A cesspool of the downtrodden, the Refugee Sector on Nar Shaddaa is home to both the misfortunate and criminals alike. Offering their protection for credits, the criminal organizations that control the sector tax the populace outrageous sums. Unable to provide these fees, refugees are forced to work under hazardous conditions producing glitterstim and adrenals for their overseers. Some of these refugees are addicted to the substances themselves—for which the cartels increase the price of their tithes in exchange for a share of the product.

Crammed with stalls and makeshift hovels, several of the sector’s inhabitants find refuge on the streets and in the alleyways. Those who managed to avoid the dangers of drug production can be found selling their limited and often defective goods to others. Behind these stalls, a selective stock of black market wares is hidden, reserved for mercenaries and thugs.

Littered with garbage, it is obvious that no maintenance droids have been programmed to maintain the sector. The surrounding towers have fallen into decay, bits of debris falling every so often into the middle of the street. The duracrete streets are covered in a film of filth and chemicals from the abandoned warehouses, making movement cumbersome when traveling through the most inhabited areas.

Patrols armed with blasters and vibroswords come through these areas regularly, making a show of force to advertise the merits of their ‘protection’ while extorting the occasional shopkeeper. Screams and shouts are a common enough sound, which is never in the refugees’ best interests to interfere in.

Maaz whistled a cheerful tune as he strolled down the streets of Nar Shaddaa. For the first time in weeks he’d been given some leave, and as soon as the papers were signed he grabbed a shuttle off-world. Of course, the Nar Shaddaa refugee sector wasn't most people's first vacation destination. The pilot had given him some odd looks when he requested to come here, of all places.

He’d invited the shuttle pilot to come along but the guy had, politely, refused. Something about not wanting to get mugged and left for dead in an alley. To each their own, Maaz thought, He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.

It’s not as though anyone would have ever thought of mugging Maaz. The brightly colored imperial guard armor tended to deter most from the attempt, and the TL-50 strapped on his back convinced the rest. Turning the corner he could already spy the bright neon sign of his destination up ahead and quickened his pace to get there.

He took off his helmet before entering, not wanting to intimidate the other patrons, and pushed through the thick curtains separating the shop from the street outside. The familiar sounds of clanging steel, sizzling meat, and quiet conversation filled his ears as he made his way inside. The proprietor shouted a greeting over his shoulder in Huttese as he walked up and took a seat at the counter.

“Zaq, you know I don’t speak any of that slug-kark,” the guardsman said with a smile, waiting for the Lasat to recognize his voice,

“Well I’ll be, is that you Maaz?” Zaq turned around, two long and heavy knives still held in both hands. “You son of a schutta! Where have you been?”

“It’s a long story Zaq, probably better discussed over a meal. You still remember my usual?”

“You got it horn-head!” The Lasat turned around, chuckling, and grabbed a variety of meats and vegetables off the shelves around him. The burly chef tossed them onto the grill behind him and set about tossing and chopping them with knives so big they could be called swords. He settled into an easy rhythm while cooking, singing a low song that matched the clanging of his blades on the grill.

Maaz sat back and relaxed, enjoying a moment of peace and quiet for the first time in a long time.

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“Are you sure he is the target?” Grot asked, peering over his shoulder at his probe droid. The droid could only beep with uncertainty, wiggling from side to side. The Trandoshan snorted and looked back along the scope of his rifle down towards the restaurant. He didn’t have to speak binary to know what the droid meant.

It didn’t help either of them that the target details were frustratingly vague. The Dajorra Intelligence Agency had only managed to determine that the Inquisitorius agent they were after on Nar Shaddaa was also a member of the Royal Guard, but everything else about him was an unknown. The man certainly wore the armor, and definitely carried the gear for it; he was decked out to take on an entire battalion.

As much as he hated getting in so close, he had to be sure.

“Stay here and keep watch, droid.” With a snarl, the mercenary picked up his rifle and set towards the fire escape he’d used to get up to the roof. “I will take a closer look.”

