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.

The refuse cluttered streets were jam-packed full of locals mingling shoulder to shoulder or maneuvering around tables or merchants’ stalls in the smog-filled twilight. Those destitute enough to claim the Refugee Sector of Nar Shaddaa as their home knew nothing of safety or privacy, even in one’s own bedchambers - if they were lucky enough to have those. Most lived on the streets, claiming what space they could for their own, and constantly under threat of disdainful and corrupted guardsmen or gangsters looking to club an innocent refugee for sport. Their lives were essentially forfeit, a trembling existence tortured by fear and eased by the point of a stim needle. It was clear that narcotics of every sort, stim being one of many, were commonplace and eagerly used and manufactured. The heavy-lidded eyes of numerous passers-by were scarlet in their intoxication, pupils dilated or insectoid eyes bulging. And yet, whatever life they clung to carried on, the impoverished enslaved to their masters no matter the hour. In short, it was inescapable misery. That was the way of a defeated people.

Laren Uscot, a Pantoran assassin, waded cautiously through the flowing, sentient mass of people, ignoring the repugnant stench of rarely bathed bodies and centuries of filth. He was unremarkable among the thick crowd, cerulean skin and golden eyes viewed as casually as horn and claw. Everyone on Nar Shaddaa, especially the refugees, were of varied backgrounds originating from every corner of the known galaxy. Minutes before, he had fended off a small rabble made up of Humans, Twi’leks, and of more sentient creatures he hadn’t bothered to remember. They had intended to snatch a purse they thought he hid beneath his Armorweave Cloak, before he showed them a hint of his blaster rifle and sent them running away. He now pushed aside a Bothan, of all things, not intending to lose sight of his objective some distance ahead. The Bothan was replaced by another, furry mass that had entered his field of vision, and he almost reached out to gently move it aside when he realized that the mass was nearly eight feet tall. A hulking Wookiee blocked his way, and he decided against moving the thing. He knew he was a strong man, and he knew how to fight, but he was spry rather than mighty. Best to leave the Wookiee alone, he agreed with himself, moving around and out of the Wookiee’s shadow.

Suddenly, he saw his target - a scrawny Clawdite with a dark, red felt cap - duck out of the milling throng toward a small, unremarkable food stall with a purposeful stride. Wary, Laren moved accordingly to track the man, exiting the crowded street a few stalls away. He took a seat on a small patio, leaning back casually and acting the part of a customer. He was beside two Humans playing Pazaak on the shabbiest deck he had ever seen. He paid the game and their players no mind, however, once deciding they were of no threat. A Quarren barkeep scuttled out from behind his beverage stall and queried his order. Laren gave it in a bored tone, but the barkeep backed away in a frenzied heap after meeting his hardened gaze. After a moment, though, Laren realized it wasn’t fear of him that had driven the Quarren away at all. The barkeep’s eyes were crimson from drug use. The poor man was likely hallucinating or some such.

Putting the barkeep from his thoughts, his eyes followed the path in front of him until he found the Clawdite once more, that wretched hat still on his head. The blasted thing made Laren’s task considerably easier than it should have been, but he couldn’t help but grimace slightly looking at it. His eye for fashion was functional, at best, but no sentient in their right mind should be able to don that thing without living in immeasurable shame at their choice. On the other hand, the Human man sitting nearby, the one garbed in the fancy coat and the silver belt buckle - and, Laren couldn’t help noticing a smart pair of boots he genuinely ogled briefly - that was how a man should dress. Proper like, befit of their station. The Clawdite was, after all, a skilled information broker, with credits and an entire gang at his disposal if the need should arise. Perhaps that Human man would -

He paused, frowning as he observed the finely dressed Human man carefully. For an instant it had seemed that keen gaze had met Laren’s own. That look had been probing and intense. Studying, he concluded, like that of a scholar or detective looking upon a subject or suspect. Laren almost imagined the man had looked inside of him, mucking about in his thoughts in some frantic search. But that was ridiculous, of course. Shaking his head, Laren looked again, but found the man as he had been, straight-backed and haughty as ever. Despite their surroundings, the man made his rusted durasteel chair seem a throne, and his utter disregard for his surroundings exuded a powerful arrogance that forced those nearby to give him a wide berth. The air of danger that emanated from the man was almost palpable, but Laren had seen its like before. He determined the man to be considerably threatening, but not to his mission. Not now, anyway. Yet that feeling that his mind had been violated remained, and he felt as if he were a hunted beast, his imaginary hackles rising in alarm knowing that he had been spotted.

