"Beautiful," the man said, nodding towards the panoramic window behind the Admiral's desk, beyond which the asteroids of the Semiramis Cluster hurtled and spun through the void, bathed in the pale cyan light of the distant sun.

The admiral snorted and waved a beringed hand, "Rocks."

He stood by the drinks cart and poured himself and his guest glasses of Corellian brandy. He didn't bother with ice, just filled both cups nearly to the brim. His guest, somewhat to the admiral's surprise, accepted the drink with a small smile.

"To your good health," he said, raising his glass and taking a sip.

The admiral sat down behind his desk and took a long drink, running his hand through unkempt and graying hair. His guest sat.

"Only reason I haven't had you shot for what you've done is, serious people tell me you're a serious man," said the admiral, leaning back in his chair and hoisting black-booted feet onto his desk, careless of the dataslates sprawled across it. One snapped beneath his heel, "One I might want to think twice about crossing. I have to take their word for it, being not entirely serious myself anymore, in these inglorious times."

The other man gave a small, noncommittal shrug and took another sip of his brandy.

"You had to bring that Jedi garbage to sell here? What was wrong with Hutt Space?" asked the admiral.

"I was under the impression you were happy with our arrangement."

"Mining and selling those ludicrous crystals was our arrangement, not laundering the Emperor's most prized possessions!" snapped the Admiral, "The End is impossible for Imperial timeservers and our beloved local Moff to find, not so hard for that freak..."

"Vader."

"Yes, him," said the admiral with a shudder.

"You are running a rebel base," said the other man, lightly, "One you know as well as I they will track down sooner or later, once they net their bigger fish. You and I also know you have planned for that contingency. I haven't shortened the life span of your beloved home."

The admiral snorted, "Well I doubt they'll come in guns blazing, for the moment. More likely we'll be flooded with their spies and Jedi sniffers."

"Exactly," said the other man, and smiled.

The following is a collaboration between @seonhyang and myself.

---

When freshly-grilled tip-yip skewers arrived to the tavern booth, Jomu Sathwe stopped in the middle of talking to snatch one onto a plate already piled high with stir-fried garlic noodles and deep-fried soypro. “So—as you were saying—you are looking for a bad man?” the Guardian of the Whills asked between bites. “I didn’t take you to be that kind of woman—but I would not judge your heart’s desires.”

He laughed teasingly between bites of the tip-yip, though all the while his eyes remained fixed on Sira Hayan’s features as he felt for her feelings through the Force. The skewers he ate with his hands, pulling one piece of succulent tip-yip off of the skewer after another. He had nearly wiped his greasy fingers on his disheveled kasaya robes before quickly reconsidering and settling for a napkin instead. “I don’t understand what the problem is—but it is always hard for a man to understand problems when he is so terribly hungry and parched! What Brother Jomu is looking for,” he replied with a look towards the empty bottle on the table, “is a refill of Corellian lum. And further explanation.”

Sira glanced out into the tables beyond them, all awash in a fluorescent glow, before looking back towards Jomu. “‘Bad’ may or may not be an understatement,” she replied, keeping her voice low. “And that's not what my ‘heart desires.’ Perhaps all the booze has been getting to you, Brother.”

She smiled before standing, beckoning a server over with a sweep of her hand. The air around her was almost sickly sweet; despite that, the scent was almost soothing before it mingled with the grease of the food stacked between them—mostly on the monk's side of the table.

“Hey, can we get the good Brother here a refill? On my tab.” Flashing a grin, she leaned back in her seat. "And a bitterfruit liquor for me, please!" After the server wrote down their orders, Sira waited for her to walk off before continuing with an impish glimmer in her eye. “You might be the only person I know who understands problems better after a few drinks.”

She plucked a single skewer off the plate between them, twirling it in her hand. “Now, don't get this twisted, Brother Jomu—this isn't personal, just professional. But in the glamorous life of a smuggler, one sometimes comes across... obstacles. I've been having an issue with a supplier, getting things through Empire ports ever since they tugged on the leash and tightened regulations. Come to think of it, I don't think there's one person in this business without this problem by now.”

She took a bite from the skewer, humming at the taste before adding, “I heard there's a man here at the Bitter End who might be able to help, but he doesn't exactly have a clean record—not even by my standards. I'm not sure anyone or anything could wipe the red from his ledger. But for all I know, he's the only person who could help me with this job.”

“There are so many people passing through here day by day,” Jomu said, his voice suddenly turning more serious. “Perhaps he got away while we were drinking—just slipped right by us—and you had to do the job without him. I wouldn’t fault you if that were to happen, sister. Mistakes happen, even to the best of smugglers. Would that satisfy your conscience and your honor?”

While Sira shook her head, her lips were still fixed into her usual blithe smile. “I'm sorry, Brother, I'm afraid that isn't it. The point is—I need him for the job, but he's no saint. If I find him and he agrees to be my... associate, am I complicit in everything this man might have done? Or will he have to slip right by, out of my clutches, and will I have to follow up on an opening created by the mere coincidence of this man's arrival?”

“Let me tell you a secret, Sira: I killed a man yesterday,” Jomu suddenly said, his tone not yet betraying if this was a true story or yet another one of his parables. He lowered his voice as he set down his cleaned skewer, wiping his hands before continuing. “It was over the last bottle of Corellian brandy in the cantina. I was in such a rage that the bartender would let a mere scoundrel like him have that drink and not I, the holiest man in the Bitter End, and so I did the only rational thing I could: I whacked him. Cracked his skull open—and now he’s dead. But you, sister—you have just filled my belly and quenched my thirsty, unfortunately. Are you too complicit in this foul murder for giving me food and drink, for being kind?”

The monk sat back in his seat. “Of course, you knew nothing of the murder. But now you do, and it begs the question: where else would you find such advice in the Bitter End? Not from Adamantious Xen, surely, nor from pirates or smugglers or their ilk. Shall you keep the company of a murderous Guardian of the Whills whose savage deed betrays the compunctions of his order—betrays your own morals—to keep his counsel? Or shall you go without advice at all, venturing friendlessly into the firmament full of stars?”

For a few brief heartbeats, Sira fell quiet. Then she tossed her head back; the silvery trill of her laughter blended in to the routine noise of the cantina, the dull hum of conversation in which words slurred into one another. “Oh, Brother Jomu. While I am sure you would be most wronged to be deprived of the last Corellian lum, I wonder... do you take me for a fool?” A wry grin cracked across her face. “Has the good Brother Jomu been begging for bail and not alms for all the time I have known him?”

She opened her mouth to continue only to bite her tongue when the Twi'lek server was circling by. Sitting up straight in her seat, Sira accepted their drinks, both the bottle—which she quickly set in front of Jomu—and the orange bitterfruit liquor. Only when they were alone once more could she continue. “Surely a good and pious ascetic like yourself wouldn't toy with a guileless young spacefarer by telling her that you're a murderer!” Her smile sobers slightly, tightened at the edges. “She'd have to admit that she knew nothing of your true nature. A generous soul would say she'd be at fault for nothing except for her own foolishness. A Hutt might say that she's too stupid to be of much use-though from all I've seen, idiots rarely fail to find work somewhere in the Galaxy.”

Jomu chuckled back at her, flashing an eager grin before he cracked open the bottle with a sharp hiss and downed a gulp of lum. “Any idiot finds work,” he replied. “A smart man sits with his alms bowl in hand and sings the day away—but clearly some of us haven’t yet learned that.”

