Little Celah, Tseludia Station, Pantheonic Territory, Sixthmonth, 1634 PTS
Deuvar rushed from the aero, his middle aged body straining as he tried to move as fast as he could. If he had been lighter, he might have skipped steps on the stairwell, but Deuvar was a Jobu, and the momentum his weight and bulk brought with it made him concerned of a possible fall. Knowing this, he made certain to pace himself. If he accidentally injured himself, his delay would grow even larger.
Sometimes, Deuvar wished the city had been designed in a more reasonable manner, but he was long accustomed to Tseludia’s peculiarities, as inconvenient as they often were. His mind could instinctively navigate the three dimensional lattice that was the structure, knowing exactly what his orientation was and which direction he needed to move in.
Deuvar was rushing towards Astna’s location, hoping desperately to discuss their next moves. Given the Leader’s likely death, the organization would be left a two-headed beast, and the ongoing events that still left the sky stained with an orange glow represented a deep wound in the beast’s side. He knew that his sister had made her own plans to deal with the impact of the war, and wished for the two of them to be on the same page before they made their moves. Only unity would allow the Heirs of Ottrien to weather this crisis.
But they could not do so where ears might listen, so it would need to be done in person. And Astna’s current hiding place was almost seven levels below the nearest skydock. It was for this reason that Deuvar found himself rushing across streets and down the stairwells, desperate to get to her as quickly as possible. He had no idea how long the Leader had been compromised, nor exactly what the Shade might have been doing in that time. If they were truly unlucky, Astna’s location might be compromised to their enemies. But all in due time, he thought. Hurriedly moving would do nothing but expose her position regardless. Deuvar’s experience had long taught him the importance of being both decisive and methodical.
Generally, Deuvar would travel with guards, just to avoid any potential dangers, but he never did so when visiting the Leader. It was one of the old man’s rules, intended to avoid drawing attention to his townhome. The risks involved were low, as it was located deep within the Heirs’ territory, and he would always walk directly to the nearest skydock, calling for the guards to meet him at the skydock he was headed to next. This time, however, he was in a rush, and did not desire to wait for them. He needed to meet with his sister as quickly as possible.
Deuvar continued to force his way through the crowd, but after a while, he found his body instinctively slowing down. He had grown light of breath, his limbs felt tired, and his heart-rate seemed far too fast for this level of exertion. Perhaps grief had taken more of a physical toll than he had anticipated. He had been terminally low on sleep for quite some time, but the stimulants he had taken earlier should have assisted more than this, Deuvar thought. Perhaps this was the symptoms of age, finally asserting themselves. As a young man, he could have run for far longer without even growing short of breath, and his joints would not have ached so much. Deuvar’s persistent migraine had reasserted itself, and he resigned himself to reality. He needed to take a short break to regain his strength. Deuvar would need to walk down multiple more flights of stairs before he reached his sister’s safehouse, and he did not currently feel up to the task.
He glanced around, peeking over shoulders and heads, before spotting a nearby alley that seemed to be empty. It was residential, like most, and he felt that it would serve as a suitable location to take a breather. There was a slight chance that someone might try to accost him in the alley, but Deuvar was tall, and his harsh features had always served to intimidate others. Even if this failed, the pistol strapped underneath one of his arms should be enough to deter even the most strong-willed of muggers. He leaned his back against the wall, taking a sigh of relief as he felt the pain in his lungs ease slightly.
Was it really just age, he wondered? Perhaps it would be best to see a doctor, after the situation was brought back under control. It was not unheard of for stress to cause the body to develop certain negative conditions. Shadows knew that Deuvar had strained his heart and mind more than enough these past few months.
For several moments, Deuvar simply breathed deeply, in and out, hoping to quickly regain his energy. In a perfect world, he would have rested his eyes, but Deuvar was not a fool. One needed to always remain alert and attentive in public. Deuvar knew better than anyone how dangerous Tseludia could be for the foolish.
