Rytthik flinched at the first crack of gunfire. He hadn't said a word since reaching the platform, standing in silence in the pouring rain for the best part of an hour now. He had brought a jacket with a thin hood to protect him from the acid rain, but with every passing minute he was growing increasingly concerned that it would be burning into his scalp in the very near future. The air smelt rotten, as it always did on this cursed little slimehole of a moon, and the rising mists from the rainfall were so thick they threatened to choke him. He was eager to get on board their ship, an ugly and beaten looking thing with 'The Bounty' painted on the side of its hull. The second he heard the shot Rytthik knew it was about to get messy, and he was proved right when Mus Rosh, their crimson-skinned leader, dragged a screaming quarren from the shack they'd been arguing in. He was bleeding from the stump of his right ankle where he foot used to be, so much so that when she finally put a second shot through his chest it was almost a mercy killing.

He wasn't sure quite what it was meant to mean. Dragging him out here in the rain, it was like she was trying to make an example of him. Was it some sort of demonstration of power? Was she trying to exercise her authority over them, to intimidate them? Why was he even questioning it, that was exactly what she was trying to do. Like she needed to do it; she already had control over enough explosives inside Rytthik's body to turn him into a puddle. Anyone who had that kind of power could ask Rytthik to do anything and there was a very good chance, depending on the day of course, that he would at least try to do it. It seemed a somewhat needless burst of violence in his eyes. Yet it seemed to work on some. Xymone, the enormous Khil, bust forward and grabbed two crates. She comfortably had at least half a foot in height on him, and god only knows how much weight. At least someone was putting themselves out there, and it wasn't Rytthik.

He followed, admittedly somewhat sluggish for a man who'd just been told if he doesn't load the ship in five minutes he'll explode. But to be honest, he was beginning to doubt if that was even a bad thing. The situation he'd found himself in was far from ideal, and now that he'd seen his life was in the hands of a Zabrak woman with an itchy trigger finger his survival chances were looking far from encouraging. Nevertheless, he grabbed a sizeable crate and wrestled it up the ramp, following Xymone into the starboard cargo bay and securing it. it was nice to be out of the rain, even for a few seconds, and he contemplated waiting and letting the others finish the work, but decided he wasn't ready to explode just yet. Instead he stepped back out, down the ramp and into the falling acid, and grabbed another crate, as well as slinging the bag personal belongings over his shoulder. After securing the second crate, he made for the crew quarters.

He still hadn't said a word to anyone since arriving, and that didn't change when he ducked into the first room on the left. Inside was strange. It smelt damp, the walls were a blank white with hardly any noticeable features. There were two hammocks in the room, and two small footlockers, which meant he would be sharing a room with someone else. He let out a defeated sigh. He hoped, at least, for his own quarters on the ship. Aside from that, the room was bare, apart from the modest layer of dust and grime that coated it. Ironically, it was making him start missing the last week he spent in a Hutt prison; their cells were marginally more comforting than the ones on this ship. He had been so glad to be rid of the place, knowing not that he would end up somewhere arguably worse. Rytthik left to look for a different room, but by now the rest of the crew were staking their claims. Cursing his luck, he turned back inside, launched his possessions onto the left hammock, and left to find the kitchen, not waiting to see who his roommate for this ordeal would be.

Grida stood further back from the rest of the group, the rain falling around him and it hung from the rim of his hat like a curtain falling down. It didn't really bother him, he knew that the leather that the hat was made from could hold up to the rain. What bothered him was the wait, it was sloppy to have them all waiting for so long. It was a power play, and power plays were often dangerous. His right hand moved for his pistol as the gunshots starting going off, before Mus came dragging a wounded quarren kicking and screaming into the rain.

At least he knew what kind of woman she was now, for sure at least. This was all for show, she was used to getting her own way and was going to get it one way or another. She was also remarkably loyal to the Hutts and was trying to flaunt her position over them. As the ramp slammed to the ground Grida moved for a crate, lugging it up the ramp following the example of Xymone and Rytthik. Once secured in the hold he decided that that was enough back breaking labour for one day. The ship was as much of a wreck inside as it was out, why the Hutts paid to have it secured at a berth he couldn't quite understand. He didn't know a single thief who would even dream of stealing this, stealing from the Hutts would require a significantly larger pay off. Something like one of the small pleasure cruisers he had seen on one of the other berths would be more like it.