“A smart man must be raking in credits. It’s especially easy for him because he doesn’t have to pay for his own drinks.”

“But the point of what I was saying is that the choice is hard; you had to think about it, didn’t you?”

Sira popped the collar of her jacket, pursing her lips ever so faintly as she found herself drifting off in thought. “Yeah, it’s not the easiest choice to make, especially for someone like me who likes to think as little as possible.” She grinned again, creases of mirth lining the corners of her eyes, and leaned forward in her seat.

The monk ate before speaking again, slurping down nearly half of his noodles. With her elbows resting on the table, Sira waited for him to finish eating and continue. A few sips from her drink made the moment of quiet pass faster.

Jomu wiped his mouth and soon continued. “I find that thing you said to be funny: ‘true nature.’ There is no such thing! Are you a good person, Sira? Are you bad? I suspect the answer to that question depends on who you ask. And I suspect that your answer is not constant from day to day. The truth is that life is full of change and uncertainty. Life is filled with difficult choices and it is often when we cannot stray from cruelty. Especially in these parts of the Galaxy. To speak of what one is serves only as a false and illusory comfort.

“Let me teach you a poem of the Toribota for when you become smart and give up smuggling for a career of mendicancy. Perhaps it will provide you comfort that is more true:


“Even in the darkest of places you may go towards the light. If you need him, and if your cause is just, then do what you must. But keep your heart focused on that which is good in the world—remember that the Force binds us all, and that through its bonds what is done unto the one shall affect us all.”

While he continued remarking on Sira’s words, she remained silent, tracing the rim of her glass with a single fingernail. She knew more of difficult choices between multiple options, all cruel in their own ways, than her easy smile would betray. False comforts were no strangers, either. “A career of mendicancy,” she mused. “Imagine that, a Zeltron monk. Perhaps I’d put you—and a few bars—out of business, what with my livers, if I spent my days that way.”

Taking another long sip of sweet liquor, Sira glanced aside, scanning the crowd in the cantina for any familiar faces. “The Force binds us all,” she echoed. “That makes enough sense. Pain, injustice, deprivation—those things don’t exist in a vacuum. What one person endures isn’t completely isolated from how those who surround them—and then their own circles, and the circles of the people in their circles—will live. We share suffering, but we could also share a little goodness. Something done right in this corner of the Galaxy, for once.”

“Lum in my belly is a little goodness in my book,” Jomu jested, taking another swig. He peered at her over the top of the bottle for a moment, feeling for and then processing her emotions the Force. “You have kindness in your heart, Sira. It means much that you consider these questions so deeply—that you seek out advice. For what little a beggar’s opinion is worth... I do not think you will be so easily led astray.”

Nodding to his words, she took a long drink of bitterfruit liquor before setting her cup down. Only a bare trace of orange liquid remained in the bottom. “Well, I understand that spiritual guidance doesn’t come free,” she teased, smiling. “A beggar’s opinion can mean quite a bit at the right time, Brother.”

Sira’s idle gaze drifted out over the crowd of patrons filling the bar. While she once again searched for any familiar faces, the calm set of her smile, eyes half-lidded as if addled by drink, betrayed none of her intention. Her skewer, half of which was still untouched, was abandoned on her plate.

Gin'ibak'aosame

---

---

Gin breathed a sigh of relief upon hearing the loud crack from his sternum finally giving way. Closing his eyes, the chiss continued, rolling his head around while feeling distinct pops coming from the bones in his neck. The motor powering the drop ramp of the light freighter screeched, cutting his relaxed feeling short and overpowering the sonorous goings on of The Bitter End’s main port. It was a surprising achievement to be sure, especially considering that the docks sat directly under the factories of the city.

Unsurprisingly, however, the engine overheated not a moment later, stopping the ramp in its tracks halfway down from the ground. Gin took a break from stretching to side eye the ship's captain who was standing next to him. The human smiled weakly, taking a single long side step over to the motor and giving it a hard hit with the side of his fist. Without breaking eye contact the captain gave a small, yet forced, chuckle.

“You know how these things go, the Imps don’t like to inspect ships that look like rust buckets.”

Gin pursed his lips, raising his eyebrows and giving a short set of nods in feigned agreement. Another punch and the engine screamed back to life, managing to bring the loading ramp all the way down without further incident. The smuggler slid his way back over to the chiss like a hutt to a banquet, extending out his hand expectedly.

Long gone were the days of people being honoured to have a Jedi passenger; free rides in luxurious ships, entire rooms to themselves, no hassles with crew and so on. Those were the times. Not that anyone from the Order was supposed to enjoy such things but look at where that had gotten them.

We will each be challenged. Our trust... our faith... our friendships. But we must persevere.

Obi-Wan’s final message echoed throughout Gin’s mind as he wondered if the Jedi Master had ever been stuffed in a smuggler’s ship's crawl space before.

A clearing of the captain's throat returned Gin to reality, watching as the human slicked back his greased hair. The chiss smiled back, staring into the smugglers eyes as he clasped the humans shoulder. The former Jedi let out a long breath through his nose before taking in another just as deep, his chest visibly rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern.

The smuggler opened his mouth to talk but his tongue failed him, refusing to utter even a single word. All he could do was cock his head to the side and give a faint look of confusion. Soon his breathing fell in time with Gin’s, as the Sentinel allowed the Force to ebb and flow between them. Like wind passing gently through reeds, he used the Force to venture back behind the captain's eyes. A sense of calm swept over the human as his eyes glazed over, allowing Gin to fill his mind with fog.

“Captain, walk with me a minute would you?” Gin kept his voice low and soft, letting the Force carry it into the smugglers mind.

“Walk with you a minute.” The captain repeated, mimicking Gin’s tone.

Together the two strode down the ramp, Gin continuously beaming a smile to all who walked past while keeping a hold of the humans shoulder. Once formally off the ship, Gin turned the captain to face him once more.

“Now, you don’t really remember seeing me before do you? In fact, you can’t be sure you’ve ever seen a Chiss in person, let alone smuggle one out of Hutt Territory, right?”

The captain nodded slowly as his jaw flopped open. A single strand of drool spilled out from his mouth, falling onto Gin’s boot.

Whoops, a little too much. The chiss thought, holding back a disgusted look.

Slowly, the former Jedi removed his hand from the human’s shoulder, flipping up his hood and bringing his skin tight scarf up from around his neck to cover the lower half of his face. The captain's eyes fluttered to life, raising an eyebrow as he quizzically studied his surroundings, his head whipping back and forth.

“Hey!” Gin shouted, throwing the captain off balance.

“I said, where is the local cantina? Are you deaf or something?”

The captain's eyes snapped to the hooded figure in front of him.

“I… er… it’s over that way.” The smuggler pointed weakly towards a large elevator off to the side of the port, unable to wipe the puzzled look from his face.

“But…”

“Thanks!” Gin cut him off, pushing past the human and blending into the crowd. A knot twisted through his stomach as he glanced back one final time at the bewildered captain. There was a time where such a technique was used to help reveal information about a target, cut through dishonourable liars, help prevent assassinations and bring criminals to justice. Now it was just a cheap trick, employed to hussle an innocent man out of his credits and cover the former Jedi’s tracks.