——————————————————————————————————————————-

Maaz felt his troubles slowly melt away as he and Zaq fell into an easy conversation. The chef was boisterous and friendly, a refreshing change from most people he encountered in his line of work. Together they fell into an easy comradery, happy to simply have someone to talk to. Maaz regaled him with what unclassified info he could from his time in the guard, old war stories and harrowing tales of battle. The Lasat, for his part, was not about to let himself be one-upped. Life in the refugee sector was just as dangerous as any war zone, and he was quite happy to relate the fate of the mercenaries and thugs who thought themselves slick enough to rob his shop.

The pleasant exchange of stories was interrupted halfway through by the thick, unmistakable thudding of armored boots pushing their way into the restaurant. A monstrous man, dressed in grey patterned armor entered the shop. Weaponry hung all across his body, and a massive jetpack sat on his back. By the helmet Maaz could tell it was Mandalorian designed armor, top notch stuff. Whatever hired gun was underneath all that steel was either too rich for his own good or had earned that money for a reason.

“Friend of yours?” Zaq asked warily, reaching underneath the counter for his rifle.

“Never seen him in my life,” the Devaronian answered, his hand slowly drifting towards his blaster pistol. The man quickly scanned the room, his eyes swiftly falling on Maaz. Underneath the helmet, Grot smiled as he spied the communicator wrapped around Maaz’s wrist. To someone who didn’t know what they were looking for it was entirely normal, but the Trandoshan's trained sight could recognize that it was an Inquisitorius design. Exactly the same kind he had himself, in fact. The one he had stripped off the last inquisitor he'd killed.

This was his man.

“He certainly seems to know you Maaz,” The Lasat said, anxiety creeping into his voice.

“Perhaps it’d be best if you went into the back,” the guardsman suggested with his hand firmly on his blaster. He turned towards the mercenary, standing up from his seat and preparing to move at the first sign of trouble. Seeing the obvious tension, the rest of the patrons begin to quickly clear out of the restaurant. “You got a problem with me, sleemo?”

Grot chuckled inside his helmet, and let out a low, predatory growl. “I have been tracking you for you a long time, guardsman.”

“Yeah? I bet you have—“

Blaster bolts and slugs erupted almost simultaneously across the restaurant as both of them drew their pistols and fired. Maaz dived over the counter, firing as he went while Grot kicked down one of the heavy tables to hide behind. Glass flew across the restaurant as a stray slug hit the light above Maaz’s head and sent sparks raining down on him. Slugthrowers? Really? Just where the kark does he think we are, Tatooine? he thought incredulously, despairing at his sudden bad luck.

“Look here Frakker, it’s my day off!” Maaz shouted from behind the counter, “And I’m not about to let you ruin my vacation!” Maaz unslung his heavy blaster, switching off the safety with a flick of his finger. The Devaronian stuck the gun up above the counter, blind-firing of a storm of blaster bolts that filled the restaurant with a fierce, red glow. Even without looking the Devaronian was certain that would give the mercenary some pause

“You messed with the wrong tourist!” Maaz shouted, beginning to stand so he could actually aim his shots. A blinking red sphere went sailing past his head as he stood, just in time for him to see the mercenary activate his jetpack and go sailing through the restaurant's curtains with a roar of flame. Maaz turned around quickly, and spied the thermal detonator sitting in the sizzling remains of someone's meal on the grill.

“Oh give me a break!”

Maaz didn’t hesitate. He had enough experience to know that every heartbeat counted when it came to explosives. The timer counted down in his mind as he leapt over the countertop and ran for the door, his legs pounding the cement below his feet. He came closer and closer to the doorway, a moment of excitement filling him that he might actually make it out.

Whump.