Within a minute he had scoured the ship from top to tail, and due to him abandoning loading the ship he still had time to claim the quarters closest to the escape pod. Once he had whatever mechanism controlled the explosives he'd be able to bolt to a pod before anyone knew what was going on. Obviously he'd need to do so in orbit of a planet, probably just before a jump to hyperspace to prevent pursuit. That however would dramatically decrease his window of opportunity. He'd need to spend time familiarising himself with the ship more before he made his move, see if there was a way to increase his chances of getting away without being vaporized.

Once his 'stuff' (Not that he had much more than the clothes he had on him, a blaster pistol and rifle and a broken carbonite rifle) was stowed he made his way towards the 'kitchen' area of the vessel. Not that it was much of a kitchen, and the grime on all the surfaces probably made anything cooked there toxic. Still needing to get to know and understand his peers, he retreated to the corner, where he sat on a crate. Watching as the others filed in, one by one.

Relloc stood with the others in the rain, his head covered by a hood, and eyes safely secured by the engineering goggles he usually wore. As they stood waiting for Mus, he carefully checked over all the tools and spare parts he had brought with him, making sure they were all together. Looking over the ship, he was sure he would have his work cut out for him. The multitude of loose panels, exposed wires, rusted bolts and welds, and the way the ship leaned to one side were all things that would take time to fix, time Relloc wasn't sure he'd have with this motley crew.

When the first gunshot went off, Relloc winced. Gun and blaster fire was something Relloc had never grown accustomed to, even after his time with the rebellion and on a smuggling freighter. Watching in a mix of awe and horror as Mus dragged the tentacled alien onto the platform. The blood and viscera flowing from the being's leg made Relloc's stomach uneasy, and the sudden second shot to his chest made Relloc gag slightly. As the body slid down the platform and over the edge, Relloc placed a hand over his stomach, the unwell feeling making him feel like he might be sick. As the ramp of the Bounty clattered to the ground and Mus gave the order to load the ship, Relloc rushed to load crates onto the ship.

Wanting to ensure he had done his fair part, Relloc did not stop until the last crate was loaded. Taking whichever Hammock was left, and not even bothering to see who he was paired with, Relloc tossed some of his less-valuable belongings into the footlocker, and headed for the kitchen to meet with the others.

The kitchen, if you could call it that, was hardly an acceptable environment in most regards. Covered in more grime than Relloc, which in itself was an accomplishment, the thing looked like it hadn't been used to prepare food since the Great Hyperspace War. Taking a seat near the others, Relloc quietly awaited the briefing.

Mokra Tem couldn't understand how he got into this mess. He'd never had any trouble before. Even when he piloted the Raven a Correllian YT-2550 Medium sized freighter, the crew never got into mix ups with the Hutt. For the most part, Captain Lars Gander steered clear of the Hutt whenever possible. Aside from that, Mokra Tem tried hard to keep his nose clean and stay out of trouble. He took risks on occasion, but they were calculated and generally ended up with him and his crew getting away scot-free. Obviously this time, the risk was too great. However he landed in prison, he was here now. The past eight days have been some of the worst of his life, but fortunately, he and a handful of others were given a reprieve. Sure , it had a few unnecessary snags, but at least he was no longer bound to a wall in a Hutt prison.

The rains that fell upon Nar Shaddaa were highly acidic due to the toxic waste carried into the upper atmosphere from the smoke belching factory stacks. Industrial waste had a way of making a planet uninhabitable The substance contained in the clouds fell to the surface whenever the clouds became overburdened with moisture. Thus was the weather today on the quadanium landing pad housing a wrecked Loronar E-9 Explorer-Class Armed Long-Range Scout Vessel. Mokra wondered how long it would take for this ship, named Bounty to begin forming holes in its hull. Maybe holes already existed?