Well, Gin reasoned, considering what I saw in his mind, he wasn’t all that innocent.

The Force crescendoed in a place like this, reminding Gin of the smuggler’s moon, Nar Shaddaa, or the lower levels of Coruscant, so much life sandwiched tightly into such a small space. Market stalls skirted along the sides of the port, their owners desperately rushing out and attempting to drag customers in for a closer look at their wares. Hulking four legged creatures shuffled carts of goods, grunting and growling their way up and down the loading bay. Buildings hung high above them from the ceiling, ironically imitating stalactites, while layered on top the rumbles of factories and a much larger cityscape could be heard.

Gin ducked and weaved his way through the diverse crowd, zigzagging through at a decent pace. Artfully, he managed to avoid a particularly keen looking quarren gesturing towards his stand before steering back into the bulk of the rabble, dancing around a couple of colossal weequay. Together they flanked a rather regal looking Falleen, shooting harrowing looks at any who dared to step near their boss.

It wasn’t until Gin stopped at the foot of the towering elevator shaft that he noticed his blood was racing. Adrenaline surged through his body causing his breath to shorten to a pant, like a dog hungry for a meal, while the muscles in his limbs screamed at him for action. As the elevator doors opened to trade loads of aliens with the port, Gin couldn’t help but be reminded of his time hunting Callidus in the Unknown Regions.

True, this place was almost as off grid as you could get but the trail had been too easy to pick up. All it had taken was a few credits here and there to some seedy characters, hidden in plain sight in Hutt Space, to find out that Callidus was supposedly here. Really? A man with the might of the Core Worlds bearing down upon him, an entire galactic Empire on the hunt and the secrets of his whereabouts could be found with the scum of the galaxy? No, Gin knew better than to underestimate the former Jedi Master, something was afoot here.

The chiss had gone over this during his time cramped up in the smugglers crawl space and there were only three possibilities he could think of.

One. Pissing off the most powerful being in the galaxy had left Callidus with so few friends that attempting to cover his tracks was near impossible.

Eh, maybe, but least likely.

Two. An acolyte had made a mistake. The Jedi Council had once feared the pull of the Dark Jedi’s teachings and they were right to. Gin had seen it first hand, his followers were fiercely loyal, following Callidus with a religious like fervency. His teachings jacked the acolytes up, winding them so tight that killing and dying for the man came as easy as breathing. But they were also the only fault in his plans, in fact, they were the only reason the chiss had cornered the former Master in the Unknown Regions. If it was a mistake on their part then at the end of this trail there would be a dead body, another lamb led to the slaughter.

Three, and the most likely of the possibilities, this was deliberate. Callidus was really here but it was an intentional ploy. Maybe to recruit more followers, maybe to bring those hunting him out of the dark, who knows, his past plans had been too intricate to bother with guessing.

The elevator jolted as it moved over bumps in the metalwork. Deep under his cloak and clipped to his belt, Gin felt his lightsaber rattle against his backside. The chiss’ fists tightened as a long drawn out breath caught the back of his throat. No, this was the reason, it had to be, and justice for the Order would be served.

Muffled voices a few metres away shook Zejinn from his trance. He lazily tossed the data slate he had been glaring at onto the table in front of him, bored of looking over accounts and ledgers. Zejinn had been working in a dingy cantina booth for over an hour, determined to get through the dull number work before his client meetings later in the evening. Mardji’s was not Zejinn’s favourite spot in the End. Far from it, in fact, but it had been nearby after his visit to the port earlier, and it was important for him to get some work done.

His companions had exceeded their limits rather quickly; two twi’lek girls were opposite, one asleep with her head in the other’s lap, and an aqualish man with an impressive gut was sat upright passed out to his left. A smattering of empty glasses and aromatic dishes dotted the battered table, a range of noodle dishes and skewered meats. Zejinn did not have an appetite, currently; they had been for his guests, but it seemed they had opted for lunch of a more liquid nature.

The voices had come from his right, where two enormous weequay guards were blocking entry to Zejinn’s booth. He kept a light security detail as more of a status symbol than anything else; in truth, almost every merc, smuggler or miscellaneous scumbag that may have been a threat was already on Zejinn’s payroll, and they were smart enough to know not to bite the hand that pays them. Over the general din and chatter of the cantina, their voices were barely audible, but they had stopped someone who was attempting to gain access to Zejinn.

He leant forward over the table to look at the one who sought him. He was tall, scrawny, with floppy dark hair and nervous brown eyes. A patchy, scraggly beard clung to his jaw, and he looked to be in his mid-twenties, even though Zejinn knew him to be older. One hand was in his pocket, and the other was raised with the palm open in a disarming manner, and Zejinn noticed he was trembling ever so slightly.

“Darac Shor.” Zejinn smiled warmly. “Let him pass.” The guard on the left grunted, and like two enormous muscly saloon doors, they stepped inwards, creating an opening for Darac to enter the booth. Zejinn gestured for the man to sit opposite him, much to the annoyance of the dozing twi’lek girl who had to move her legs to accommodate him. The yellowish lighting from the strip light above the booth gave Darac’s pale complexion a sickly hue. “It’s good to see you, my boy. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Darac exhaled anxiously. “I’m just gonna out and say it. I lost my shipment.” Zejinn did not let his smile drop, simply continuing to eye the nervous man opposite him. “I’m really, really sorry Zejinn, I am. I got pirated, there were at least a dozen of them all armed, two ships. I was on my own, I had no choice.”

“You had a choice.” Zejinn was still smiling. “You let these pirates take my guns, without even lifting a finger in protest from the sound of it.”

“Come on, Zejinn, there were a dozen blasters on me! I’m a runner, not a merc! Maybe if you sent some protection with me things would have turned out differently!”

Zejinn’s smile faded into a grimace. “So, you’re saying it’s my fault that you lost your shipment and failed your job?”

“No… no, Zejinn, no, c’mon, no! That isn’t what I meant!” He had realised his mistake, and his blatant fear was evident. Zejinn snapped his fingers.

In an instant, Darac was out of the booth, on his knees on the cantina floor and with his arms held firmly in place by Zejinn’s two guards. The falleen man stood slowly and purposefully, well aware that much of the cantina had turned its attention towards the scuffle. One of the twi’lek girls had let out a shrill scream, but even still the bulky aqualish man had failed to wake. He approached the kneeling man, who started babbling profusely, but Zejinn cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“I do not take kindly to failure, Darac. Even more so, I do not care for insults. You knew the risks when you took this contract, and your own failures are exactly that; your own. Do not presume to tell me how to operate, and do not come to me, laying blame for your failures in my lap.” His voice was unsettlingly calm.

Zejinn knelt down and gripped Darac under his chin, digging his claws into the soft flesh of his face and wrenching his head upwards to look him in the eye. He gripped his face tightly, so much so that warm red trickles had begun to run down his face. “Thanks to you, not only do I have an unhappy client who’s short of a shipment. I also now have a band of at least a dozen pirates threatening my shipping lanes and rather inconveniently armed to the teeth with E-5 blaster rifles. Can you see why I’m unhappy with you, Darac?” Zejinn’s smile was completely gone now, replaced with a completely blank expression that was just as menacing.

