The Nightshrike of Nar Shadda's Red Light District, a ruthless vigilante that beats the pure crime out of his targets. Wielding dual vibrorapiers and matching-suit hand cannons, the close-range "hero" is easy to spot and hard to catch. As for the slave-running Gamorrean gang that is the Third Ward Gearheads, the Shrike has been a particular pain for the last weeks, but this night drew the line...
The warehouse door slammed into the floor as the trench coat wearing vigilante twirled into the gang safehouse, hurling a rapier through the center of a Gamorrean's clavicle upon entrance. The Nightshrike lifted his head, displaying his mandibled, painted gas mask under the wide-brimmed hat. The hand cannons drew, and shots fired out in a pattern that could only be described as a bloom. The Shrike jumped onto the shoulders of the criminal he had impaled to retrieve his sword, instantly using it to cleave a Gamorrean's skull down the middle with a focused heave.
The Jackal of the HoloNet underworld was neither impressed, nor happy. Crouching atop the roof of his client's warehouse, run by his Gamorrean lackeys, he watched the commotion intensify. The pigs were dying, and with every second, they proved more useless. A modulated hum arose from under the intimidating, snake-like mask apparatus over his face. "So. This has been my roadblock for the last year."
A bowie knife slid from a sheathe on the Jackal's chest, and in the other hand remained a metal tonfa with a spike on the end nearest to the handle. "I'm doing this myself, then." A harsh sigh escaped the mask before a boot crashed into the skylight.
Glass rained down from above and onto the Nightshrike's trench coat, which he shrugged off. A figure landed on top of the last standing Gamorrean, and said figure swung down by his legs to snap the Gamorrean's neck in the process. A tonfa twirled into a guard position as it's bowie knife mate found a coiled position at the Jackal's side. "Nightshrike, then. You're a pain in my ass," the slicer spoke calmly.
"And you are?" The rasped, slightly less modulated voice responded, a rapier ready for attack.
"A career ending injury." Without any warning or decipherable movement, the metal tonfa flew from Jackal's hand and made direct contact with the Shrike's mask, sounding a sharp clang. Disoriented, the vigilante opened an eye to make out the Jackal dashing forward, blade out. He hopped back, then back-flipped onto a crate. His head was pounding, but his senses were all there. He took up his stance, performing a sweep of the rapier to keep Jackal at a distance.
Jackal smirked beneath his mask. "Right." Leaping up to the Shrike's crate, Jackal leaned to the side to avoid a forward thrust from his foe's rapier, sliding his tonfa along the enemy's longer blade to keep him place -- so his boot would meet the already-mangled gas mask. The tonfa, again, flew from Jackal's hand into the Shrike's gut.
Wheezing and blurry, the Nightshrike laid on the floor, watching as the Jackal slowly approached with his blade in-hand. And then the bowie knife thrusted down.
Jackal found himself hopelessly attempting to drag his knife out of the Shrike's leg, which instinctively lifted to cover his gut. A brief bout of sparks flew from the stabbed cybernetic before Nightshrike twirled off of the ground and sent a shin into the side of Jackal's head. The slicer reeled back as Shrike slowly pulled the blade from his leg, tossing it aside. "Who are you." The vigilante demanded, but all he got was a blast of EMP-laced smoke from the Jackal's wrist.
Within moments, Nightshrike was alone in a warehouse with a collection of Gamorrean corpses.