His left hand ran wet fingers over the scar at the nape of his neck where someone implanted a small piece of Baradium bisulfate attached to a digital firing device. He knew it wouldn't take much of this stuff to kill a person in this manner. With the explosive charge at the back of the neck, the detonation would separate one's head from the remainder of their corpse. It was lethal stuff, but at least they didn't use Baradium-357. That was toxic and would eventually kill anyone exposed to it for a duration of time. Naughty Baby as miners called it was nasty stuff. This version was easier to handle and didn't guarantee death from mere exposure.

The discharge of the scattergun was unmistakable. The report captured the attention of everyone within earshot. 'Oh carp', Mokra thought to himself. He swallowed instinctively. 'What have I gotten myself into?' The door to the shack where the gunshot came catapulted forward under the pressure of an overly aggressive Zabrackan female's boot. The crimson woman entertained the attention of all present on the water logged landing platform. All eyes were upon her and her Quarren captive. Mokra could hear sobbing and pleads of don't kill me and other indiscernible utterances. Mokra had grown accustomed to listening to others beg for mercy in the Hutt prison. Over the course of the past week and a day his heart hardened to their sufferings, but he never saw them when he was shackled to the cold stone wall. Today, he saw the oppressed being dragged in front of him while sreaming.

The question to what the scattergun struck was answered when the group witnessed the Quarren's missing foot and trail of blood. The crimson woman hardly struggled in pulling the desperate creature in front of and past the group. He lay crumpled in a ball in front of the ship known as Bounty. The woman we would all know and love as Mus Rosh ordered him to his knees. She forced him to perform a fellated technique upon the muzzle of her scattergun. She made several verbal demands upon the now humbled being, struggling to respond with several inches of gunsteel shoved into his mouth.

Eventually, the frightened and exhausted Quarren gave up the codes Mus needed to open the ramp. With the value of his life expunged, he was no longer necessary. She pumped a slug into his chest allowing more blood to spread out rapidly under his dying corpse. Mus kicked his remains off the platform and turned to the group of former Hutt prisoners.



Mus Rosh had Mokra Tem's attention. Obviously, that was the intent of this brutal demonstration. He knew he would do everything in his power to please her because she frightened the carp out of him.

Mokra was slow to move at first, but as he saw his shipmates begin picking up crates, he fell in with the rest. He grabbed a crate, hauled it up the ramp and placed it on the decking with the others. He took care to avoid stepping in the pool of Quarren blood left standing on the quadanium plate. He repeated the process until all boxes and packages were stored aboard the eleven-year old Scout Ship.

Once the cargo was secured, he grabbed is bag and entered one of the bunkrooms. He found a bearded human placing his possessions upon a hammock. Mokra nodded slightly to the man, dropped his own bag and followed the man to the galley.

As his new roommate took a seat with the others, Mokra chose to remain standing, leaning against a countertop behind the rest, ready to listen to the Zabrak woman give her instructions on what fish we hunting; what our first assignment would be. She had his full attention regardless of whether the deadly demonstration was necessary.

---

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Better him than me.

There was only one sentiment on Rymi Ketres’ mind as the Quarren suffered the wrath of Hutt brutality. It was a selfish and cynical thought, but after ten or so years of being out in the outer rim she had gotten used to the sentiment. The heroic spirit of the Jedi was dead and it did nobody, certainly not herself, any favors to invoke it. As much as Rymi Ketres was a child of the late Galactic Republic she was also a child of practicality and sense; most of all, she was a child of enjoying living.

In terms of the starcraft they had “acquired”, Rymi wasn’t really all that impressed. The E-9 was a good scout vessel, but in terms of the type of missions she imagined the Hutt’s were going to force her to do it was pretty inadequate unless it was extensively modified; and modified in the terminology of the black market at that. She would’ve preferred to be flying a Corellian YT or other alternative but the choice really wasn’t an option so she would have to make do. As the expression in her very minute circle of associates went— if it can fly, Rymi Ketres can fly it.

“We got five minutes to bring all the supplies onboard. You got another five to find yourself a hammock to call home. After that we’ll all meet in the kitchen so I can tell you what fish we hunting.”

Rymi silently nodded as she followed the rest of the “ingrates” that she were effectively her comrades-in-arms to what was the ship’s personal quarters; though if you asked her it was as packed as the barracks she slept in during the end of the Clone Wars.