“I like you Darac, and that works in your favour. Our relationship until now has been blissfully simple. I give you a job, you do that job, and we both make money. That is my favourite type of partnership. If you did not have such a long history of success, do you know what I would do?” Zejinn drew a blade in his other hand. “I would take one of these from you right now in this cantina,” he gestured to both of the man’s restrained hands, “and tell you that you can have it back when my guns are returned to me. But I’m not going to do that.”

Zejinn released Darac’s face and stood up, looming over him. “Your loyalty has earned you a reward, and this is it. Your life. Do not make me regret my choice, and do not mistake my mercy for weakness.”

“Th- thank you, Zejinn, I promise I’ll-“ Darac was cut short by Zejinn’s boot hammering into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The man wheezed, unable to clutch at the pain thanks to Zejinn’s weequay guards.

“You will not fail me again, Darac. If you do, I will personally dismantle you like a droid while you are still alive and sell your parts on the black market. Human organs fetch a high price these days, so do try not to give me any extra incentive.” Darac nodded, his eyes wide with fear. Zejinn kicked him again, hard, and then knelt back down to look him in the eye. “You will not fail me. Am I understood?” Darac nodded again, even more vehemently.

Zejinn sprung back to his feet, his wide grin returned. He clapped joyfully. “Excellent! Then we can put all this gloom behind us and talk business.” The guards released Darac, who pushed himself to his feet slowly, clutching his ribs. A few of them, Zejinn suspected, were broken. Zejinn ushered Darac back into the seat opposite him. “Someone fetch us something to drink!” A twi’lek server wasted no time in producing a large bottle of a bitter-scented liqueur.

“Now, Darac my boy. We can’t let your transgressions go completely unpunished.”

“Call breaking my ribs unpunished?” The smuggler practically spat the words. Zejinn let out a deep belly laugh.

“Compared to cutting off your hand or taking out an eye? I’d say so, yes.” Zejinn pulled the stopper from the bottle and poured two shots of the liqueur, sliding one gently across the table towards Darac. The falleen raised his glass and then threw it back down his throat, with Darac following suit shortly after. Zejinn poured two more.

“You’ve left me in a financially difficult situation, Darac. Naturally, I cannot pay you for a job not finished. Furthermore, now I need to assemble a group to hunt down and dispatch these pirates. Now that they are armed with military-grade blasters, that’s gonna come with a premium fee.” Zejinn and Darac knocked back another, feeling the bitter warmth through their throat and chest. He poured two more.

“So, we need to find a way to compensate for my losses. I will not be asking you to hunt down pirates, that would be a complete waste of a good runner. Instead, the next job you do for me will be totally free, as a token of your sincere goodwill and to show me how truly, truly sorry you are for your errors.” Darac grimaced. Smuggling was a dangerous job and doing it for free was not an appealing prospect. Yet he did not protest; he had pushed his luck far enough for a lifetime already.

“After that, I’ll be reducing your pay for the next four jobs by a thousand. With the four thousand raised from your noble donations, I will be able to hire mercenaries good enough to take out these pirates. After those five jobs, our relationship will resume as normal. I think that is a more than fair offer, given the circumstances.” Darac did not dare protest. Zejinn let the silence linger for a moment.

“Then we are in agreement!” Zejinn raised his glass and prompted Darac to do the same. “To business,” Zejinn said with a wide smile, clanging his glass off of Darac’s and emptying it down his throat one more. He grabbed the bottle and poured again.

The Bitter End Docking Bay

Bel throws herself into the worn faux leather seats of the modest round table, its circular seating lining the ship's walls. It's a rather cozy area, located just behind the cockpit. Leaning back slightly, the cheap and already torn leather whines in protest as Bel rests a booted foot up against the table and takes a sip of the bitter, unsweetened, and freshly brewed cup of caf. The last time the smuggler had visited the Bitter End, she'd chosen a stronger type of beverage. Needless to say, the business trip had turned into the leisure kind rather quickly.

"Anytime now," Bel muses out loud. Her foot bounces to an unnamed tune in her head as she quietly sips at the dark liquid in the metal cup.

"B." The familiar, slightly distorted picture of her sister appears from the holoprojector sitting in the middle of the table. "Are you on-site?"

Bel promptly rolls her blue eyes at the formal terms used. "Yes, Captain, my ass is firmly planted on-site." She gives her sister some sort of half-assed salute that never fails to make Sam grit her teeth together.

"Right. Reports confirm that the target is present at the cantina. Find him, question him about the artifact. We need to find out who it was auctioned off to. What are you drinking? That better not be—"

Bel lifts her hand up, cutting off her sister's seemingly non-ending cascade of words. "Hold your tauntauns. One issue at a time, girl, please." Bel shakes her head lightly, taking another sip of caf. "Sheesh."

"I'd really appreciate it if you could take this, or anything, seriously."

"I know the job, we've been over the specs." Bel plants both of her feet on the ground as she leans forward and rests her forearms atop the table littered with caf stains and various nicks and scratches. "You did your recon, now let me do my job. A little trust goes a long way, sis."

"It's not that I don't trust you."

Bel chuckles. "But..." She replies under her breath. Somehow, Bel knows Sam heard her. The evidence lies in the way her sister's brow furrows and her jaw clenches.

"But, the last time you were here you forgot all about the client and burned bribe money on damn holo hookers!"

"Holo hookers? They're people too you know. Where's your sense of female empowerment?"

Sam looks like she's ready to plant her fist squarely into Bel's jaw. The smuggler feels rather blessed to be light years away from her sister right this second.

Bel leans back into her seat once more, folding her arms across her chest. "I doubt little Cal has info on the buyer. The artifact is most likely in another galaxy by now, but—and this is one very important 'but', Captain—" Bel pauses to drink, grinning into her cup as she hears her sister practically fuming on the holo. "Someone in that rotten cantina has to know something. And I'll pry out that information out of their cold, dead hands if I gotta."

"Wonderful. professional as always." The sarcasm doesn't escape her.

Bel watches as her sister glances warily at her surroundings. They've been sneaking behind the Empire's back for years without getting caught, but there's always that chance that it can happen. The reality of their scheme hangs heavy above their heads, like a sharp guillotine blade. Some days, Bel can almost hear the rope struggling to keep the blade suspended above. Or, perhaps, it could very well be her overactive imagination. But, they're careful, meticulous in ways that make Bel roll her eyes.

They have to be.

"I'm being sent off base. Won't be able to have a comlink with you."

"S'fine," Bel shrugs. "It would get scrambled the second I step foot in that den of horrors."

"Be careful."

"Always."

Sam didn't believe it.

Hell, Bel didn't either.

Bel leaves her ship—aptly named the Horizon—confidence, and self-assuredness in her step as she feels the weight of her favorite blaster pressed against her side. She takes the familiar route that leads to an elevator. The stench. Bel could smell it even before the elevator comes to a screeching stop on the cantina's floor. Before the doors open and she's greeted with the scummiest toothy smiles in the galaxy, memories rush back to her and in that instant, she remembers why she had gotten positively shit-faced the last time she visited this place.

Bel takes a deep breath and the sounds and smells assault her senses the moment the elevator doors open. "I really hate this place."

Though Jurys Juryth was only the one hundred and seventh richest sentient creature on Nar Shadda, excluding the Hutts themselves, it was generally agreed his tower-manse-- won from a rival smuggler-lord in a high stakes game of Hidden Knaves-- was among the grandest, and best fortified, on the entire face of that infamous city-moon. What Juryth lacked in liquid assets he more than made up for in real estate and in the quality of his mercenary protectors.

