Mustafar is a planet steeped in a dark history, acting as a point of interest as far back as the Clone Wars themselves. At one point, the Black Sun constructed their headquarters upon its surface and later on even Darth Vader took up residence within his dark castle. The traces of this history are still found in the form of the remains left behind. Mining facilities are scattered across the lava-surface of the scorching planet, help up with gravity supports that keep them safe from the superheated material below.

Perhaps its most notable history came via a single uttered phrase: Mustafar is where Jedi go to die. The hidden interrogation facility built into the scorched stone is steeped in the dark side, providing a clue to its wicked purpose in a time not so long past. A large, single landing pad acts as the focal point of the structure from the outside. It is connected by a causeway that leads to a security door that has fallen into disuse. The facility itself is still functional, drawing power from the thermal energy of the planet itself.

Once within, one is confronted by the labyrinthine maze of corridors and offices that were clearly designed for a singular purpose. The holding cells are as spartan as any other Imperial construct, providing only a slab protruding from the wall as a bed and nothing more. Barracks can be found near the main control rooms with its shelving in various states of disarray. It is clear with only a glance that scavengers have already picked the inanimate corpse clean of its contents.

However, it is deeper still where the miasma of the dark side truly reaches its zenith. There one will find the interrogation chambers. Wickedly cruel in their singular purpose, stains can still be found caked into the durasteel panels themselves alongside various tools and instruments of the trade plied within.

To walk within Mustafar's Interrogation Facility is to tread through the ghosts of the planet's darkest past. It is a symphony for the wicked and a requiem for the pious.

There is a snake in the grass.

The metaphor is only half literal; if grass ever existed on Mustafar, it did not evolve sufficiently to survive the present atmospheric and geological conditions and died off in inferiority. Also, the facility is entirely and aggressively metal, with such dedication to recessed lighting and cramped corridors that one almost has to admire the commitment to a poor choice. Almost.

Stupidity isn't admirable, after all.

Foxen hunched through yet another doorway inspired by misery and cubic geometry. His skin is dry from the heat, and it makes echoes in the mind. The pit. Beating sun. Steam pipes hissing. Burning metal, chaffing, skin sloughing. He can see the panic in the distance. It will be waiting for him when the mission is over, when it is no longer set to: ignore. Now, though, it is silenced, and there is only mission.

The snake has followed him here. He noticed it four days previous, in the market in Estle. Attempting to stalk/watch/follow. Foxen had only refrained from outright execution in the street because breaking planetary manslaughter regulations in broad daylight with >37 witnesses was not conductive to returning to his bird with fresh koskatos and general upkeep of the house and routines.

Also, Flyndt had objected to his reasoning when told.

It was a Shani. Based on your accounts of Shani/Omwati historical species aggression, non-zero possibility this thing has or would harm your people, scare you. 0% ≤ of harm = unacceptable. Deny.

"Fox..., hoo, no."

They had agreed to disagree on percentages. It was hardly the first time.

But then the Nautolan hybrid had seen the creature again, following the both of them at a distance. It hid itself well, but he knew even better the telltale shimmer of a being cloaked with the Force, thanks to Flyndt, and he watched. He saw the Shani watching Flyndt.

Deny.

So here he was on stupid fraking lava-covered Mustafar. An ideal murdering location with no jurisdictional headaches. And an interrogation set up pre-installed. Yippie.

In one such deeply-stained chamber, he waited. Aside from the sounds of the building/outside atmosphere and his breathing, there was silence. Then: footsteps.

They began too close. A deliberate ruse. The other assassin had been moving with great stealth until getting near.

Foxen pulled out his datapad.

Contact incoming. Commencing pursuit. Confirm check in: 20:00 minutes.

Be safe Fox.

Flyndt had come with him, of course, and was himself hidden. Foxen would capture the target before it got anywhere near the Omwati's position.

The footsteps approach and stop at the door.

Foxen stills.

Ah, they were wrong. Flyndt is not the target.

He is.

Recalculating.

He turns, and sees his Omwati standing there.