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Almost moments after he relaxed onto the wall, movement from the corner of his eye caught Deuvar’s attention and he turned, expecting to see one of the residents of the alley returning to their home. Instead, to his surprise he saw the form of a Seiyal woman, one that Deuvar did not recognize. He doubted she was a resident- while one could occasionally see aliens this deep into Little Celah, very few of those actually lived here. Could she be a martial artist from the clan, he wondered? He had taken a look at the faces of every Hadal Clanmember in reports, and this woman did not appear to be one of them. Despite this, Deuvar remained wary as they regarded one another, and his hand slid into his jacket to lift the pistol.
She wore a mundane set of clothing, a plain black shirt and long, grey pants, and her hair was cut quite close to the skin, unusually for a Seiyal. The woman held a long, thin pipe between two fingers, and as she approached, she took a thick puff from the item. She smiled as the tip of the pipe slipped free from her lips.
But Deuvar could not spare the time to worry about her identity. His next breath burned, and his knees seized up, causing his large frame to stumble. Deuvar fell to his knees, breathing heavily. It felt as if no matter how hard he inhaled, not enough air was getting to his lungs. Deuvar’s unfocused eyes glanced back again to the woman, his eyes narrowed. He was now convinced that she was an enemy. Had the smoke been poison? His collapse might have been explained by a medical problem, but the timing was far too suspicious. Deuvar tried to pull the gun from its holster, but his hands were shivering, and he found himself unable to accomplish more than releasing the clasp that held it in place. His whole body had started to shiver, but Deuvar remained defiant, his gaze locked with the woman’s amused eyes.
“Finally,” she said, stepping closer, and exhaling another thick puff of smoke. As she did, Deuvar found her walk reminiscent of a feline stalking a rat. “I’ve been watching you for weeks, Mister Deuvar. Waiting for you to make a mistake.” As she spoke, thick clouds of grey smoke poured from her mouth, and Deuvar could almost swear he saw hints of purple color within.
The scent was fetid, causing Deuvar’s eyes to tear up while his throat burned. He felt some of his muscles spasm, and the concern of poison became a surety. Was this an ambush? How could this possibly have been planned, he wondered? Oh, he thought, as the realization arrived. Somebody told her where I would be.
Another collision brought Deuvar back to his senses, and he realized that at some point he had fallen to the ground. His instincts begged him to beg, to see if he could make a deal with her. If she wished for money, he would have been happy to oblige. But Deuvar said nothing. In the end, he knew that she would refuse, and he would have wasted his breath. To her, he was an alien, and few in their line of work would spare the effort to pity their enemies. Fewer still would be foolish enough to dare betray their employers. The underworld was a world that ran on loyalty, but loyalty was far too scarce a resource. As the Leader had long taught him, one had to offer both sugar and spear. No matter what force she was from, he was certain that traitors would be killed.
“And with that, Mister Wei,” she said, speaking as if to the air, “our deal is complete.”
Sliding her pipe into one of her pockets, the assassin quietly padded away from the body, merging back into the crowd and escaping from Deuvar’s vision. He recalled every detail that he could about her, committing every fragment to memory. When he survived this, Deuvar would have her hunted and killed. Astna would know who she was, and if she didn’t he was certain his sister would be able to find out.
But first, Deuvar needed to live. He could feel the looming shadow of death stand above him. It was as if there was a physical presence beside him, attempting to tear the death rattle out from Deuvar’s broken lungs.
I can’t die, Deuvar thought. I have so much to live for.
His twitching hand stretched out, attempting to pull himself along the ground, drag himself back onto the street. It was easy to assume a man lying in an alley was drunk, but in the well-lit street, the odds of finding someone to help would be far greater. If Deuvar remembered correctly, there was a hospital located just one stack over and one level below. His hand dug at the stone, chipping its surface and cracking his nails, but he did not even grunt at the pain, nor at the strain on his wearied muscles. He simply extended his hand further, always grasping for more.
Poison in the Pantheonic Territory: [Few poisons are illegal under Pantheonic Law, as each of the many races in the territory have substances their constitutions cannot handle. In fact, many races even enjoy consumption of poisonous substances, such as the fixation of many humanoid beings with alcohol. The exception to this rule is, of course, the ban on substances hazardous to the constitution of the Staiven and the Escalos peoples, and that of miasmic poisons, which are hazardous to most mortal life forms. Special permits can be granted for the synthesis and use of such substances for industrial purposes.]