So it was naturally with great surprise that he entered his private library in order to admire the newest addition to his extensive archeological collection-- the lightsaber of the warrior-poet Aryon Vos, some thousand years now returned to the Force-- only to find his inner sanctum occupied by a complete stranger, smiling at him, the dead bodies of two Juryth House Guards at the man's feet.

A snifter of spicewine fell from Juryth's fat-fingered hand and shattered on the marble floor as the library door slid shut behind him. His mouth fell open.

"Who-" he began, but the smiling stranger put a finger to his lips, then pointed to the broken glass at Juryth's feet.

Dazed, Juryth watched the glass move- as though of its own volition- spinning up from the floor and knitting itself back together as the spilled liquor pooled and poured itself back into the re-forged snifter, which levitated upwards, waiting in mid-air for Juryth to take it back up.

"You had to know we would come for this," said the stranger, holding up the hilt of Aryon Vos' ancient weapon. His voice fluttered, almost girlish, "You have the reputation of a cautious man, Jurys, but this purchase was... injudicious."

He was a pale, sallow man in a simple black tunic. Black hair fringed with grey, going bald on top. His sunken cheeks were pockmarked, his nose cleft by an old and unsightly scar across the bridge. He wore a black cloth tied around his head, covering his eyes. The teeth in his smiling mouth were yellowed, the gums almost black.

Juryth's gaze fell from the man's face to the curved hilt of the lightsaber at his hip.

"I'm not interested in killing you," said the stranger, stepping gingerly over the dead guards to approach the other man, "You can even keep the lightsaber. The Emperor, I am told, never cared much for Vos' inane philosophies."

"What do you want, then?" asked Jurys, taking a half-step back and bumping into the closed door behind him.

"The End," said the stranger, "You will tell me how to get to the Bitter End."



Adamantius Xen was studying his cuticles, apparently bored, as Commander Gothren rattled on about the Rebellion's latest reverses, the Empire's latest victories, and Mon Mothma's directive that Rebel cells lay low and regroup for the time being, as the Alliance assessed its strategic situation.

Xen took a drink. "Does the illustrious Alliance to Restore the Republic have any good news to share with this humble footsoldier?"

"No," said Gothren primly, "Though intelligence has asked me to share that-"

Xen held up a beringed hand, "I know. Jurys Juryth is dead."

Gothren said nothing.

"Don't worry," said Xen, "No one in rebel intel is leaking to old Adamantius, that inveterate Confederate. I have my own sources on Nar Shadda. I haven't lived this long without keeping tabs on buyers of the, uh, more high profile items sold in the auction houses here."

"My superiors," said Gothren, "again wish to express their concern about-"

"...how business is conducted at the Bitter End, yes, yes, well you can tell your superiors that a rebellion needs money, and they don't seem to mind when I send them a chest full of credits, only complain about how I make 'em."

"It's not an ethical question," said Gothren, "It's rather more about security. The Inquisition is now looking for the End."

"I know," said Xen placidly.

Gothren looked puzzled a moment, but Xen shook his head, "I appreciate the concern for my welfare, thank your superiors. That's all Gothren."

The Commander didn't move. "You are not the only one with an interest in the End's survival."

Xen laughed and took a long drink, "Don't I know it."

"I must tell you, we will take steps if you-"

"Don't ever threaten me," said Xen, looking over the top of his glass at the Rebel officer, "or I might lose my temper."

The battledroids--which hitherto had been standing stock still along the walls of the Admiral's chambers--now buzzed audibly to life.

Gothren's mouth narrowed, impatient, but he did give the B2's a sidelong glance.

"Empire's been looking to put me down since before it called itself an Empire," said Xen, "I can take care of a little Inquisitorial attention."

Gothren saluted, spun on his heel and strode quickly from the room. Xen poured himself another drink, and drank, his expression sour as he looked out the great window behind his desk. The asteroid field that was his main shield against the Emperor's fleets whirled madly in the chill light.

"Sir," buzzed the intercom on his desk, "Syn Damurr here to see you."

"Send him in."



"My lord he is here."

"You have seen him?"

"No, I..."

"Ah. Say no more....You are sure?"

"Yes."

"Clever boy, isn't he? And driven to still be hunting me. Let us hope he is as receptive to our overtures as you expect him to be."

"I know him, he'll join us."

"People can change, Ashuvehe. You did."

Open Space near the Bitter End, aboard The Archaic.

---

Astroth set his glass of Deychin tea down on the surface of the holotable as he read through what information he could gather about this asteroid city he was going to, the Bitter End. To him it seemed little more than a Hutt outpost, differing negligibly at best, other than the battle droids it churned out from factories in its depths. That bit was fascinating, and Astroth wouldn’t mind getting a look at them to see if they matched the actual units used during the Clone Wars he’d dug up around the galaxy. That would have to wait, of course. He was only traveling to this cesspool because Callidus was reportedly there currently, with an item or items of interest supposedly taken from the Emperor himself. This alone was enough to bring Astroth halfway across the galaxy just to see what Callidus could have, but he had also been tracking the enigma of a man for some time because of the rumors that surrounded him and his exploits. If they were true, Callidus had some knowledge in the Force, knowledge he may be willing to pass on to Astroth. The relics and texts he had gathered so far were sufficient enough to teach him the very basics of the Force and how to manipulate and use it, especially with the ability he seemed to have to able to handle an object and see visions of its past, the people who utilized it, even how or why it was used. These visions of his tended to come in flashes and left impressions of thought and emotion more than the images themselves on his mind, but over time he had learned how to interpret some of them and wade his way through learning to use the Force. There was only so far he could get on his own, and much to his chagrin any artifacts or texts from the Jedi and Sith were much more difficult to find now because of the Empire’s policing of such items.

He sipped at his tea absentmindedly for a moment before setting the datapad down on the holotable. With the flick of a finger, he sent a small pulse through the Force and turned the table on. A map of the galaxy sprang into life hovering over the table’s polished, round surface. Using the controls, he zoomed in until he pulled up the section of space where the Bitter End was said to be located. On the standard map, there was just empty space there. When he switched over to the datastick he had procured, however, a blip fizzled into existence near the symbol that marked his ship’s location. The city was nestled in the center of the asteroid field. He was close enough to travel in real space rather than hyperspace and should arrive within a few hours, though his ship’s navcomputer displayed a warning regarding the asteroid field. That would prove to be an obstacle. With a sigh, he set his tea back down on the table’s edge and leaned forward to examine the field more closely. A crew, or at the very least a hired pilot, would be useful for this very instance. Half fondly, Astroth thought of the few times he had hired a crew and chartered a ship, but it was better he have his own ship to store the relics he did have and to train in peace and secrecy. He was no fool and knew even though he was by no means a Jedi, that he would still be hunted down.

