[IC] For a Fistful of Credits: A Star Wars Story

[Hexaflexagon]

_Muzak

_{1: Come Fly With Me}

---

The rain sizzled as it came in contact with the quadanium landing pad. A corrosive mixture of industrial pollutants, high grade chemical cleaner, and just enough water to be considered rain; even the weather on the Smuggler's Moon was intent on screwing a guy over. Doctors recommended limited contact with the droplets especially in any exposed orifices do to irritation and in rare cases lasting damage. Most of the populace preferred to stay indoors waiting for such weather systems to blow over - the lack of bodies casting a strange calm over the typically pulsating city.

Despite the weather a motley group gathered on a dock somewhere within the decaying urban labyrinth. It's not like they really had a choice in the manner. Released little over a week ago from a Hutt Prison deep in the undercity where they stayed chained to a wall and forced to listen to the screams of those less fortunate than them. They were released under some very specific instructions and an understanding that they were to be ready when contacted; if they wanted the baradium charges 'given' to them to remain undetonated and safely tucked within the body cavity. So when a profanity soaked message appeared on their datapads along with a series of coordinates and a time in the ungodly hours of the morning, they all did their best to arrive.

For the past hour or so they stood clustered around the various crates of supplies to be ushered into the ship ahead of them. A Loronar E-9 Explorer-Class Armed Long-Range Scout Vessel apparently called the Bounty if the chipping paint on its side was to be believed. The craft looked much older than its eleven years with damage current with a lifetime of use and abuse. The number of loose metal panels, exposed circuitry and general bearing in that the whole ship seemed to tilt slightly to its left for no reason at all as if at any moment it would just tip over. They waited in painfully elongated silence casting occasional glances towards the small building - more of a fancy shed than anything else - off to the side.

Their ‘leader’ was inside talking to the owner of the dock. Judging from the yelling that could be heard from there position and the ever increasing delay in their schedule it became apparent that some sort of altercation had taken place inside. Three times someone had debated entering the shack to see what the problem was and three times they were deterred as the sounds of yelling began to escalate and grow louder. This cycle continued until a silence fell over the area stretching on just long enough to produce the faintest hints of worry.

Then the sound of a scattergun tore through the air followed by several uninterrupted seconds of screaming. The door to the shed was kicked open a moment later and out walked Mus dragging with her a still screaming Quarren whose right foot now consisted of a bloody mangled stump. She walked right past her charges not even acknowledging their existence as she tossed the Quarren to the ground in a crumpled pile near the edge of the platform. She cocked the scattergun as she looked down at the squabbling man before him.

“On your knees.” she ordered and the only response she got in return was muffled whimpering. She rolled her eyes sighing as she pointed the scattergun to the ground and pulled the trigger. The distinctive boom of a slugthrower going off causing the Quarren to flinch backwards.

“Now.” Mus stated as she cocked the gun. This was the Mus Rosh that everyone heard rumors about. The one that was wanted in a dozen systems, whose exploits included everything from assassinations to bombings. This was the figure that had allegedly broken out of the Kessel Spice Mines not once but twice. Far flung from the jovial character that they first met in the Hutt Prison that introduced herself as their new boss. This was a different animal altogether, an animal that enjoyed the hunt.

Ever so slowly the Quarren began to move right foot still bleeding heavily into a kneeling position. Without waiting Mus thrusted her hand forward into the perpetually ajar jaw and with a surprising level of strength forced it open just large enough so that she could shove the barrel of the scattergun down the Quarren’s throat. His eyes widened and he tried to speak but his voice was muffled and distorted by the foreign object blocking his throat.

“Just shut your kriffing mouth. You had your chance to talk.” Mus explained half-shouting, “Now you listen.”

The Quarren’s protests began to dissipate as he looked up at her and nodded very slowly.

“Good.” her posture seemed to visibly relax, “My employer's trust you. They appreciate you. And in return we give you good business. We always have. Is that not true?”

Another nod was given.

“Then why are you trying to screw us over? Huh?” she asked the question almost innocent if not for the gun jammed down the throat. “Try to scam us over? Try to bump up prices? Another 500 credits? For that piece of shit we keep locked here? I wouldn't be surprised if the thing is filled with mynocks!”

She sighed, “Do you think I’m an idiot? Is that what's happening here?”

The Quarren shook his head vigorously holding his hands reaching up to her in a pleading motion.