Only: different.

Approximately 27 cm taller.

Suspicious.

Flyndt? he asks, gesturing the name sign. Are we still having kew'maxi for dinner?

The one in the doorway, to its credit, does not hesitate. It says:

"Foxen," the tone is similar in octave, even inflects on his name in the right place. "HoOT. You okay? HRMM?"

It says it like okay not like O.K. And the hrm is not as low as Flyndt can mimic. The abrupt change in tone causes static.

Not his.

I'm fine, Foxen replied. Then lifted an open hand and tapped his lips. Their shorthand for can I have a kiss?

Something in his chest smolders and clicks when the thing gives another slightly-off hoot and approaches smoothly, standing on toes as if to bring their faces nearer. It knows what that means, knows Flyndt's small noises. Impersonation. Invasion. Violation.

CLANG!

The blade not-Flyndt stabs towards his throat snaps against the beskar of Foxen's bracer. The broken end pokes out of nowhere, as if jutting from the gloved sleeve. False sunset eyes widen. Foxen growls.

His beskar kal is in his other hand and he stabs for the heart/spine between ribs to sever.

...crunch--

Only the thing is still wearing Flyndt's face, and he.

Can't.

His arm hesitates.

It's all the opening the thing needs. A slash bites into his outstretched arm, the cut burning along the edges, and then the imposter turns and sprints back out the fraking door.

Foxen growls and takes off after it.

He's going to throw the corpse into the fraking lava.

An assassin missing the first shot is never a good thing. However, sometimes it can't be helped. Sometimes, the quarry is stronger, faster, more aware, and more skilled. Sometimes, the situation prevents a clean kill. A small room, a dead end. But is it a dead end for an assassin? Never. Such a one has more skills to fall back on, and more tricks to draw from.

He could not make a quiet, quick kill, and now his foe was aware of him. He followed close, pursuing the fleeing Shani assassin who sped through long corridors lit by overhanging fluorescent lights. Each time Foxxen Erinos fired from Slugthrower or turned a corner, the Shani was almost about to turn at the next corner. It was as if he wanted his quarry to follow in, egging him on. Teasing him. Each time, almost out of the reach of blades and bullets.

Erinos strode down a long T-shaped corridor, grabbed his slugthrower, and turned sharply around the right corner. The lights there were almost destroyed, their holders burning. Sparks flew angrily from the ceiling and exposed wires hissed menacingly as they kissed the cold floor. The few lights that did remain blinked in confusion. At the end of that corridor was a dark room. Was that a staircase? Or another fracking corner? The Shani's silhouette could easily be discerned even in the low light.

Then came a mechanical voice. It sounded almost like his brother if it wasn't for the mechanical nature and the venom behind it. "Tired, little brother...?"

The Chagrian-Nautolan hybrid growled low, even if he knew the voice was face and it was a trap. The voice was an insult to him and his brother! The warrior charged down the dimly lit corridor, honing in on the silhouette with his slugthrowers pointed ahead. But even as he sped forward, his enemy drew further back into the darkness until he was barely visible, yet he was not running away this time strangely as if the Shani was tired himself.

The Mercenary fired into the darkness. The slugs flew menacingly yet went through his foe's body harmlessly.

Illusion!

And then...BANG!

His huge figure staggered backward, covering his watering eyes and deafened ears. Next, he felt a searing pain on the edge of his right upper arm that passed towards his back, before feeling the presence leaving the room. He didn't need to see to understand what had just happened. He groped towards his jetpack and unclasped it. He quickly tossed it away with all his might before running blindly back along the corridor he had come from. And even as he did so, he heard a loud explosion behind him, that of his jetpack exploding.

It took Erinos a few moments to recover his vision, and when it did he quickly examined the wound on his arm. Cauterised. Burnt. Lightsaber wound. But why did the serpent not kill him when he had him?

Perhaps this serpent enjoys playing with his prey, who meanwhile. had exited the facility and awaited his foe surrounded by Mustafar's fury.

The wounds burn. Not just the sting of pain receptors, but of burn tissue pulling. It makes echoes in the mind.