The Devaronian was familiar with the sound; after all, he’d spent years working with explosives and his fair share of detonators among them. He had always enjoyed the feeling of lobbing one towards his opposition and listening to them scramble in response. He decidedly didn’t enjoy being on the receiving end. Every muscle in his body strained as he raced for the exit, his fingertips extending to push the curtain of the front door aside, when the explosive consumed the room behind him.

Unfortunately for the former guardsmen, the detonator was the smaller explosion. The grill it landed on and the natural gas flowing from it caught fire and erupted in quick succession. The concussive wave hit him first, feeling like being hit by a charging bantha. He felt his feet leave the ground as he mercifully cleared the doorway before proceeding to slam into the wall on the opposite side of the alleyway. Maaz groaned as he rolled onto his side, but he still felt the TL-50 still in his grip. His instincts and training had ensured he hadn’t lost his rifle. That was good.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to realize something else was wrong. He’d not broken anything, but he still felt something burning. He looked down to realize his cloak had caught fire in the explosion and was quickly beginning to spread. Rolling quickly from side to side, he managed to put it out, and even in the turbulence of the moment, he couldn’t help but try not to laugh at the idea of how ridiculous he must look — in full ceremonial armor, rolling around on the ground outside a greasy joint in the middle of the slums.

Through the ringing in his ears he could hear the shouts of panic from the ends of the alleyways as people took notice of the situation. He quickly remembered the large, high caliber Oathbreaker the Trandoshan had slung over his back during their encounter and scrambled behind a dumpster for a measure of cover, his eyes scanning the rooftops nearby. The fire across the alley raged inside Zaq’s old place. Even with the distance between his location and the restaurant it was getting incredibly warm, and he had no desire for any secondary explosions to catch him by surprise.

Rising to his knees into a crouching position, Maaz looked out from behind the dumpster, remaining low and hoping he had a bit of luck left. He felt more than he heard the impact of the shot as it tore through the metal over his head, leaving a gaping hole where the round exited the container where his head had been just a moment before. Cursing, Maaz rolled out from behind the dumpster as the next shot punched into the ground beside him.

He dashed across the street, creating some distance between the burning restaurant and the imminent threat of where the shots were coming from. He knew the Trandoshan had taken to the railings or a nearby rooftop to get the angle necessary to cover the alleyway, and as he ran he kept up a zig-zagging pattern to ensure he kept as much cover between himself and the shooter as possible.

A brief glance towards the open streets told him that going much further wouldn’t provide him much in the way of cover; the Nar Shaddaa citizens knew better than to stick around and had quickly cleared the side street to either end of the alleyway. He looked back in time to see the distinctive flash of the Trandoshan’s jetpack as the bounty hunter changed positions, coming to land on a metal railing below a rooftop overlooking the alley on the opposite side.

Gripping the TL-50, his finger flicked the selector from fully automatic to single fire, his index sliding back onto the trigger. The weapon would take only a moment to gather energy. He shouldered the rifle, glaring up at the Trandoshan who leveled his own weapon, the two taking aim at one another. Maaz’s lips split into a grin as even with the distance between them he saw the look of concern cross the Trandoshan’s face as he fired. The single concussive blast from the end of the TL-50 crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat.

He watched as his opponent dove to take cover, the shot missing the bounty hunter but striking the frame of the railing. Nar Shaddaa architecture wasn’t necessarily known for its durability and in moments the railing and the Trandoshan were plummeting towards the ground below. A single burst from the jetpack ensured the professional didn’t land under the debris, but there was no chance to recover fully, and Grot came down hard on the opposite end of the alley, bouncing repeatedly as he came down hard on the gravel and concrete.

The two didn’t hesitate to take cover, each taking to opposite corners and pressing themselves against the walls.

“You know, a guy takes a day off, goes to his favorite grease-slop to eat poorly and kill himself with bad food. It’s supposed to be a good day, until some lizard-brained, cold-blooded, son of a Schutta comes along and screws it up!” Maaz shouted, more for himself than anyone else.

