Despite the blatant outward display, the denizens of the Undercity considered Twisted Nethers an exclusive club—it was a place where anyone with enough credits could satisfy their exotic tastes, whether for drinks, drugs, or writhing, naked bodies.
For Tenthil, it was just another stop on a long, blood-soaked path.
He strode toward the club’s entrance, weaving through the crowd of diverse beings who’d gathered outside to await admittance. Their features—as varied and colorful as the Undercity signs—blurred together in the shadows cast by the surrounding neon lights. He walked as though he belonged here, as though he’d frequented the place for years, as though everyone else should’ve felt honored by his presence.
Many of the aliens waiting in line turned their gazes toward Tenthil as he passed. Facial appendages quivered, brows fell low, and mouths opened to voice protest, but all the onlookers kept their opinions to themselves when their eyes dipped to the pin on his jacket.
A street gang calling themselves the Ergoths had claimed this sector as their territory years ago. Drok, the owner of Twisted Nethers and Tenthil’s current target, had close ties to the gang, though the true nature of his relationship with them was unknown.
Tenthil’s pin—a stylized red sun with the white silhouette of an ancient axe at its center—marked him as an Ergoth.
The doorman, a burly vorgal with scars crisscrossing the drab green skin of his face, glanced at the pin as Tenthil approached. He stepped aside and waved Tenthil in. His mouth, from which jutted double pairs of upward-pointing tusks, remained an expressionless flat line throughout.
The beings waiting for admittance voiced no objections to Tenthil’s entry; though some might’ve been standing out there for hours, they knew better than to question an Ergoth in this part of the city.
Tenthil walked through the door and entered the dark corridor beyond. His eyes rapidly adjusted to the gloom. The black strips of rounded, bulging glass to either side suggested a scanning system—not unexpected for a place like this—and the pair of guards in front of the door at the end of the hallway held auto-blaster rifles that could fill the air with enough heated plasma bolts to melt the surrounding walls within a few seconds. There was no cover here should either guard decide to open fire.
Just a few more obstacles for Tenthil to overcome when he finally decided to make his move.
He drew in a deep breath as he stepped forward and released the amplified bioelectrical field he usually generated around himself; it would disrupt the scanners and arouse immediate suspicion otherwise. Maintaining the disruption field had become second nature over the years, and he felt strange without it in place.
Pulsing bass rumbled along the walls and floor; Tenthil perceived it more as a feeling than a sound, a vibration running up through his boots and into his bones.
As Tenthil drew within a few paces of the door, the guard to his right—a pale-scaled groalthuun with four bone nubs sweeping back from the top of his head and glowing green tattoos on his face—held up a hand. A faint light shone behind the groalthuun’s dark goggles—likely a readout from the scanners on the walls.
Tenthil halted.
The groalthuun twisted and pressed an unseen button on the wall. A small drawer slid out beneath his hand.
“Put your piece inside,” said the groalthuun.
His companion, a craggy-faced bokkan with gray, rock-like skin, remained unmoving, but Tenthil felt the bokkan’s eyes—also hidden by goggles—lock on him. Both guards wore tailored, high-quality coats left open at their collars to display a bit of the combat armor beneath.
“Come on.” The groalthuun waved his hand. “Boss appreciates all the business you Ergoths bring in, but the rules ain’t changing. No one goes in packing but pre-approved private security.”
Moving with deliberate care, Tenthil unfasted his jacket and raised his left arm, revealing the flechette pistol holstered under his armpit. Such weapons were devastating at close range, but they were messy—as the Ergoth Tenthil had taken the pistol and pin from a few hours before might’ve attested, were the pulverized remains of his head not splattered across an alley wall. It would have been preferable to take the pin through less violent means, but the Master was unwavering when it came to the tenets of the Order.
No witnesses.
The Ergoth leadership would assume it had been a hit from a rival gang. Many of the thugs and criminals in the Undercity and the Bowels carried weapons with flechette ammunition because they were intimidating—few species could survive a blast from one. Superheated tristeel darts only yielded to higher-end combat armors at close range.
Keeping his movements slow, Tenthil removed the pistol from its holster and laid it in the open drawer.
The groalthuun spread his lips, revealing wide, flat teeth in what he must’ve considered a smile. Tenthil’s people would’ve called any creature with such teeth prey.
The drawer slid shut, vanishing into the wall; even Tenthil’s keen eyesight couldn’t pick out any trace of a gap or a seam.
For most individuals, entering a potential hostile space while unarmed was a frightening prospect, but Tenthil was unconcerned. He’d been trained as a living weapon and he knew how to improvise, both essential skills for a successful assassin.
He wasn’t here to cause trouble, anyway—at least not tonight. This was a reconnaissance mission. Once he was familiar with the club’s layout and Drok’s movements within it, Tenthil could formulate and execute a plan of attack.
“Pick it up on the way out,” said the bokkan in a deep, rough voice. “It’ll be tied to your body scan.” His expression hadn’t changed, but his stance shifted to subtly direct the barrel of his auto-blaster toward Tenthil.
The guards shifted closer to the walls, revealing a rugged blast door behind them. Whether the rest of Twisted Nethers’ security held up to this standard, Drok wanted his patrons to at least feel safe inside. It wasn’t surprising given the wealth of some of the regulars—several of the Undercity’s most prominent business people, legitimate and illicit alike, frequented this establishment.
Perhaps this contract would provide Tenthil a challenge. Perhaps it would provide some meaning, however shallow, to his work. For too long, it had merely been a matter of following orders, of being wielded as the Master’s sword. Despite spending most of his time outside the temple to fulfill contracts, Tenthil felt caged by his obligations—and that was enough to drive him to madness.
The groalthuun pressed another hidden button—Tenthil carefully noted its position—and the blast door rumbled open.
Music swept over Tenthil, loud enough to hurt his ears. Strobing lights and slithering neon crawls mingled with holographic projections to make it difficult for his eyes to focus properly. The smell—alcohol, food, and drugs from dozens of worlds, hundreds of bodies dancing, and sex—crashed into his nostrils. The air itself pulsed with vibrations from the music and dancers.
Despite his discomfort, he didn’t hesitate to cross the threshold. Once the door had closed behind him, he restored his bioelectric field to full force, finding a hint of comfort in the brief tingling that spread across the surface of his skin.
The interior of Twisted Nethers was larger than he’d anticipated. The place was tiered like a stadium; he stood on the middle of three levels, which ran around the main floor in a ring. Several stages along the ring boasted beings of diverse species dancing in varying states of undress, each performing for their own crowd. Each stage had its own audience space with tables and chairs, no two of which were quite alike in either furniture or arrangement.