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Persephone
THEME SONG
THEME SONG
NAME: Persephone Fett - FACTION: Mandalorian Dominion - AGE: Twenty-seven
Strong-willed, single-minded and quick-witted, she is a staunch young woman with an expertise in mechanics and space aviation. After years of hypersleep, she wakes aboard the commercial freighter Nostromo on its trip back to her homeworld, in which the crew discovers an unknown signal emanating from the unsurveyed moon of LV-426. To their horror, however, this discovery leads to the revelation of a sinister organism that kills off the crew one by one— an Alien.
kek.
Let's just say, Persephone isn't just the signature alias of another run-of-the-mill stripper on Tatooine, like Crystal or Chastity. In fact, it's the moniker of one of the most notorious back-stabbing, sucker-punching, gun-toting Mandalorian maniacs in the Outer-Rim. With enough kills to make Darth Solum look like she was still potty training, both her reputation and her suit is stained with blood not even bleach can erase.
As for her family— two wrongs don't make a right, especially in her case. With an abusive twatsicle for a father and a late-night hooker for a mother, it shouldn't come as a surprise she lost a few screws along the way. Don't get me wrong though, she's no nutcase, but like a child. A very foul-mouthed child. With a gun. And knives lined from her heels to her chest.
Okay, maybe she's a little bonkers, but you don't care. You're just here because you're looking for a distraction instead of writing up posts in stalling threads. Looking at you, @Shalken.
Anyway, let's skip to the fun stuff.
Persephone, fastened in the backseat of the luxury car, presses the long, hard, black rod of her blaster against the back of Valentine’s head. “Spill the beans, nutsack. Where the shit is Cid?”
Kriffin' Cid: head honcho of the infamous Ivanov Cartel and her last and final bounty. Taking him out would give her the funds needed to pay off not only all the spice dealers she stole from, but also placate the Hutts who had so long sought her death. Perhaps she could finally settle down. Marry a decent-looking accountant, give birth to a pair of twins, buy out an apartment on Alderaan, get a divorce, die of old age in some nursing home on Naboo. Perfect, right?
Hah, hell no. As soon as she was free, she'd probably crash out at a friend's place and smoke spice like a goddamn chimney, before waking up half-naked on the other end of the galaxy with one kidney left. Or just rejoin her fellow schweinehund's down in the Dominion. Maybe.
Nevertheless, with her gun pointed to a shocked Valentine (a once good acquaintance she understood was close to Cid), she repeats her question. "Where. Is. Cid?"
"Percy," he says, frozen in place after recognizing the voice. "Even if I know where he is, you of all people should know I can't tell you that."
“Huh? Damn, that’s too bad. Guess I came here all for nothing. I’ll just be on my way then.”
“Really?” He says, a ray of hope flashing into view.
“Of course not, you douchecanoe! Now tell me where the kriff Cid is, or Ms. Sparkles here is gonna blend your head like a strawberry banana smoothie."
"Ms... Sparkles? Listen, Percy. You're cute 'n all, but really, I don't know where he is." Another lie, and another impatient sigh from Persephone.
So, drawing on her fine skills in persuasion, she angles her pistol a smidgen to the left and shoots the corner of his ear off. Plasma thunders into the windshield. Glass shatters, Valentine recoils, and all the while, Persephone remains silent, a smile plastered on her face.
"Jesus Christ!" He says, hand now pressed against the side of his head. "You burned off the top of my ear, you crazy bitch— and I just got that window replaced!"
She gasps, incredulous at what he just said. "Don't say the Lord's name in vain!"
"Does Christianity even exist in this franchise?!"
"Shut up! Stop trying to break the fourth wall, it's ruining the moment. Now, tell me where Cid is or the next thing hitting your little windshield is gonna be your brains."
"Lasers don't even— ah, kriff it. Okay, okay. He's on Coruscant. Hiding out at the Marquee nightclub. Now will you get off my ass? I've told you everything I know," he answers, exasperated, and realizing he'll probably be found mangled inside a trash chute sometime next week.
"See, was that so hard?" Persephone says, stuffing her handgun back into her pants. "Anyway, I got places to be and people to kill. Bye."
