The Godless Matron is home to many, resembling a micro-society for those who wish to live outside the typical rule of the galaxy. The Lucrehulk-class battleship's massive hangers have been converted into dwellings as a result. Chute Town is the most notable of these makeshift towns. Many shops and storefronts have been constructed to take advantage of the higher volume of foot traffic. In addition, many ships and crews arrive into Chute Town to sell their "well-earned" commodities, weapons, or artifacts. It is commonplace to find the best and the worst gear the galaxy has to offer — it’s only a matter of how big your pocketbook is. The streets are patrolled regularly by the crew of the Matron itself, leaving would-be miscreants to be more wary, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of a pirate's sense of justice.

It is built mostly out of spare durasteel panels from derelict ships, dismantled machinery, or any other source or material the pirates could scavenge. It spans the length of the massive portside hangar of the Matron, reaching from its heavily protected reactor — hidden behind triple-reinforced blast doors and a guard retinue — all the way to the hangar entrance where the many incoming ships unload their cargo. It is more than a mile long, over five hundred feet wide and up to three stories tall, covering most of the floor. Chute Town's streets are a miniature maze, weaving in between buildings on several levels. Verticality is key for the masses of shops and bars to operate without interfering with one another. The main street is nicknamed Murder Alley, mostly because all the weapon shops are prominently opened there.

Illumination banks are staggered along the walkways and buildings to provide enough light for the society to function. Still, the streets are left dim with a low hanging fog built up from the collective humidity of so many people in one space. For those calling it their home, there is no such thing as off hours. A large crowd bustles along at all hours, an exotic assortment of individuals from countless planets and the warring gangs that divvy up the territory within. It's the perfect place for those looking to disappear in the crowd.

Ahh, Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy: Mobile Edition, Erinyes thought.

Chute Town was as noisy, crowded, and chaotic as any other black market Erinyes had seen. Signs brazenly advertised wares that most shops wouldn't think of admitting they sold. The "drugstore", for example, sold actual drugs. "Murder Alley", the main drag featuring arms merchants, prominently displayed its name on a banner Erinyes walked underneath.

Most days, spending the afternoon here would've been a pleasant diversion. Today, it would be a shift in the Godless Matron's political landscape.

And it all started at the boarding ramp of a beat-up little JumpMaster 5000.

"Good to see you, Foxen," Erinyes said. She glanced around the much taller man, expecting a second form, and was surprised to hear the ramp retracting instead. "Where's Flyndt?"

Busy, Foxen signed. A moment passed, in line with how he normally composed his sentences. The pause persisted for another beat, however, suggesting he had no desire to elaborate on the circumstances.

"Oh, okay. Well, tell him I said hi." That was odd. From what Erinyes knew, the duo were usually inseparable. She glanced Foxen up and down, and noticed something else odd. "You look... rumpled." His shirt wasn't pressed, and he looked like he hadn't slept since their mission together on Kyasis.

A flash of irritation echoed through the Force, louder even than the violent twitch in the bags under one of Foxen's eyes, before both of them were brought swiftly under control. It was the most Erinyes had ever seen Foxen emote.

Another beat of silence passed.

Erinyes knew better than to poke at a nerve right before a mission; it wouldn't do to have her partner stuck in his own head at a critical moment. Instead, she turned and beckoned for Foxen to follow her into Chute Town. "I assume you got the target brief." Erinyes half-turned as she walked, reminding herself to keep her eyes on Foxen so she could see him sign.

Confirm. Sinjar's data will be valuable. Thank you for contacting me, he said. After a pause, he added, Will find your people, too.

"They're already dead. Sinjar's people turned them over to the Hutts." Erinyes scowled as she pushed her way through the hustle and bustle of Chute Town's crowds. "What do you know about the Anoobas?"