I must remain vigilant, he told himself firmly. It had been some years since he had been another drunken lout, brawling on these very streets or in illegal fight clubs to earn his next hit. Alcohol and stims had been his only reason for existence after crash landing, and through trial and considerable error, he had proven to be a savvy fighter - especially when the blood rage of a stim or adrenal had taken him. But some mercenaries had noticed his talent and had cleaned him up a bit, refined his rough edges. If refining edges could be said to be throwing a young, enraged teenager into a dark room with nothing but a small pot for his feces, and random morsels of half rotten food tossed through a small flap in the door. And then the training had begun, in weapons and martial arts, a brutal progression that had made homelessness seem a paradise. A chill ran up his spine recalling those memories, and he extinguished them from his mind. He began an Echani breathing technique to calm his nerves, keeping his eyes open to observe his target. The Clawdite continued conversing casually with a slew of patrons at the food stall. He fed his emotions and memories into that endless maw, retaining nothing but an unshakable calm and a cold disposition. Three things remained of conscious importance. There was the mission, there was the target, and there was victory.

Laren’s eyes narrowed as the scene began to change. Plucking the red cap off his head, the Clawdite man followed two burly Devaronians who had just exited the crowd. Confidently, he strode between the two into a small alley to the left of the food stall. Laren stood to follow, leaving a small credit chip for the barkeep who, he realized, had not brought him his drink.

Walking along the table-lined side of the street was much easier than making his way through the crowd, and Laren had no need to hide any longer. If the Clawdite man had left any agents in the mob or among those working the stalls, they were too late to prevent his barging in on the exchange. Before reaching the alley, he looked to the table where the oddly familiar Human man had been sitting, only to find the seat vacated, his beverage untouched. Deep within the recesses of his focused mind he felt fear, and his hand shot instinctively toward his hand blaster. Something about that Human man frayed his nerves. Shaking his head, he documented the encounter and filed it away in his mind. The mission demanded all.

A sudden wave of thickly accented Huttese drifted toward Laren as he entered the alley. He translated in his head instinctively as the Clawdite continued, “...once they make the rendezvous. For a price, I believe that we can collectively take a few more -”

There were five figures in the dimly lit alley. The Clawdite with the red cap, originally with his back to Laren, had turned to gape at him. The two Devaronian guards, holding long vibroswords, Laren realized, had each stood guard on either side of the alley and were also facing his direction. The other two were an unexpected addition. Identical Kiffar females in every conceivable way that his sharp eyes could tell, they were lithe of build, with amber lines underlining sharp, dark eyes, angular faces expressionless and fixed on the mouth of the alley where he now stood. Huntresses, he realized, and members of the Technocratic Guild. Deadly members, from what he could recall of the dossiers the Inquisitorius had circulated on The Collective. It was an unexpected surprise to see Shikari Huntresses in the open. He saw arms of sinewy muscle begin to stretch toward stun baton and some sort of plasma bow, respectively.

It was then that everything happened at once. Flinging back his cloak in a swirl of motion, Laren found himself gripping his blaster carbine and releasing the first sapphire bolt toward his enemies, running toward the cover of a building wall at the alley mouth as he did so. The Huntress with the stun baton, his intended target, dodged the bolt that had come within a finger width of her cheek. Simultaneously, the Huntress armed with the bow had knocked and drawn what appeared to be an arrow made of the same plasma. Laren felt the arrow - if the plasma could be called an arrow - shoot past where his face had been moments earlier. Instead, the arrow had found an unsuspecting target in the packed street. Laren ignored the people beginning to disperse in a frenzy from where two bodies lay limp, an arrow somehow pierced collectively through their skulls. The other Huntress, the Clawdite, and the two Devaronian guards had turned to flee while the other distracted Laren, exiting the other side of the alley in a brisk sprint. The Clawdite and his Devaronian companions turned left, while the Huntress went the other way, her sister in close pursuit.

The sound of a lightsaber igniting on the other side of the alley was all the warning one of the Devaronian guards had. Laren peeked to watch, and he saw the fool had been taken by surprise and cut in half, that arrogant Human man he had seen earlier standing over the cleanly sheared torso, eyes fixed on Laren. If the bodies of the other two lay felled as well, Laren could not see them, though he suspected the information broker and his remaining guard had managed to flee the scene unharmed. Weeks of planning only to be ruined by some karking fool with a laser sword. Of course.

Laren studied the man’s handsome face, drawing upon his own memories in order to reveal the truth of what lay behind that intelligent gaze. The man wasted no time, though, and he began sprinting forward, lightsaber deactivated but held gracefully in his right hand.

