Or anyone? I know it is a lot to ask, but . . ."

The bartender sighed, setting his broom down and leaning large, hair covered forearms on the counter, defeated and annoyed, "Who ya lookin' for?"

"Wisper Morro." The name was a delight to say, "Young girl, brown hair, around my age."

"Don't know many twelve year old performers in the under levels," The wink was subtle, as was the joke, but neither were amusing to Obi-Wan at all, "She left a note here this mornin'."

"Really?"

"Ya think I'm lyin? She came in and dropped it off. What's ya name?"

"Ben." Obi-Wan strained his neck to see the folded piece of flimsi between the Bothan's thick fingers, "Just Ben."

The note was flicked over the counter, landing perfectly in the boys lap, and the Bothan waved him away as he gathered his broom again, "Go on, now."

Obi-Wan nodded his thanks, rolling through the watery sludge a bit unsteadily to the exit, where he eagerly opened the small torn square of paper; on the back side were staves with scribbled notes - her music paper - and the other his name scrawled obviously in haste. The contents were hardly any more legible:

Ben

I was so worried last night when the alarms went off; I thought for sure you were hurt. Some performers and I escaped through the fire exit, but I wanted to find you. If you are reading this, please follow the written address. Do not delay, for you are only prolonging my worry. - Lystra

"Street 759; floor 17, room 731 . . ." Obi-Wan mentally repeated the directions, tearing the note to shreds as he wheeled out the exit. He had no desire for anyone else to find her but himself, finishing the directions before chanting them again, and again, ". . . the Hotel Vortex . . ."

Thanks for reading! Reviews appreciated!