Animals. Stupid name. Gang's as bad. Muscle for Sinjar's sentient-smuggling operation. 23 confirmed members. Muscle: 2 Duros, 5 Gamorrean, 3 Human, 4 Nikto, 3 Trandoshan, 4 Weequay. Accountant: Ronhys Arar, Givin, former Rang Clan codebreaker. Leader: Sinjar, obviously. Muun. Moderately influential in Chute Town. Highly ambitious. Suspected—now confirmed—sympathies towards the Hutt Cartel. Another pause. Anooba territory starts 193 metres ahead.

Erinyes snorted. "Maybe you should've briefed me instead. Sinjar karked where he eats, so we're going to wipe out him and his gang to prevent others from getting similar ideas. Whatever data we find about his sentient-smuggling network is yours, for your investigation. Any questions?"

Negative. One request, however. If you see a single-edged, matte finish knife with a trailing point of no more than 45° radius, a blade length between 380 and 400mm, and a black and metallic gold handle between 175 and 200mm, with an overall width of 50-75mm tell me.

"Uh, sure. Why, is it a clue or something?" Erinyes asked.

One of my outfits has an unfilled sheath, and none of my current knives accessorise properly. When Erinyes opened her mouth to answer and no words came, Foxen lifted a brow-ridge. Do you not do the same with lightsabers?

"It would take a small moon's worth of kyber crystals for me to build that many lightsabers."

With that, the conversation paused until Erinyes and Foxen reached the Anoobas' territory. The first sign of a change in control was a scrap-metal arch rising over Murder Alley, covered in messy, muddy-green and red splotches of graffiti clearly meant to proclaim ownership. The next was a five-storey building—a sight that struck Erinyes as bizarre, given they were still aboard a ship—covered in gaudy banners announcing it as "ANOOBA HQ".

"When we go in, cut off Sinjar's escape route, then work your way up from there. If he tries to run, bring him back to his office on the top floor, alive. Try to leave anyone who isn't in Anooba colours alone, but if they take a shot at you, they're fair game," Erinyes said as they approached the building.

Confirm, Foxen signed.

Two Trandoshan guards with concussion rifles—maybe a sign Sinjar was expecting a visit from the Brotherhood, giving his muscle weapons a lightsaber couldn't deflect—stood at the building's front double doors. Erinyes and Foxen strode up to them, seemingly without a care in the world. "Hey Scaly, I'm here to see your boss," Erinyes said.

Both Trandoshans turned to look at her, raising their weapons slightly to match the sneers on their faces. "Our boss doesn' want to see y– hrk!"

"Did it sound like I was giving him a choice?" The smell of burning flesh wafted up and over Erinyes' face, and she flicked her now-ignited lightsaber upward to free it from the guard's body. A thud and a clatter issued from the ground beside her where the other Trandoshan had dropped his concussion rifle and collapsed, bright arterial blood gushing from the juncture between his neck and shoulder and his arm dangling uselessly. Foxen stood over his victim, beskar dagger in hand and an utter lack of emotion in his eyes.

The sight chilled Erinyes a little, honestly. She'd met plenty of people in the Brotherhood who enjoyed killing, and no small number who were aloof from it, but no one who wasn't deeply disturbed were capable of feeling nothing.

Well, at least he was on her side.

Erinyes yanked on the building's front door, and to her surprise, it opened. "Let's go."

Confirm.

They entered the ramshackle Chute Town 'skyscraper' through its now blood-spattered edifice. Foxen followed the jediit with the knowledge that she would be a far more effective shield with her sabers and magical instincts. Meanwhile, he swept the room very literally over her head, pistol raised and knife tucked under the butt of the grip.

The main chamber wasn't empty. He shot in less than one of the Zeltron's eye blinks, and a Weequay at a table made of crates fell out of its neon chair and hit the ground before the 79% finished stick of poorly roasted mynock he dropped. The thump was middling, the shot silenced.

5.79 seconds of quiet punctuated by the racket of the living further in followed. Foxen noted four exits from the antechamber including the double doors behind them which he swiftly pivoted, closed, and bolted. Then he pointed at it, a cue which his plasma-wielding operative correctly read meant slice the handles off.