“Good.” she swatted the hands away, “So here is what is going to happen. You’re gonna give me the access codes to open that piece of shit for free and you get out of here with your head intact.”

The Quarren began to protest angry noises that needed no translation even as they were muffled behind the barrel of the gun. Mus sighed before pushing the gun slowly forward deeper into the throat. She raised a brow at him. He tried to look past her towards the others still clustered around the ship but his view was brought back down towards the ground as Mus yanked the gun downward. Shoulders sagged in defeat as he nodded his head slowly.

Mus produced the datapad from her back pocket and presented it to him. His hands quickly moved across the screen typing in a series of passwords and conformations never leaving eyes with the Zabrak ahead of him. As a list series of digits was entered the screen flashed green for a second before transition back to a cool blue. Nodding her head in approval Mus put the Datapad away and withdraw the gun from the Quarren’s mouth.

She emptied a slug into his chest before he even had a chance to grovel. At this close of a range the high-powered scattergun easily punched a hole through the flesh and bone of the chest leaving an angry fist-sized hole. The force of the blast knocked him back with enough momentum to send his body spinning with a bloody pirouette over the edge. Mus turned around and walked back towards the group the rain already washing the viscera off of her and the ground.

“You see that’s everyone's problem.” she explained flashing a loose smile, “They think they're worth more alive than dead.”

As she approached the Bounty she pressed a button on her cufflink and a heavy metallic clunk was heard. The ramp that lead into the bounty did not descend so much as it fell smashing into the flooring with a loud harsh noise nearly crushing any of those close to it. A light stuttered before flickering on producing a low buzz. Mus sauntered over and picked up a large rectangular crate labeled Handle Carefully: High Explosives and flung it haphazardly over her shoulder. She walked up three steps up the ramp before she turned around to look at her crew.

“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.” she turned took a few more steps before freezing and called over her shoulder with a wink, “Oh and if you're late your head might explode. Sooo don’t do that.”

[Paraffin]

Xymone had recoiled twice now, having to reign in her urge to rush forward with each impactful peal of projectiles punching their way through the pleading figure forced prostrate before them. Mus had done more than make an example of the Quarrian, the pulpy red muck she'd left to be pummeled by erosive rain punctuating her little speech. It fell flat in front of the prolonged dread their Hutt hosts have had them endure, so far as Xymone had seen this Zabrack was just another jumped-up punk in their employ, emboldened by the belief she was untouchable. That had to be the real message then, didn't it? That their crimson caretaker was unaware of just how much truth echoed in her words. Even combined the Kajidics surely lacked the power to transmit a signal across the whole of creation, certainly they'd consider the possibility that the debters might seize the ship. The Khil's stomach sank as her paranoia present several scenarios. Mus might have a dead man's switch of some sort set to trigger the whole kit and kaboodle were she killed, just as likely they might all be on a timer said chaperone periodically extends. Not knowing was infuriating and did nothing to dull her desire to heave the red ruffian headfirst from the platform, nor did it keep her from complying once curtly consigned to carrying cargo.

With an irritated trill she turned to the faces she'd familiarized herself with over a wretched week of captivity, weakly probing the thin silver lining of their situation. snarked the statuesque sportswoman, plodding through the greasy puddles only to gravitate towards the heavier whatnots in need of hauling. Frankly five was a few minutes too many tight as she was wound and carting containers two at a time made for an immediate outlet, even so she was quickly inclined to call over a shoulder two-thirds of her way up the off-kilter ramp. the Khil muttered from her malleable mouth parts, careful to not to cast so much as a weighty glance down the poorly propped up port side as she secured the cargo. As steeply as the ship slouched away from starboard she was sure to see that everything was secure before bustling back into the inclement chemical shower still spitting at them outside, last thing this day needed was a landslide.

First forward but last to leave the need to guide her heap of a repulsorlift on board all but guaranteed she'd be shacking up in what was left or rooming with the odd man out, she didn't want the vehicle buried under all that clutter should they suddenly need it. Content to let her luggage dry out in the trunk for the time being she twined her way through the ass end of the Bounty, shuffling in after those that had already settled in to the kitchen. She didn't exactly drag her feet either, given that the rouge rogue helming this little disaster was certifiably trigger happy punctuality was paramount.

[Redd]

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.

[Sep]

A good run, of bad luck.

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.

[DepressedSoviet]

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.