The Marquee throbs in color. Light flashes between roving bodies of strangers, desperate for either a fix or a deadbeat to shag. Whiskey and flavored tobacco infest the air like the plague. Shitty music blasts throughout a kaleidoscopic dance floor. It’s the perfect place for any typical crime boss to bum in, and the perfect place for them to die.
Persephone, sporting a pair of lithe shorts and a shirt she found in the dumpster a day prior, marches into the club. Heels high and expectations low, she hobbles into a mob of some raunchy harlots, totally looking out for her one and final target, Cid.
Armed with a terrible hand-drawn picture of her mark, she wanders between them. "Have you seen this perv? Really old, might've seen him at a bingo tourney or in the park playing checkers. Hey, you— see this guy before? Kinda looks like a dried raisin covered in mold. Excuse me—"
Although her questions go unanswered, it’s not long until a true piece of candy slides into view. Hair pushed back, lips red as cherries, and a fine pair of lung protectors. In an instant, Percy is on her like a politician to bullshit. Pick-up line ready, she moves forward. "Pardon me, Hotstuff. Could you help me out for a second? I seem to have lost my number... might I borrow yours?"
The young lady chuckles, mildly disturbed but flattered. And that's all Percy needs before she slides right—
"Very sweet of you, but Mr. Ivanov sent me. He knows you're looking for him, and he wants to speak with you. Just follow me to the back."
Shit. Leave it to goddamn Cid to ruin a perfectly good night.
The creased mess of white trash that is Cid remains snug in his seat, legs crossed and a cigarette perched between his bony fingers. It’s a surprise the man hasn’t already dropped dead from lung cancer. Hell, she was shocked the old man recognized her as soon as she drifted into the room. Had the dementia not set in yet?
“Well, well, well,” the moldy cabbage says, tapping off the ashes of his cigar like a villain torn right out of a Bond film. “If it isn’t the one and only Persephone Fett.”
She fakes an awkward cough. “Yuuup. That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” Her eyes dart around. Guards flank her from every corner: two at the door, two behind her, and two beside Cid. If she was going to rip the man’s skull out of the back of his head, she would have to take care of these meat shields first.
“Trying to find a way to kill me, Persephone?” He says, cutting through her thoughts in his classic semi-stalker tone. “I don’t think you have enough knives between your legs to get them all, now, do you?” Percy twitches. Cid continues, “Hear me out before you try, though— I'm here to offer you a deal you simply can’t refuse.”
“Does it involve calling off your men and letting me kill you?”
The pasty, wrinkly cheese bowl cackles, like a tauntaun choking on a grater. “No, my dear. What I offer is freedom. A chance to settle down. To live the life, as I understand, in any way you desire. All you need to do is—”
Persephone yawns, just before revealing a miniature pistol from out of her ass. Or really, out of her shorts. Now on her knees and twisting into a complete spin, she blasts all six guards straight into oblivion. And as their bodies drop, Cid watches on in horror, his cigar falling out of his crinkled hand. For a man leading one of the largest crime syndicates in the galaxy, she found it funny how quick he lost his balls in a matter of seconds.
“Freedom isn’t something you can give out like candy,” she says, reloading. “It’s something you have to earn. To take.”
Basking in a moment of her self-glorified wisdom, Persephone cocks her pistol and shoots the stale rice cake that was once Cid clean through the head. While she would have been more than inclined to making wine out of his face with either fist, given the little time she had, it was about time to ditch this popsicle stand.
Like her way of life, she stands on the edge. Armor polished, weapon raised, cloak rippling against the wind. The vast wilds of Concord Dawn lie below, its shriveled bluffs and rolling hills open to her restless gaze. With Cid gone, she has decided to return to her fading House, with hopes for Fingers on her interface, she moves through gobs of contacts, until she catches a single name in her endless list:
Ms. Hotstuff
She smiles. Pressing onto the contact, her communicator jingles. It was going to be a fun night.Jetpack cracking to life, she launches out into the motley sky. While she may not be the hero this galaxy deserves... or needs, or really, wants... she's the scumbag they're gonna get.
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