He caught them each as they fell, avoiding the drip of metal slag, and set them down on the floor.

20 members left, he signed when turning back.

"Confirm," Erinyes mimicked him with a distinct crinkle of amusement around her emeraldine eyes, belying the flash of typical sentient mammalian fear that had appeared in reaction to him less than two minutes before. She flourished her lightsaber in a showboating fashion and cocked her head at the first open doorway on the right. He nodded, covering her six while they advanced.

In his mind, he counted:

Two Gamorreans in the hallway carrying plates of the same sad, inferior group dinner the Weequay had been eating, rifles on their backs and axes on their belts. Erinyes cuts them down swiftly. Their squeals are loud, and that's it for the stealth they do have on this floor.

19.

They move into a kitchen he ignores for its insulting quality. A Nikto is cleaning pans of grease. Foxen seizes him by the back of the neck and lifts him one-handed bodily into the trough of a sink. He's not waiting for a drowning: he pushes until the skull and cervical spine crack and collapse and then the limited water/mynock/suds mixture stops bubbling.

Erinyes deflects two shots from a blaster while he's at it and then bounces one back at the Duros shooting it. Being Duros, they are annoyingly resistant. But that's fine. A thrown knife lodging 8 cm into orbital socket/maxilla bone suffice. A second, third, and forth knife stop the running Gammorrean when they finally slice all the way through fat-protected tendon and collapse the knee under heavy mass. Foxen is upon the smaller form and cutting through layers of throat to silence shouts of warning and aggression onto wet gurgles. He sees the Zeltron cringe slightly as she steps over the mess.

16.

They recover their steps, this a dead end, and meet expected resistance back in the first room. It's the trio of Humans flocking together, and a line of concussive shots blasts towards them, hemming them in the hallway to avoid being sonically pulverized and rupturing eardrums. A high-pitched ringing and pumping blood and stillness is all he hears as the Nautolan watches Erinyes' saber arm waver for 0.9 seconds, too long, and feels a molecule of rage underneath the Mission. Rage, exhaustion, desperation, screaming in the skin, burning it out, burns nothing out, the ringing is a scream is pain is Flyndt in pain—

Red eyes blink, and red is all over the metal, and three Humans are dead. The body feels like one massive bruise, and the left leg drags in a way that suggests giving out. He cannot hear, but he sees movement and twists with hair and flesh in his teeth and on his hands to snap. But Erinyes is quick to retreat, and she signs to him.

Hey, Foxen, hey. Let me heal you. You're compromised. I have to touch you, though. Okay? Don't bite my head off.

It's very literal right now and they both know it.

How much will it affect you? he counters, hands shaking. She grimaces. That's the answer.

I'm better at other things, her gestures hold sass and seriousness in equal measure, and she is urgent. You can't do four more floors like this.

Deny.

Foxen, I'm not bringing you back to Flyndt in a bag, I'm not going to be responsible for that karking level of baggage. Suck it up.

He grunts at her, realizes she likely cannot hear either unless she has expended energy to heal herself already, then extends his arm in consent. She touches it with only one finger while he keeps his sights and pistol on the other two doors.

Agonizing minutes pass. Two more Anooba idiots in atrocious red and green come out of one door. He shoots them down, and the count comes to 11. The lull is terrible. It breaks the body's stride, makes noise in the mind.

But tactical goddamn flexibility.

Not everything flows smoothly.

Slowly yet all at once he can feel his leg again, extreme pain and over, and stays vigilant while the Zeltron sags, looking the most tired he's ever seen her. He chooses appreciation.

Thank you. Also. Do you have foundation? Your eyebags are showing.

So you're fine now, then, she scoffs, and elects not to even deal with him, meaning she is also still in operational condition. She rises smoothly and reingities her saber. He gets up too.