[Gunther]

"If you're going to fight,
fight like the third monkey on the ramp to Noah's Ark--
and brother, it's starting to rain."

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.

“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.”

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.

[Gowi]

---

R Y M I

---

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.”

Mus Rosh

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.”

[Hexaflexagon]

After dropping off the supplies that she had gathered Mus shouldered her way into the lavatory. It was a small cube barely wide enough to contain a simple sink, half-functioning sonic and a hole for everything else. A small light fixture slightly off centered switched on as the door opened. Mus had to shield her eyes from the piercing spotlight like levels of illumination; cursing she fumbled for the small dial on the side that slowly brought the light down to a low dim. Her hand shot backwards balled in a fist and hit the console once, twice, and finally on the third hit the door slammed shut behind her.

She make quick work of her outer cloak thick with the pungent smell of Nar Shaddaa and saturated with fresh blood. Above the waist she wore a simple chest binding common amongst more traditional Zabrak and Echani warriors. The lack of outerwear revealed the tapestry underneath. Where Mus lacked the facial tattoos of her people she made up with spades along the rest of her body. Most carried the distinctive look that was common with those bouncing in and out of the Imperial prison system. Each telling a simple story of years in rotation, people killed, gang affiliations and the rest. Some were more interesting though to those familiar with the iconography. Markings concurrent with many of the Separatists guerrilla groups that operated during the Clone Wars listing things from number of clones killed, to successful convoy raids.

She sighed as she turned the sink on. She waited with an annoyed familiarity as rust-colored water spilled from the faucet before steadily clearing up. She cupped the lukewarm water in her hands using it scrub away at the blood that was slowly caking on on to her skin. Despite her line of work and generally nature she had a particularly bad distaste for blood. The way that it stuck to her skin. She could tolerate it when needed but when the chance came to wash it off of her she would always take it.

Taking her discarded cloak up in her hands she dried her face after the last of the blood was washed away. Without looking she pressed her hands into one of the side metal panels and slide upward revealing a simple fingerprint scanner - one of the many smuggler compartments she had hidden around the ship. The biometric scanner hummed in approval and opened to her touch. Reaching within the compartment she produced a small medical syringe filled with a strange cloudy orange liquid. An interesting cocktail of Haladreshin and the slightest hint of Rokna blue. Developed by a fellow soldier while fighting on Jabiim it was used to stay constantly on edge, fasten reaction times and depending on the dosage negate sleep all together. The habit stuck through the war and after.

Ease and experience guided her hands as she injected the stim. The pain came first like shards of glass jammed through the vein and then a few moments later the kick happened. The world seemed to slow down for a moment, senses heightened and heart rate kicked upwards. Any sense of fatigue or pain was immediately thrown out of the window. You
felt like you could wrestle a rancor and win. Nodded her head to an imaginary beat and letting herself steady out she grabbed her outer cloak throwing it over her shoulder as she exited and made her way to the ‘kitchen’.

The kitchen was a small affair barely large enough to fit all of them and even doing so required some creativity on a few parts. Sitting atop of counters and boxes. The mixture of looks she got from the accumulated crowd ranged from disinterest to outright hatred which was expected given the circumstances that they were all in. They didn’t seem like the most talkative bunch keeping to themselves and generally looking like a bunch of mopes. The pilot finally spoke up.

“Well, we’re not late.”

The comment managed to produce a low chuckle from Mus. “Congratulations darling,” Mus clapped her hands together drawing eyes upward, “now onto business.”

“Here are the basic ground rules. One: My pay gets docked for each one of you that dies so for the love of all things just don’t please. Two: Your little gifts are linked to an implant in my head: you fuck up I trigger it you die, you get out of communication range it triggers you die, and you somehow kill me it triggers you die. So just don’t try anything. Three: Follow your orders and you might just make it out of here alive. Good? Good.” Mus explained talking with slight gesticulations of her hands like a vendor trying to sell his second-hand merch.

“Now the reason we are gathered here,” Mus kicked the small circular table and a holoprojector groaned to life displaying the picture of a gruff looking Twi’lek. “Talz'iveri.”

“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.” Mus kicked the table and the projector switched to the next image. It was a freeze-frame of grainy camera footage and amongst a large crowd of well dressed individuals one could barely see the blue Twi’lek amongst them.

“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.”

Mus smiled at her motley little group and opened her arms in a gesture to speak freely. “Any questions?”

[jumpadraw]

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?”

Mus

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?”