He sets them to status: ignore and keeps moving.

But as he runs after the serpent, knowing it bait, the sensation changes. The initial slice into his arm from the hidden blade is going numb. And that is an abnormality.

Localized numbing/paralysis: usually sign of neurotoxin.

He is chasing an assassin -- a Shani one -- of course the blades are fraking poisoned.

Growling to himself, Foxen selects a room and turns sharply into it off the current path that seems to be leading to control center/foundry/exits, based on deteriorated signage. This chamber is empty but for standard strapped torture gurney. He yanks the antidote kit off his thigh holster and is grateful for its forethought, after previous experience when he and Flyndt encountered venomous animals and different Shani assassins.

Ripping off the cap, he stabs a hypospray into his arm, packs it all back up, and resumes the chase.

Likelihood of effectiveness: who fraking knows.

But the numbing sensation stops spreading to his fingers, and by the time he reaches a room with transparisteel windows overlooking a river of molten lava, he has full functionality again.

Not that the assassin needs to know that.

Red eyes searched the room, spying movement out on the metal catwalks. Either another illusion, or the assassin allowing himself to be seen? Regardless, the play is obvious.

Foxen drew two throwing knives, rotated his neck and made the arm go limp. Barely keeps his grip in that hand. Makes a drag in the leg on that side as he smashed through the door leading outside into suffocating heat.

At the end of the catwalks, Flyndt stands again. But this time not an impersonation calling to him. This time it appears as though the assassin is dangling Flyndt out over the edge, and a terrified Omwati hoots to him for help.

"Fox!" it yelled, just off. The real Flyndt has fourteen primary red-brown wild type feathers in his crest and twenty-six secondary ones. This illusion only made three that stand out in the front, the rest more...shapes. A suggestion. Nevertheless, it drew another hiss from the Nautolan.

"Drop the weapon," the assassin called in a horribly modulated voice, not trying for mimicry now, but not giving up its actual voice either. "Or else."

Foxen took two steps, making sure to sag. The knife fell from the affected hand, and then he stumbled into the railing, causing a sudden hiss of steam/bubbling/sizzling as his flesh boiled on the hot metal. His scream was silent but real. He felt the peel of fat/skin/muscle left behind in a strip as he rightened and raised the other knife, aiming to throw.

The imagined Flyndt warbled. Foxen bowed his head and lowered his arm. Took his weapons belt off and flung it down the catwalk, towards the assassin.

"Wise choice, prey," the Shani acknowledged, bright yellow eyes peering from its masked face. In a pantomime the illusion is knocked out and left on the ground, and he drew a lightsaber and started forward. It's a good act.

But he does not need his weapons.

As soon as the assassin's foot it within his field of vision, less than a meter away, he lunged for the reptile's throat. The lightsaber fell away as he tackled the assassin around the middle, sweeping him to the deck with his 'weakened' arm and slamming him into the plating. There came a crack of bone. A maw opened to hiss at him, the serpent writhing, slippery.

His opponent slid out of his arms, backpedaling quickly and summoning his blade back to his hand. It reignited just as Foxen dove at him again, beskar bracer dagger sliding down the plasma blade as he shoved at it, beskar dagger slicing through armor. A distorted shriek left the Shani even as Foxen stabbed at it again.

It ducked aside with supernatural speed and knowing, juking left then right as knives flew from Foxen's hand. The metal pinged out cries and fell away into the holocaust below. He slashed again with the larger Kal dagger, backing the tiring snake down the catwalk, to where an illusion no longer suffered.

Hissing furiously, the Shani dropped his saber and threw out both hands, face screwing up in concentration. For the briefest of movements, the Nautolan felt himself lock up, all his joints, as if frozen in place.

For a moment, victory spread across the reptile's smile.

But then the effort wavered, just enough; a blink was all it took. Then Foxen felt a slight loosening, and he surged forward, and the Shani retreated, and that was it, the sensation disappeared as soon as the assassin tried to run.