With a small gesture from Astroth, the tea cup lifted from the table and floated through the air shakily and settled into the washing unit nearby. He clicked his tongue as his own form. Definitely needed to practice levitating objects more. Perhaps he could get some practice while searching for Callidus at the Bitter End, in secret of course. With another wave of his hand as he got to his feet, the holotable shut off. Staring at the asteroid field any longer would not help him navigate it any better. He would only overthink the whole endeavor, and to get through the field without crashing he would need to have a clear head. First, though, the long silver robes he wore would need to be traded for a simple black tunic and loose-fitting pants as well as simple boots and a dark, hooded cloak. Blending in would be much easier this way, though the slightly glimmering shimmersilk was his style of choice. He hung them alongside other robes of a similar make in varying colors and patterns then went into the cockpit and settled himself into the pilot’s seat. The sleek finish of his ship would also need to be changed for the final approach toward the Bitter End. The Archaic luckily had a custom cloaking device installed, one that changed the physical appearance of the ship to look more rundown. This had proven useful and necessary over the years as he found himself in areas similar to the Bitter End as he hunted relics and information with equal fervor.

As the asteroid field loomed closer, tumbling across the viewport, Astroth closed his eyes and cleared his mind. Even with his meager abilities he could feel the web of the Force around him, swirling through everything. Straining slightly, he latched onto a strand of the ethereal web and let his perception be pulled along as if by a river. He could feel the gaps between the asteroids as they floated through space, some crashing into one another before drifting apart again. Opening his eyes again, he moved his ship into the asteroid field. His concentration strained as he kept hold of that strand of the Force running through the field before him, and he followed it, moving through gaps in the asteroid moments after they formed. By the time the massive asteroid housing the Bitter End came into view, his brow was damp with sweat, and he was breathing as though he had just been running. Relief washed over him as he let the strand of the Force go and set down in one of the many docking bays of the city. Despite the strain he had put himself through, Astroth still felt elated at what he had done. His skill was growing, there was no doubt, but he could still improve. Even now, without actively directing his perception through the Force, he could feel the life of the city moving about outside of his ship and even larger ripples nearby. That was interesting, and he would have to investigate them, but after he rested.

The following is a collaboration between @Auz, @Fiscbryne, and myself.

---

Mardji’s Cantina, the Bitter End

The chatter of the cantina resumed along with the music, washing away the tense and awkward exchange that had just taken place. Gin had chosen to use the commotion to softly make his way to the bar, noting the Falleen he had seen earlier in the docks was at the epicentre of it all. Climbing atop one of the stools the chiss hunched over the counter, gesturing to one of the pale yellow Twi'lek bartenders to come over.

Off to the side and beyond the immediate crowd, the Force stirred, beckoning for Gin’s attention like a siren’s song. Warily, he allowed himself a quick glance spying a distinctly robed figure sat opposite a brightly coloured Zeltron, the Force swirling around the man in a familiar manner.

Impossible. Gin thought, turning back to see a glass full of ice in front of him and the barkeep standing with his arms folded, impatiently tapping his foot.

“The man with the Zeltron, who is he?” Gin asked, nodding in their direction.

The Twi’lek looked over and scoffed.

“Jomu? He’s just a drunken beggar whose bar tab is quickly becoming too high.”


Even in his inebriated state, Jomu recognized the strong thrum of the Force surrounding Gin, louder than even the pneumatic hiss of the sliding elevator doors when the Chiss had entered Mardji’s Cantina. He closed his eyes, listening closer to the Force for a moment. He could tell that there was a kyber crystal at the stranger’s belt, the Force around it vibrating in unison with Gin like two monks chanting together at Jedhan daybreak. He knocked back the last of his lum and began to speak.

“There is a stranger at the bar,” the monk suddenly whispered to Sira, his eyes still closed as he focused on Gin’s presence. “Can you feel his presence? He is attuned to the Force as Jedi are and there is a crystal of kyber that responds to him on his person. The dark side of the Force rings discordantly around him, but I do not think he is with evil intent at this moment; I think that he is much like you: full of doubt.”

When Jomu spoke, Sira’s eyes immediately flitted to the bar, though the curve of her smile conveyed no suspicion. “I am not full of doubt,” she whispered back, taking one last sip of her drink before she called a server over once more and repeated her order: one bitterfruit liqueur. The server walked away with the drink noted on his pad; she waited for him to leave before she continued. “Not exactly inconspicuous, is he?”

“I am only guessing that he is a Jedi; if arms start coming off, then we will know for certain.”

“I see. I don’t know about you, Brother, but I’d like to keep my arms.” Still wearing her serene smile, she took a breath, eyes wandering to study the expressions of the patrons, most of all Gin’s. In the din of the bar, Sira’s empathy flooded with a cacophony of sensations as she tried to get a feel for the stranger.


“And the woman? Who is she?” Gin continued.

The Twi’lek unfolded his arms as he glanced away. “Oh Sira? She’s just a smuggler or something, an old friend of the beggar. They’re just regulars; they don’t cause any trouble if that’s why you’re asking.”

The bartender rocked on the balls of his feet, his demeanor shifting uneasily as if he were about to take off. Gin motioned for him to pour a drink from the half empty bottle of Corellian Brandy sitting on the counter nearby. The former Jedi watched intensely as the ice in his glass cracked before pulling the gaiter down from around his mouth to his neck. The Chiss took a long sip, savouring the taste, using the sensation to calm and relax his spirit before reaching into his pocket to retrieve credits. Placing double the amount in the palm of the barkeep, Gin looked up to meet the Twi’lek’s eyes.

“I’m not here to look for any either. Fetch me another bottle of the same.”

The bartender nodded, disappearing out the back of the bar to grab a fresh one. Closing his eyes, Gin reached out into the Force, probing the energy coming from Jomu. The man was definitely Force-sensitive but in an unfamiliar way, as if he were more a conductor to it, connecting the Force like cabling throughout a ship rather than one who wielded it. There was no sense of anger or hate coming from the proclaimed beggar, not even a hint of the dark side, which meant he was no disciple of the Emperor or Callidus.

So who are you? Gin wondered just as the Twi’lek returned. The former Jedi smiled and gave a polite nod before pulling back up his scarf from around his neck. Together with the fresh bottle, Gin made his way across to their table.

“Barkeep tells me you two enjoy a bit of a drink, I wonder if I can offer a bottle of this lovely Corellian Brandy in exchange for some information?” Gin said as he sat down on the edge of the seat next to the smuggler, hoping she would scooch across.

“If you want your fortune read, Brother, you will have to schedule an appointment for tomorrow—for this venerable Guardian of the Whills is currently occupied,” Jomu laughed, his face red with drink. A lightbow and uneti-wood staff were propped up in the seat next to Jomu, but he did not make a move for them, instead picking at leftover tip-yip as he spoke. He eyed Gin curiously and took the bottle, wordlessly passing it to Sira. “But somehow, I do not think that is what you are here for. Would I be wrong?”

As Gin approached, Sira looked up over her drink, watching him with a polite smile. Her patient empathy flooded with pain, sharp and acute and crimson; she didn’t flinch. What happened to make you feel this way? Though many questions arose, she asked none aloud. Instead, she scooted aside to make room for him on the seat. The air around her was sweet and fragrant.

Looking to the bottle, she mused, “That brandy’s not bad; it doesn’t take a connoisseur to tell.” Her eyes flitted up to Gin. “But what is it that you need? Perhaps the good Brother and I might be able to help.” She rested her elbows on the table between her and Jomu; only one of the skewers that had been piled between them rested before her.

Gin nodded a polite thank you as Sira allowed the Chiss to get more comfortable in the seat. He could sense a faint slice of tension hanging in the background as the two gazed upon him, wary, no doubt, of the former Jedi.

