a story, as requested by Claire and the BF

She was tall, lean. A full figured woman in tight black leather, she stood at that run-down spacer's bar like a fallen queen. She ordered a drink, keeping her eyes on the smoke-hazed room, searching for the face of the one dubbed the "Philosopher." She'd memorized the details from the hotsheets enough. He was impossible to catch, they said. But then, they'd said the same about her, once upon a time.
Her familar stirred, crouched at her feet. She dropped a hand to the rough-furred felinoid, allowing it to nuzzle her fingers, before straightening back up to continue her study of the room. La'Jonndra knew how hard it would be to capture the Philosopher so she had made extra sure she brought back-up. KeChara was fine-tuned to her body signals anyway, the big cat was already alert and watchful, at times even getting up to circle her chair before settling back down.
La'Jonndra allowed herself a tight smile as she felt the weight of the blaster snuggled at her hip. It had never failed her. But then, even if it did, there was still the hideout blaster hidden in the small of her back, and the third one pushed down her boots into her ankle holster. She never went anywhere unarmed. Even her intricate hairsticks doubled as throwing knives, once twisted out of their thin wooden sheaths.
Suddenly KeChara went still at her feet, and La'Jonndra's spine tingled. Once she had gotten the big cat, they had formed an instant empathic bond. A bond so sensative that sometimes Kechara knew La'Jonndra's orders before they were vocalized. And sometimes, KeChara let La'Jonndra know about her surroundings in more detail then even La'Jonndra's acute senses could comprehend.
Looking in the bar glass over her shouldar without turning her head, to where KeChara was focused, La'Jonndra noticed a solitary man. He sat in a center table, one half finished drink placed before him. He was dressed much the same as her, in dark fabrics, high boots and intricate weaponry. And he was watching her.
She knew from the hotsheets that this was him. The Philosopher. The man she was to kill. She downed her drink in one gulp, the shot sending firey tendrals to her nerves, almost reaching her cold heart. She pushed back from the bar top, and swiveled to face the lone, dangerous man. He slowly raised his head, and put one gloved hand out towards his drink.
Then, in a single fluid motion that sent the other patrons of the grimmy, dank bar scrambling for cover, he upturned the table he was at, and went for his blaster.
La'Jonndra dove for cover as the hot bolts sang past her and snatched at her own gun. KeChara was already headed around the Philosopher to get at his back. Tracking him with her blaster, La'Jonndra squezzed off shots in quick sucession, none of them managing to hit her target. Likewise his shots missed, only serving, it seemed to enrage him. Darting toward her with reckless abandon, he seemed willing to die.
She waited unitl he was only meters away, and then shot him carefully in the stomach. He toppled, going down on his knees, looking surprised, pained and full of hatred for her. She shuddered and then noticed too late that he still had his blaster pointed at her. He shot her at point blank range, the shot seeming to take forever to impact. She felt her ribs being shattered and let out a roar. She would not die in this backwards, hole-in-the-wall hell!
Twisting her wrist knife out of its holster, she disgarded her gun and lunged for his throat, ignoring the searing pain in her ribcage. He ducked, and brought his own fighting skills to bear. They fought, terribly and briefly, each gaining and losing the upper hand, time and time agian. KeChara circled, looking for an openning, to aid her mistress. She found one and pounced, only to be driven back, a knife in her haunch. At this, La'Jonndra shrieked and doubled her vicious assault. The Philosopher in return, doubled his.
Soon it was all over. Each lay, drenched in both their own blood, and the blood of their enemy, neither one still alive.
KeChara moaned, a deep harsh sound. Her mistress dead, she turned her face to the hard wood of the bar and began the mourning wail of the bereaved.
The barkeep stepped out from behind her bar top. She surveyed the room, and then hunkered down beside the big cat. Pulling the knife from its deep setting in KeChara's haunch, she stanched the bleeding with one large hand, and gathered the big cat up in her arms. She walked around the bar, stepping over the bodies of the bounty hunter and her bounty, ignoring the blood and gore. She only stopped when she came to the storeroom doorway. Looking back, she cast her gaze once more upon their bodies. She shook her head once, and then took KeChara away.