Another knife flew, this time striking true into boot heel. His foe stumbled, and Foxen was on him.

The Nautolan siezed the violator of his home by the neck and rolled him over, pinning him back down. He made sure their eyes met for a moment, holding the stare.

You know what you did.

Foxen gripped the Shani's entire face in one hand, hooking fingers into eyesockets and thumb under teeth, and lifted the head to slam it down repeatedly into the grating with maximum force.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

"...x...Fox? Hoo, Bapti, stop. Is done!"

The name called to him, when the voice first felt like another betrayal. He turned to see his Flyndt standing behind, in the doorway off its black steel hinges. The Omwati is sweating, beak clacking, knife in hand. He doesn't touch Foxen, but has stopped with his free hand outstretched, offering. Sunset eyes pointedly do not look at the body with pulp at the top. "Come on. Is O.K. now. Yes? We done. Go home."

...O.K, he signed back, eventually. Stood up. Looked down at the corpse, lifted a lip in a sneer.

He picked it up and tossed it over into the lava, hearing Flyndt's questioning brrr.

To be sure, Foxen explained. Jediit deaths could not be trusted so easily.

They watched the flames go up together.

Coming out of a building isn't easy when you've temporarily been almost blinded by what seemed like a flash-bang grenade. It is even challenging when the corridor lights are rent and destroyed, sparks flying off exposed electric wires, as if entire sections were affected by an explosion. Yet with undying fortitude, the large frame of Foxxen Erinoes made it outside, his usual collected face contorted in fury.

"Worm and assassin! Come on out." He held his Reynolds Slugthrower Pistol in hand rightly, using its XAD Omni Sight to try to locate the assassin. "I know you're out here somewhere." As if trailing prey on a hunt, he searched eagerly for the prey who had bothered him recently, first tracking him secretly and now almost killing him in the explosion.

The Shani materialized at a distance in front of him, his face contorted in a sinister grin, lightsaber in hand glowing crimson like a blood-hungry beast. "Catch me..." he spat at the monstrous Foxxen before breaking into a sprint towards him.

The Nautolan-Chagrian hybrid fired at him, but the Shani had anticipated this. He had sprinted at him all right but had stopped mid-way in a kneeling position, his lightsaber scattering whatever slugs had sprayed as far as him. Foxxen mistook the distance. Another trick from the assassin, who now advanced menacingly at his foe slowly, although slowly and cautiously now. Slugthrowers are dangerous from a distance alone. Walking in front of one is suicidal.

The monstrous frame Erinoes took a few steps back and fired again, but the Shani had moved to the side at an angle already with superhuman speed rolling down and getting back up. This time it was too late for Foxxen. The assassin tore at his slugthrower and cut it cleanly in half, but his enemy was ready too. Before the Shani could land the second blow at his throat, the blow landed harmlessly on the Kyuzo Petar instead.

The Shani hissed in rage under his hood and lunged again and again at him, trying to smash his defenses. However, this was an experienced mercenary, with skills and weapons that lived up to their names. Sparks flew violently each time his lightsaber made contact with the dagger. They lost the sense of time as both hewed and hacked at each other, yet none could best the other.

At last, the last frame of Foxxen and his greater stamina forced his enemy back, pushing him away with so much force that the Shani was knocked off his feet. He was panting as well, but his foe was not knocked back and on the defense. He quickly activated the Whistling Birds on his vambrace, which raced through the distance like birds of prey. The Shani ignited his lightsaber again and hewed at them. He could only destroy a few of them before the rest pierced his body like hot knives from multiple directions. The assassin locked eyes with Foxxen, defiantly staring at the mercenary, but this time with a range of emotions other than anger.

Foxxen strode up to the assassin curtly, kicked away the lightsaber to a safe distance, and sliced through his throat in one clean movement. The assassin's body hit the floor, lit but the volcanic lights of the planet.

"Threat eliminated," said Foxxen Erinoes, wiping his blade on his sleeves and observing his wounds. Fortunately, there were only two wounds from the lightsaber, both just surface wounds, but which still tore off small chunks of him.