They clear the next room on the ground floor, barricading a rear exit by way of Foxen twisting the door bars closed, and then barrel upstairs. If Sinjar wants to get away from them, he's going to have to go out a window to do it. Loop

Undoubtedly they would be barricaded, forewarned, and prepared to fire down on the duo from this point onwards. The pair shared a look of knowing for this.

Yippie, he signed to her. Frontal assault or got a plan with your magic?

Erinyes looked considerate.

Well…

Erinyes winced and stole a quick gulp from her flask of tsiraki. A buzz wouldn't dull her edge any more than the pain and disorientation from two damaged eardrums, and she needed to conserve her Force energy for the rest of the mission.

Both, she signed in response to the "blades or magic" question, grateful for the chance to not aggravate her earache by moving her jaw. The passing glance she'd caught of her reflection in a broken window was aggravating enough. Not only had circles appeared under her eyes, but drawing on the Force so heavily had allowed the tinge of the Dark Side to taint her baby-blue irises to green, trending towards amber. It messed with her aesthetic. Need you to cover me. Back to the kitchen.

"Kitchen". Hardly magical. After a moment's consideration, Foxen grabbed a concussion rifle one of the Anoobas had dropped, prompting a raised eyebrow from Erinyes. The hybrid tucked the rifle under his arm with an inconvenienced grunt. Area damage. Superior crowd suppression. Also saves expensive slugthrower ammo.

Erinyes snorted good-naturedly and set off for the kitchen, one lightaaber in hand and reignited. She sensed movement on the floors above, but the rest of the Anoobas seemed content to wait for their enemies to come. Erinyes, in turn, was content for the opportunity to work uninterrupted. She approached the sink trough and slashed through the anchoring points and pipes that held it in place, then reached out with her free hand and the Force to lift the entire gutter free, dumping its contents on the far end of the room. Replacing her lightsaber on her belt, she turned to Foxen so he could lip-read. "I'll give us cover until we get to the top floor." Foxen nodded his confirmation, and Erinyes waved the makeshift shield ahead before they proceeded out the door.

As soon as the pair reached the stairwell, the portable wall proved its worth. A shower of blaster fire poured down on them, punctuated by the cannonball impact of concussion blasts. It was the latter that gave Erinyes the most trouble, battering her concentration and warping the thin sheet-metal walls of the sink. The climb between the first and second floors seemed to take an eternity, even with Foxen popping out from behind the mobile cover to hammer the Anoobas with suppressive fire. The only saving grace was that once they reached the second floor, Erinyes didn't sense anyone there, giving them the opportunity to duck into a corridor and take a breather.

When Erinyes set their shield down and wiped her brow, she felt Foxen tap her shoulder. That won't last two more floors. He pointed to the gnarled, half-crumpled former sink. Need a new plan.

"How many did you see on the way up?"

Six. Four on the third floor, one with concussion rifle. Two with concussion rifles on fourth floor. No fire from the fifth floor. Remaining five must be guarding Sinjar.

"Right. Let's just get to the third floor, then we'll figure something out." Steeling herself with another deep breath, Erinyes extended both arms, and the sink floated into the air again. "Ready to make a run for it?" Foxen didn't waste effort on nodding, simply moving to the edge of the mobile cover, his head turned just enough to keep Erinyes in his peripheral vision.

"Go!" The pair burst out of the landing and into the stairwell, and were immediately met by a hail of blaster and concussion fire. One foot in front of the other. Keep pushing. Keep pushing. Erinyes' legs and mind burned with exertion. Shouldn't have skipped leg day. She stumbled when she reached the landing between the floors, leaning into a step that wasn't there. Blaster bolts whizzed past her head before she jerked herself back behind cover.

No time to stop. A concussion blast savaged her ears again and sent her armourweave cloak fluttering, but Erinyes and Foxen were already on the move, avoiding the worst of the impact. Then, their shield gave out. One blaster bolt pierced the sink wall and grazed Erinyes' thigh. Another slammed into the top of her shoulder. She roared in pain and stumbled again, smashing her knee and elbows against the metal-grate stairs. The floating table fell forward, clanging against a barricade the Anoobas had thrown together at the third-floor landing.