“Don’t worry, Inquisitor, whatever it was you were eating will not get the chance to kill you. I have plans to collect on your bounty, and your head will make an excellent trophy!” the Trandoshan shouted in response.

“Inquisitor?” Maaz asked himself and shook his head, trying not to laugh.

I hate my luck, Maaz thought to himself before twisting the corner, thumbing the TL-50 back to full auto and sending a blazing hail of blaster fire towards the opposite end as the Trandoshan began firing both BR-5010’s in response.

They traded fire back and forth, popping in and out of cover to send a few more deadly projectiles in the hopes of getting a lucky shot on each other. The air was thick with blaster and bullet alike as the two experienced soldiers carefully avoided any mistakes that would leave themselves exposed. Behind such hard cover and at such a distance, neither was making much progress

This is fracking pointless, Maaz thought in frustration as his latest barrage removed another layer from the corner Grot was hiding behind. The longer the battle raged the more his anxiety grew. This may be the refugee sector, but some sort of authority was bound to respond eventually to the destruction they were causing, and when they did, Maaz was certain they wouldn’t care about who started it.

“All right leatherneck, let’s see how you like a little of your own medicine,” The Devaronian grumbled as he set the timer on his denton charge. This’ll drive the karker out, he mused with a wicked grin.

He waited for a lull in the gun-fire, trying to catch the mercenary in the middle of a reload before activating the explosive and sending it flying towards the Trandoshan. Grot’s eyes locked on to the glowing red sphere as it sailed through the air, landing with a wet plop in a mud puddle near the corner. Maaz turned and sprinted away, determined to gain as much distance as possible before the charge went off.

With only a split-second of hesitation, the mercenary let out a savage roar, flaring his jetpack back to life. Maaz looked back over his shoulder to see what was going on, and cursed in surprise at the sight of a rocket-propelled Trandoshan racing towards him, his pistols discarded. Maaz tried to roll out of the way, but Grot was already travelling too fast. The armored mercenary slammed into his back in a vicious tackle, sending his weapon flying as both they tumbled to the ground in a heap.

Then the charge exploded.

A massive ball of flame arced into the air as the explosive went off, vaporizing the puddle it sat in and ripping the corner of the nearby building to pieces. The shockwave washed over them and made their teeth chatter and shake from the force. Even at a distance they could both feel the wave of heat from the conflagration and shielded themselves as shrapnel flew through the air.

The shoddily built apartment building began to totter, cracking and groaning as it’s supports were removed. Pieces from the upper floor began to sheer off, suddenly unsupported, crashing to the ground and kicking up clouds of dust and debris. Grot and Maaz were showered with bits and pieces of wall and small porcelain remnants of an unfortunate bathroom.

On the ground across from the destruction, the two aliens were locked in a death struggle. Using the sudden surprise of the tackle, The Trandoshan wrapped his claws around Maaz’s threat and began to squeeze, foaming at the mouth in animalistic anger as he tried to choke the life from his opponent. Maaz reached up to his neck, desperately trying to tear the claws away and give himself some room to breathe. Little by little he began to pry the claws away, overpowering the larger mercenary even in his enraged state.

“I will have your head for a drinking cup warm-blood!” Grot hissed angrily in Dosh, spitting curses in his native tongue as he fought against the stronger Devaronian.

“For the last time scale-brains, I’m not the guy you’re looking for!” With a sudden twist of his body, Maaz wrapped his legs around the Trandoshan and used the leg-lock to pull himself up on top of him. Finally ripping the mercenaries hand away from his neck, he returned the favor and ripped the Trandoshans helmet, unleashing strike after strike on the mercenaries head. Grot tried vainly to defend himself, but the last of his energy had been used up in that final assault.

In the middle of reducing his enemy to unconsciousness, a small glint of silver caught Maaz’s eye. Looking close he could see it was a pendant, hanging around the mercenaries neck and knocked free by the violence. A certain sense of curiosity drew him to read the inscription on the side facing him.