“I am well aware of my fortune, thanks, Brother.” Gin chuckled as he looked over the Guardian, taking note of his dishevelled dress sense. Perhaps the Empire had not taken kindly to their Order either. “I’m simply new in town and wish to know who is who, maybe starting with our friend over there.”

The Chiss gestured his head towards the Falleen’s table before looking back at the Zeltron. “Surely both of you could help with something as effortless as that, no?”

“For the low, low price of a single bottle of brandy?” Sira drawled, circling a finger around the rim of an empty glass glass. Then she opened the bottle and poured Jomu a drink, inclining her head as she pushed it in his direction. Where Jomu was disheveled even for an ascetic, she was dressed sharply to show her figure; her jacket unstained and her hands—soft for a criminal—carefully manicured. “Only fools come here unable to defend themselves, but you look more than capable. I’m sure you could get out of trouble if you have to. But if any locals come chasing after me because of what I told you, maybe I can point them right back your way.” She winked.

“I might know a little something, though,” she added, voice a low whisper. Even with discretion on her side, she chose her words carefully, sharing nothing that another source couldn’t yield. “Aside from Xen, of course, Zejinn is the big man around here. He pays well, but if you want to last long in the End I’d suggest you keep from getting in the way of his business.

“And no one around here lasts long when they show their whole hand. No one except me,” she said blithely, laughter bubbling beneath her words. “But hey, a simple woman can still do good work.”

Hidden under the cover of his hood, Gin couldn’t help but smirk at the remark. “Fear not, Miss, I can handle myself just fine and I’ll be sure to keep things to myself.”

There was something off about Sira: if her clothes were anything to go by she was either a very successful smuggler or there was more to it. Would explain the bartenders jitteriness. Gin mused as he watched the two share the brandy, trying to ignore the alluring scent coming from the Zeltron.

“And this Xen, Admiral Xen if the rumours on Nar Shaddaa are to be believed. What do you know of him?”

“He is a friend to what little remains of the CIS but remains decidedly on his own side rather than that of any one political faction. And he is constantly involved in the trade of kyber crystals,” Jomu interjected as he signalled his thanks to Sira and took a sip from his cup, his gaze meeting Gin’s. He paused, a small smirk playing upon his lips as he chose his next words. “Crystals much like that which you wear on your belt, brother. A strange piece of jewelry to be wearing, is it not?”

When the server arrived with Sira’s refilled drink, she beckoned him over silently so as to not interrupt the conversation. With a wink and a nod, she accepted the cup of bitterfruit liqueur. It’s violently orange, the color no less bright as her pink fingers wrap around the glass. “It’s quite a lucrative business,” she said, a vapid smile stretching from cheek to cheek. “But if the crystals are in such demand, why have I never seen a belt like that?”

Gin leaned back into the seat, removing his elbows from the table and propping his left arm up along the ridge of the lounge. With his right, he once again lowered the gaiter from around his mouth, allowing the other two the chance to properly gauge his reactions. His hood, however, stayed up in the hope that it would continue to cover up his distinct features, leaving him to go unnoticed by the rest of the bar.

“You take a dangerous line of conversation, Brother. The galaxy has changed of late, this piece of jewelry you speak of once drew an obvious line in the sand, one that let everyone know where they stood. Now?” The Chiss shifted once more, widening his stance as he chuckled to himself. “Well… now any who carry it should be feared.”

Gin allowed the reply to hang in the air for an obvious moment, his face straight as it deadpanned between the two, while another server happened by. The Chiss took the opportunity to divert his attention, looking up to face the woman. “A glass of ice and brandy for myself please.”

The waitress politely nodded, moving off towards the bar as Gin turned back to the table, his face now awash with a friendly smile.

“But I have paid to be the one asking the questions here, Guardian and young Miss.” Gin continued, nodding quickly to both of them once more. “Should you find a way to pay me, I will happily be on the opposite end. For now, there is another rumour that worms its way through the mouths and ears of the Smuggler's Moon, that kyber is not the only thing that Xen trades. Know anything of this?”

Jomu snorted in laughter, quickly composing himself as he leaned in close and whispered across the table: “A fine jest it is, Brother, for you to threaten us with your knightly fashions! Last I remembered, that was not the way of those who wore them, and neither was fear a weapon on their belts. But of course, times change and people change with them—and it seems that some people happen to lose their refined nobility along the way.

“But regarding your question, I hear little and I know less, and I have but enough coin for a meal, much less enough to involve myself with the dealings of rich men like Xen,” the monk continued without interruption, flashing a grin at the stranger. He slowly slumped back into his seat, resting his cup on his belly as he regarded the ex-Jedi and the smuggler. “You know, Miss Sira would certainly know more of that business than I, given her profession. They do not much like beggars at Xen’s auction houses.”

The monk threw his head back with another laugh, taking a careful sip of his cup as he nodded towards Sira.

If Sira was at all frightened by Gin’s threats, she didn’t let fear shake her smile. “Ask after just about anything that you’d want that you can’t get in the Empire—or comes at too high a price—and you can find it here. It’s all Xen’s business; he wouldn’t be so good at his job if he didn’t get a little from just about everything that comes through here.” She took a sip of her liqueur. “I don’t really read into it. Does it need to be something more to be good enough for me?”

So that Hutt really was telling the truth. Gin reflected, almost feeling bad for the way he had roughed up their personal guards. Not that the overgrown slug had cared, he had only told the Chiss the information to save his own skin. More importantly, however, these two had confirmed the connection; maybe it was buying, maybe it was selling, whatever it was, the auctions were why Callidus and his new Order were here.

But what to do now? The former Jedi wondered, his head turning away from the table as he looked towards Zejinn, eyeing up the two massive Weequay guards. Do I try to play them off against each other? Or do I just head straight for Xen? If only Ash were here, she would...

The waitress was quick to interrupt Gin’s train of thought as she slung his drink in front of him. He handed her the credit chit offering a meager ‘thanks’ but the smile had dropped from his face. His heart sank deep inside his chest as each beat began to ring with pain. For a moment the ex-Jedi was stuck, staring at the condensation as it dripped down the glass, running his fingers along the top of it as he turned in a circular motion. Pressing against his thigh, Gin could feel the weight of the mini-holoprojector in his pocket becoming heavier by the minute.

He sighed, taking a small sip of brandy before turning his attention back to the others.

“Apologies,” he said, righting his posture and offering a faint smile. “No, that’s all I need to know, thank you Brother Jomu and Miss Sira. Enjoy the liquor and that final skewer.”

“You know,” Jomu interjected, taking said skewer and examining it for a moment, “I do not know what the Coruscant custom is, but on Jedha, it was a terrible misdeed to be a guest of one’s house and not eat of their meat.”

He set the skewer back down and pushed the plate toward Gin. “Neither was it polite to leave a man’s table without even sharing one’s name—especially when you know both of ours. As our guest of a few minutes’ time, this skewer is yours; I would be greatly displeased if you refused.”

Gin’s stomach betrayed him, crying out for the food with a loud gurgle. The Chiss moved off the back of the couch, resting one of his arms on the table and picking up the stick of meat with the other.

“Jolee.” He replied before taking a reserved bite in an attempt to keep his decorum. Again his heart sank, all this emotion had begun to get to him and his tough facade was waning. There was always the chance that the Force would hint otherwise but he had to lie. With Callidus and his minions around, his real name carried weight, one that could easily get people killed. “Jolee, is my name but really I should get moving...”