There was nowhere to go but forward, now. One of Foxen's big, beefy arms grabbed the back of Erinyes' armour and dragged her forward as he slammed his shoulder into the table into the barricade, using the massive trough like a bulldozer's blade. Metal shrieked against metal, and the entire assembly scraped forward, powered by muscle and sheer determination. Then the flash of pain cleared from Erinyes' head.

"Rarrrrrrgh!" It might not have been a krayt dragon's roar, but it was heartfelt. Black rage streamed out of Erinyes' soul and into the Dark Side, propelling the bulldozer blade forward with a force that had restrained shuttle engines. The four Anoobas and the wreckage of their barricade stopped when they smashed into the far wall. The table, however, didn't. It kept compressing, folding around the four Anooba like vac-sealed packaging, before crushing them flat amidst agonised shrieks.

If Foxen reacted, Erinyes didn't see or hear it. The pain and fury had opened her to the Force and sharpened her senses until she could pinpoint the two concussion riflemen above them. Purely by reflex, she flung one lightsaber outward and ignited it in midair, then set it spinning like a glowing amethyst circular saw. The disk flew upward at her whim, scything through the metal-grate floor and the gangsters with equal ease.

By the time the weapon returned to her hand, Erinyes was gasping from the collective exertion. She forced herself to turn her attention to her injuries, at least well enough to return herself to functionality. Pain, she could deal with. It just made her angry, and rage was a hell of an anaesthetic.

In the meantime, she turned to Foxen, eyes bloodshot and blazing amber. His expression was a mixture of approval, wariness, and annoyance, as if asking, you couldn't have done all that **before* we got shot?* He seemed to have picked up a couple fresh scorch marks, too, as though he wasn't battered enough already.

'One more level. I don't think either of us is up for a straight fight, but maybe we can take them by surprise—go up to 4 and cut a hole in the floor, make our own entrance, and hit them from behind, or even go straight for Sinjar. What do you think?"

Foxen pondered for a critical twelve heartbeats, then offered up a critique.

Think it sounds like a me-shaped plan. Effective, but costly. Would consider a you plan.

And what's a me plan besides the plan I'm suggesting? Erinyes knew Foxen better to think he was just some male explaining something she already knew to her, and genuinely was curious to his suggestion. It didn't tamp down her anger, but that was part of being already angry.

You make connections. Emmisary, no? Connect. We go grab a comm off one of the bodies not currently foil-wrapped for oven roasting and make contact. Aim for the accountant. He's turned coat before, from the Rang Clan. Could do it again. Especially pinned down against a jediit and a superior assassin willing to spar him with only five other men and one of them is the one we want. He shrugged and a blaster mark ripped open with the motion, spitting blood. His face didn't so much as twitch. If it doesn't work, then cut a hole in the floor and annihilation.

"Huh," the Zeltron more felt herself say than heard it, a throb of agony all through her skull and around her eyes in a band. "That... actually makes more sense." She switched back to signing. And it does sound more like a me plan, yeah. How'd you manage that?

Observation across multiple occasions casual and Mission, the Nautolan hybrid answered, reaching into his pack and drawing out a tightly wrapped container. From that came a plastic-sealed bar that he pushed into her offhand. Here. You are an inoptimal you when calorie deficient from combination excess Force usage and high metabolism.

Erinyes stared at it. No simple military rations, the snack bar was definitely homemade, and likely chock-full of both ridiculous nutrition and taste, though possibly more for a bird than not.

Are you saying I'm not me when I'm hungry?

Don't get cute. You aren't.

She huffed, and a few very good bites later, did feel a little bit better. Rage was good fuel and all, but it didn't make for great diplomacy. At her agreement, Foxen went and fetched an Anooba's communicator to go with the absconded rifle, passing it to her once the Emissary finished her snack.