Once inside, the woman decided upon picking the least relevant of the cots available and lockboxes she stored her crap before moving on.

It’s not like I’ll be sleeping much, anyway.

The blonde-haired smuggler frowned as she kicked her foot back before pressing herself against the walls inside the kitchen. At this moment there were many feelings travelling in the corners of her mind and few of them were pleasant, less alone sensible. While Rymi realized such thoughts were definitely inflammatory and stupid she still felt they were inescapable. It was hard not to have murder fantasies enacted in your head when the person who held your chains was pretending to be a “leader” and part of the “team” only a few paces away. How would things go for the Zabrak enforcer if she were killed before she could execute the baradium charges that were in the men and women before her?

Of course Rymi knew that the Hutt Cartel was smarter than to threaten so haphazardly; without a back-up installed. But it was still tempting. Ignoring her thoughts as she crossed her arms, eyeing the Zabrak over Rymi decided to be the first to break the ice so to speak.

“Well, we’re not late.”

The irony of the situation was not lost on Tarron Solus. He, whoever that boy was, had fled Coruscant, fled from his home more than a decade ago in the hopes of escaping the ever expanding reach of criminals and ruffians. And now? Now Tarron had joined their ranks, a prisoner forced into the services of the Hutt clan. As he looked around the cramped ship, the angry and fearful faces surrounding him, the reality of the situation truly dawned upon him for the first time. He was a prisoner of the Hutts, one of the most powerful and influential gangs in the entire galaxy. With little more than a flick of a button, he would be reduced to a bloody mess on the ground. And for what? A rumor on a nearly uninhabited planet on the other side of the galaxy. Tarron wouldn’t, he couldn’t let that be his fate. Slowly, he took a breath to steady himself, forcing all fear and grief back. He had to be strong. Any sign of weakness would be dangerous, a weapon to use against him.

Tarron looked at his captor. she stood there, her cloak draped across one shoulder. She began talking about the “rules” put in place, but Tarron payed little attention. He knew the basics of how everything would work. Any disobedience would result in his immediate, “removal”. What truly caught his interest were the many tattoos covering the woman’s torso. Tattoos were in a way, windows into a person's past, especially with criminals. Many were familiar to Tarron, showing him of her time spent in prison, and the many people she had killed. Others, not so much.

Tarron snapped from his thoughts as the Zabrak changed the subject to that of their first task.

“Mister Ziveri used to work in Republic Intelligence before the Empire took over. A pfassk good slicer he became a highly sought after commodity once he became a freelancer. Problem is he pissed off the wrong bunch of people wanted by the Imps and several others including our employer. He went dark a few weeks ago.

“Turns out he didn’t go dark enough. This was taken on Platform 351. Some of you may know of it. An old tibanna gas platform on Bespin. Now it's a casino, auction house, slaver outpost, drug den, or whatever other it needs to be. Used primarily by the ‘high-class’ of criminal society: politicians, industrialists, crime lords, and pirate kings as a neutral ground for deals of importance.” Mus explained. “Word on the street is that a certain is Slicer is going to be selling off some high value information including sensitive information about our client in a closed auction to these types probably figuring to make enough credits to disappear forever. We need to take him out before that happens. Any questions?”

The smile that spread across her face filled Tarron with a remote sense of dread, and as he thought back to the image of her frying his brains with the small chip in his head, he almost gagged. Still, she wouldn’t kill them unnecessarily, and while it was important not to make any enemies, it was also important to make himself inexpendable. The first step was developing a reputation of being contributive. He felt no ease around anyone here with him, probably most of them being criminals, but he knew that they weren’t the true enemy. All of them, probably even the Zabrak, were just people who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Products of a corrupt society. If anyone was to be blamed for his situation, it would be the Hutts, or the Empire for doing nothing about them, even helping them. Tarron would go along with the woman’s orders, try to be a “team player,” but only for now, only so long as it brought him one step closer to being with his daughter again. At least this time they were only going after a criminal. Come to think of it, she didn’t actually say how much the job would pay. Tarron wasn’t normally one for questions, but that was something he had to know, and as no one else seemed to be be speaking up, he stepped forward slightly.

“How much does this job pay? How much closer does it get us to paying off our debt?”