The Zeltron watched in silence, gaze drifting between the two men as they spoke. Her breaths were long and even as she focused on her heartbeat; the distress she sensed made her blood thunder in her ears. With each slow breath, she tricked her heart into slowing as if she were calm. Only then can she parse out her feelings from Gin’s, untangling the threads of fear and shock, bitterness and pain. The pain was a reverberant pulse, omnipresent; it loomed over the table and froze the air. A heavy burden to carry, she mused. But do not sympathize with him, she reminded herself; while he may not be able to kill you in the cantina, people ravenous for power can always be counted on to take what they want whenever they choose.

All this happened behind the mask of her smile. “Stay, friend,” she replied, “and feel free to have a drink, you need it. I’m sure you came a long way to our little corner of the galaxy.” She took another long sip, leaning over the table; the aromas of bar food and alcohol mingle with the sweetness that wafts in the air. Sira seized the opportunity to scan the rest of the bar, watching patrons of dozens of different species all absorbed in their own conversations. From only a couple yards away, the chatter and din could easily swallow any quiet words at their table.

Studying the rotation of the servers, she quickly added more when none stood near them: “If you want to know more about the business that happens in the End, I might be able to help out a friend.” That means no brandishing swords. “Let me give you a tip: at Xen’s auctions, just about anything in the galaxy can be bought or sold at least once. He doesn’t have time to oversee each and every one, but you can be sure that the cut off the top always goes to the same place. No matter what you’re interested in, there’s a chance you could find it there.” She twisted a finger in her hair idly. “Now, if you wanted to go, I might know a few auctions happening in a couple of hours. The only problem is that they usually don’t accept mysterious travelers who haven’t yet proven themselves around the End—not alone. But maybe I can do something about that too.”

Cautiously, Gin took another sip from his glass, his eyes narrowing at the Zeltron’s suggestion. Pausing with the brandy perched at the foot of his mouth, he considered the full weight of what Sira had just said. Sure, if true, it was a better lead than anything he could come up with but on the other hand it was dangerous, both of them would be risking their lives and doing so unknowingly.

“A friend you say?” Gin replied, returning his glass to the table. His curiosity had got the better of him and it was at least worth hearing the woman out. “What is the price of friendship these days?”

“You are uneasy, Brother Jolee,” Jomu said as he took another drink from his cup, drinking until the cup was empty once more and setting it down onto the table. He let Sira address the question, focusing on Gin’s own emotional state himself. “My advice? Have a little more to drink and relax for a minute. All is as the Force wills it.”

“A favor, perhaps, and your continued friendship.” Sira raised her glass and watched it glitter in the light. “Oh, and perhaps a few creds on the side, if you find any lost treasures.” Winking, she took a long drink before she continued. “If you are concerned about walking straight into the belly of the beast, think nothing of it! I’m at some auction or another nearly every week. And trust in the Force, of course,” she adds.

Gin lightly snorted at the Brother’s suggestion, smiling genuinely as he nodded his head in agreement.

“Okay,” the Chiss said as he turned to the smuggler. “But if we’re going to do this we need to discuss ground rules and I’d prefer to find out what that favour is sooner rather than later.”

“We’ll talk about it soon,” Sira replied blithely, shrugging her shoulders. “That favor is one I’d like to call in later, as I don’t know you so well, Jolee.” She finished her drink, setting the glass down before rising to her feet. “I’ve heard there’s an auction in a couple of hours. I should probably get ready.”

Gin stood in unison with the smuggler, moving out from the table and politely gesturing for her to do the same. The Chiss returned his gaiter back to its rightful position around his mouth, hoping that it would somewhat conceal his apprehension towards this new alliance.

Jomu wiped his hands and his mouth with a napkin before slinging his lightbow over his shoulder. He then took his staff in one hand and his bottle of lum in the other, following the other two towards the exit while he struggled to open the bottle once more, only succeeding once they entered the elevator. Happy to have a last drink, the monk took a last swig for the road as the elevator doors closed behind them with a pneumatic hiss.

Xen's office door gave a pneumatic hiss as it opened, revealing Syn Dumarr. Wearing a hood over a durasteel helm, the bounty hunter cultivated a purposeful air of mystery and menace. With durasteel plate over his traditional garb, it was clear what sort of combatant he was. It was strange, though, that his shoulders and arms were free of any protection.

"Welcome, welcome," said the admiral, gesturing to a chair before his desk.

Dumarr said nothing. His every step, every stride possessed the controlled violence of a soldier. No remnant of the Jedi he had been remained to the visible eye. He wore a looted Mandalorian carbine across his back, the blaster at his hip was a relic of the Clone Wars.

Syn stopped ten feet away from Xen's desk. "What's the job?" he asked, his voice gravelly. The helmet gave his voice an electronic quality, static fraying the beginning and end of each word.

"I have a problem I need solved," said Xen, "An Imperial Inquisitor. He thinks he's headed here to cause me considerable problems. He thinks that because he, not unreasonably, thinks the late, great Jurys Juryth of Nar Shadda knew where here was. Fortunately, Juryth's personal pilot worked for me and kept our true coordinates obscured from his employer. As a result, said Inquisitor is now in hyperspace to the Outer Rim, far from us, headed to an old Trade Federation mining colony in an asteroid field not unlike the one we find ourselves in now. If you leave soon, you'll be able to intercept the Inquisitor. Kill him, and I give you a million credits."

Syn remained silent.

Inquisitor. Jedi Hunters. He had yet to meet one in the flesh. They were also known as Red Blades, since according to the rumors they carried Sith blades. Syn had been skeptical of talk of some shadowy organization of Sith apprentices in the Empire, which always preferred brute force to subtlety in his experience. But Xen's concerns gave the rumors credence, and despite his appearance of half-drunken affability, Syn knew the Admiral to be a dangerous and cunning man, not one to start at rumors or shadows.

If the Inquisition was real, their data on Jedi, techniques, and perhaps training in the Force would make them far more dangerous than the likes of the CIS Jedi killers in the last war, Xen's old comrades like Cad Bane.

Dangerous enough to be a threat to Syn's plans.

"Any resources at my disposal?" Syn asked, his tone unchanging. Professional confidence mixed with cold apathy.

The admiral took a drink and smiled at the rogue Jedi, "The mining colony has a contingent of my battledroids already waiting for the Inquisitor, two hundred of them, and they will answer to your orders. I'll also give you 10,000 up front to hire any additional muscle you think you'll need. Xasur can help you with that, I assume you know who he is."

Zejinn Xasur. Crime Lord. Second only to Adamantius Xen. Notorious for his whimsical nature. Dangerous but not unreasonable. Syn recalled mechanically. Though he'd neverr worked for the crime lord, Syn knew Zejinn Xasur to be reliable. Syn nodded in the affirmative to Xen, his countenance never faltering.

"10,000 credits up front to hire any additional muscle..." Syn echoed. A plan began to form. With droids and mercenaries, he could make short work of the Inquisitor. The risks were being mitigated to work in his favor. "I can make do with two hired guns and the droids you have supplied. Provide me with coordinates to the colony, and schematics, I would like those as well. Your problem will be solved before too long."

"That's the spirit," said Xen, with a lopsided smile, "That'll be all, Dumarr."