Speaking of not yourself, Erinyes commented, you seemed like you checked out for a second down there. That going to happen again?

Deny.

She gave it up with a shrug in the name of their beautiful friendship and business-ship.

Alright then. Here goes nothing.

She keyed to the open comm frequency, hoping whoever was on it above them heard them out, if only to be less a pain in the ass. Not being able to hear her own voice very well was irritating, but if there was one thing the Zeltron was good at besides saber combat, it was battles of the tongue, and her still-livewire senses gave her excellent emotional cues of classical greed, pride and anger common to gang life marinated in fear for those lives.

"Hello there, everyone," the duelist began. "As you've noticed, you're under attack. But I have good news for you! We're only really after your boss. If you want to ditch out of here and not end up pancaked or full of extra holes like the rest of your coworkers, we're happy to let you by. Just come downstairs and wait in the lobby— we kinda sealed the doors so we'll have to let you out when we're done."

Foxen signed at her when she took a breath, and she had to pause briefly to parse what he was saying.

Use term 'red' and 'rancor' in succession. Old Rang code. Will signal A-R-A-R.

"...willsignar— significant, that is, this is a great opportunity for you. I'm even willing to take any helping hands, and I guarantee the benefits and food are better where I work than here. We've seen the kitchen. Mynock, really? That's bad even for Chute Town. I could get you fresh red rancor steaks if you wanted them. Hell, the guy with me is a professional chef who brought snacks. Anyway, point is: give up, walk out, that's all you have to do and then we don't have to have a problem. We'll give you three minutes."

Her companion nodded his approval, so she cut off the message and then tossed the communicator over her shoulder. They'd have no more use for it. This wasn't actually a negotiation; it was a stay of execution.

Erinyes didn't bother to count, as she had a seven foot something chrono standing right next to her unsheathing a Mandalorian sword that probably had felt it needed to compensate to him. The souls she could feel above were like a kicked hive of kiliks, frenetic, buzzing. But also apprehensive. When Foxen signaled her to mark the time halfway, she felt the shift.

A thought also occurred.

Some are cooperating. Let them go. Just because she'd promised not to hurt them didn't mean Foxen wouldn't.

Inefficient. We should terminate them all. Ronhys Arar will likely turn on you the moment he's free of here too.

Look, you don't get a good reputation recruiting by offing every recruit, and that's my job now, so leave them alone.

Fine. Confirm. But not sharing the food. You were exception.

Oddly it was that sentiment that had a smile on her face welcoming the one remaining Trandoshan, Gamorrean, and Weequay that came down the stairs from the fourth floor, helpfully littered with the bisected remains of two other Anoobas.

It even stayed when her instincts whispered with the shadow discoloring her eyes that now was a good time to duck.

The Emissary vaulted away, her body pinwheeling gracefully through the cramped sheet metal space, fingers brushing the floor while booted toes brushed the wall and her torso twisted perfectly around a massive blaster cannon shot. The consecutive four massive plasma slugs blasted by while she was forced back down the landing of the third floor, debris from the ruined, bulldozed barricade scattered on either side. The Gamorrean weighed down by the heavy repeating gun stomped forward, pressing the advantage.

A blur of black motion and glint of metal was the only herald of Foxen moving to intercept. With one mighty cleave from the giant Nautolan, his beskad sheared through the gun barrel and downward through porcine legs, slicing clean through thigh and ankle. Felled like a tree, the Gamorrean screamed in swine shrieks as he hit the ground in three pieces and a clatter of machinery.

The Zeltron could barely hear it, which was all the better as she popped back up and reignited her saber, sending it screaming towards the Trandoshan barreling in to strike at Foxen while the latter was still lifting one hand off the sword to parry. The reptilian head bounced as it rolled, and the body with forward momentum was promptly shouldered away by the Nautolan mercenary. They turned back on the Weequay, so much smaller comparatively, and found him staring, blanched. He threw down his concussion rifle.