...This pendant awarded for conspicuous service to Clan Arcona…

Suddenly, he stopped his assault on the prone and defenseless Trandoshan. Unable to stop himself, he rolled over onto the ground beside him, laughing. “Just my luck, of course you’re Arconan, kark me!”

Maaz reached down to his own neck, pulling off his ID Tags and tossing them on to his fellow Arconan’s chest. “Maaz Sawyer, at your service, looks like we’re on the same side.” Maaz gave a pained cough as the laughing agitated one of his injuries.

“If you are Arconan, what are you doing here?” Grot asked weakly beside him.

“I’m on vacation.”

“On Nar Shadaa?”

Maaz gave no response except for a deep chuckle and looked around the street at the destruction they’d caused. Building lay torn, destroyed, and burning from the explosives. Bullet holes and blaster burns riddled the street from end to end. A bit of the walkway up above still hung limply, threatening to fall on any unfortunate passerby.

And down the street a group of local enforcers were approaching on a speeder.

“Ah kark.”

The gunfire continued for what seemed minutes; in reality it only took a matter of moments for the intense firefight to be over. Maaz kept his rifle covering the corner in which he’d last spotted the bounty hunter. He’d not heard the pistol’s click empty, but the return fire had slowed then stopped. Shouldering the rifle, he began moving hesitatingly down the alleyway. As he tread forward he consistently glanced above in case the Trandoshan chose an alternative angle to strike at him.

His ears still rang from the gunfire and explosions — advancing further, he knew he couldn’t rely entirely on his hearing and his concern grew the closer he approached without the Trandoshan taking action. Pausing beside the dumpster he’d taken cover behind previously, he waited, waited for any sound, any movement, any response.

Did I hit him?

Maaz couldn’t convince himself that his luck had suddenly turned. He wasn’t convinced that fate’s coin would ever flip for him.

And there it was, the sound of the jetpack firing. His breathing slowed as he listened, and he trained his gun up along the rooftop expecting to see the Trandoshan above him at any moment.

Instead, he glanced down as a metal cylinder clanked past him down the alley. The flashing red light made him reconsider every choice he had made throughout the day and wonder why things had gone so very wrong.

He sprinted towards the end of the alley he was facing, the sonic imploder blocking any retreat he could have made. He gained some distance but nowhere near enough to avoid what was coming; the detonation struck him mid-step and it felt as though he’d been struck by a speeder. He flew forward, thrown from the entrance to the alley. He attempted to brace himself and roll, the impact with the ground sending him tumbling. What portions of his body that didn’t hurt from the concussion now burned with a new pain that threatened to consume his consciousness.

He came to a stop, the momentum carrying him to his knees, and only through sheer grit did he manage to open his eyes and watch the Trandoshan approach. He no longer wore the jetpack he had previously and the bounty hunter wore a satisfied smirk covering the reptilian features. His toothy grin that made even the Devaronian shiver.

Maaz sat back on his haunches and waited, feeling like a single massive bruise, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he felt what he could only imagine was several broken ribs hindering his breathing. The heavy armor he wore further restraining his breathing. He tensed, preparing to draw his sidearm. The moment he attempted to draw, he bit back a cry as the Trandoshan didn’t hesitate to fire, the slugthrower tearing through his bicep and sending him sprawling backwards.

He wasn’t sure how long he had lost consciousness; he only came to as he felt the metallic touch near his neck and felt the ID tags pulled from under his cloak. The probe droid scanned the tags and chirped to its owner.

The bounty hunter was looking at a datapad and began swearing in a language Maaz couldn’t understand.

“He’s Arconan?” the guttural and hissing speech sounded with extreme contempt and was answered by an affirmative chirp from his droid.

Maaz lost consciousness again as he felt the Trandoshan lift him up and begin dragging him. The last thing he heard was the shouts of approaching patrols.