"I give up, I give up, don't—ack."

"The deal was for walking out," Erinyes growled, glaring at the Anooba held aloft in the air in one scarred, black-veined granite hand. Foxen lifted one finger to allow air into the man's windpipe.

"S-sorry, I—"

"Is Sinjar still up there?"

"Yes!" squealed their captive, getting two fingers of oxygen now, as a treat. He was loud enough to hear, faintly, at least. His feet kicked and his fingers scrabbled to no avail to get leverage as he choked slowly between gravity and the unyielding force that was Foxen on a mission. "He— hurk— locked. In. His office! All secure, can't—"

"Good enough. Let him go."

Black eyes bulged in surprise and relief as the Weequay was promptly dropped, wheezing.

"Wh— really?"

"You still had like a minute."

27.01 seconds, Foxen corrected, unbeknownst to their informant.

"Thank you! Thank you, karabast, I'll go I'm going I'm going— gaaah…"

It was a lot of carnage. Between that and the food she didn't blame him for vomiting before he even got down to the second floor. Erinyes turned back.

Shall we?

They advanced again. The fourth floor was clear, mostly bedrooms divided more by sheets and piled belongings than actual walls. Scattered weapons. Sabacc cards and spice cuts left mid-game. They bypassed it all and up to the fifth floor.

A Givin was waiting there, hand on his hip holster. A nasty scar fueled his chin nearly in two. Erinyes raised an eyebrow.

"Ronhys Arar, I presume?"

He cringed slightly. "No need to yell, please."

"Actually kind of is, thanks to your welcoming party. Are you to thank for that?"

"The rifles were Sinjar's idea. He was paranoid about being watched by your kind here on the Matron. As he should be."

"Then he should have known better. You seem like you do."

"I got your message." He peered between them, paused on Foxen, then looked back to her. "Sinjar is in there. You won't get paste those doors with paltry little hackjob spike kits. I'll unlock it for you, if you mean your deal."

The Zeltron waved her unlit saber at him. "Try again, friend. I have a slicer right here." She glanced to Foxen. "We don't need you for this. Information is interesting though. All the files Sinjar has, anything on his trafficking operations, anything on anyone he's dealt with. Accounts, records, spending, contacts, search history, late night holonet DMs, all of it."

"Done," Arar said.

Foxen's hand touched his chin then offer back to her.

Thank you.

You got it, she replied, then redirected their attention. "Join your buddy downstairs. We'll be done shortly."

The codebreaker didn't stick around. That was fine.

Erinyes passed Foxen one saber. He lifted a brow ridge.

I'm not cutting a doorway tall enough for you. Get at it.

Chuffing, he got to work, the hilt of her saber tiny in his palm. When the shape was complete, he stepped aside for Erinyes to telekinetically fling the metal slab inwards, effectively crushing anything behind it, if Sinjar had been fool enough to just wait there.

It turned out by the brief scattergun salvo that he wasn't, but two turns of her saber batted those shots away, and then a throwing knife was in his hand, and in his other hand, and lining his arms as the Muun was quickly pinned to the wall.

She shot Foxen a look.

Just how many knives do you have?

Never too many. Want me to kill him?

Please. She was done by now, tired and successful. The Zeltron didn't even look as Foxen's arm chambered again and suddenly the muffled, tinny yammering that was Sinjar's last ranting words was quiet again. Erinyes sighed, finally released her hold on the Dark Side, like slipping into a bath after a long day.

A bath sounded great right about now.

Be downstairs when you're done in there. Foxen would turn that office and that corpse inside out looking for the leads he wanted. It could take a minute. Her stomach rumbled. The idea of those mynock skewers was not it. Can I have the rest of those snacks?

The Nautolan tossed her the package, stepping through their carved entrance and into the room. She turned on her heel. They both left red footprints from the red bottoms of their shoes.

And that was that.