It was on the precipice of combat that Laren remembered. Areticus Altainatus, recently returned to the Sith Clan of Plagueis, where he himself ruled as Proconsul in name and title only. The man was an enigma, his path mottled and difficult to dig into. Even his sources across Plagueis and the Inquisitorius knew little, and Laren knew even less. What he did know, however, was that the man was dangerous, a decorated Sith practitioner with both blade and their precious Force. But young, still, and perhaps a touch of that overbearing and youthful ego Laren sensed was true, rather than feigned. A weakness, perhaps? There was no way to be sure, and no time to delve deeper. All he knew was that Areticus was after his hide.

“Not today,” Laren growled, aiming his carbine at the ground in front of Areticus. He could have shot the man point blank, a normally easy kill. Yet with all of Laren’s skill, the man was likely teeming with the Force, that unseen power to deflect and dodge blaster bolts and even death’s embrace in the most unlikely of circumstances. Instead, the Pantoran opted to shoot the ground, sending chunks of dust and debris flying at the man from various angles. He shot a few more times, stopping the man’s sprint abruptly, giving Laren enough time to turn tail and run. He had not brought explosives with him, and even though the man was cornered in an alley, any foe with a plasma sword immediately put Laren at a severe disadvantage.

Not daring to look back, he hoisted the blaster carbine onto his right shoulder and bounded down the wide street. Coming to an intersection, he turned onto a wide avenue, rushing between onlookers who were staring at the bodies the Huntress had left in her wake. Violence was a regular occurrence, especially in the Refugee Sector, yet the sight of death was always something for locals to take note of. It was a clear sign to steer clear of the area. Laren ignored their stares and incredulous shouts as he pushed them out of his way. He didn’t need to look behind him to know that Areticus in all his vanity followed seconds behind, far enough that the Force was ineffective, but close enough that a few quick steps at a sprint would guarantee Laren was skewered with that red blade.

The avenue was lined by a slew of tall buildings, crumbling from lack of maintenance and yet still mostly solid. A few of the buildings were attached at various angles by footbridges, though some looked even more ragged than the structures they were connected to. His eyes searched frantically, hoping for a solid expanse of duracrete, really anything he could use to pull himself up with the grappling hook he kept on his utility belt. On flat ground, Areticus had the advantage with his lightsaber, and Laren guessed that the man had scouted his surroundings prior to joining in battle. The man was no savage, judging by his clothing and demeanor. But if Laren could manage to pull himself free of the streets and use the maze of dilapidated buildings to his advantage, he might have a chance to turn the tide and figure out why he was now a target in the first place.

Suddenly, he saw it. A footbridge perhaps ten metres across and three wide, and only two metres up, a quick climb if he was lucky. It was a lazy, arched thing connecting two tall buildings that looked slightly less worse for wear than the rest. He saw what was likely cookfires emanating from one, flickering amber light dancing out of shattered glass windows, but the other to the right seemed dark and empty, its shadowy interior undisturbed by sentient hands. The bridge itself had rusted durasteel railings, and he could latch onto those with ease using his grappling hook.

Looking behind him, he saw Areticus trailing, too close for Laren’s comfort but just far enough away that, perhaps, he might have a chance. Heart thudding in his chest, sweat beginning to bead on his brow, Laren tossed aside his carbine with one hand and reached for the grappling hook at his belt with the other, slowing his pace just slightly. With practiced precision he fired upward, the hook firing at breakneck speed toward the bridge a short distance away. Once the hook reached its target Laren yanked, the hook digging in firmly under the rusty durasteel rail, fastening in place. Time seemed to slow as the Pantoran assassin let go of the firing mechanism and clasped the metal wire, climbing upward with a strength and vigor that bellied his lithe frame. His grip on the metal wire drew blood, but his pace did not falter. Though he swung sporadically on the wire as he climbed, he reached the top in seconds with aid of his legs, twisting the metallic fibres under his weight to act almost as a springboard upward.

Gripping the railing with both hands, he swung himself over onto the bridge. Feet touching ground, he turned to see Areticus only moments behind, readying to jump, or so it seemed. He knew Force types had that power, the ability to manifest their strength beyond what normal folk could do. But he wasn’t going to wait around to find out. Ignoring the blood on his hands and a creeping weariness, he turned right and headed into the darkness of the building, using what precious seconds he had to study his surroundings and, if he was lucky, plan a trap for the arrogant fool chasing him.

Laren stepped carefully, doing his best to maintain soft footfalls in the darkness. He suspected any Force user would have heightened senses, and he wanted to minimize his presence in every way possible. His eyes slowly adjusted to the curtain of blackness that was the interior of the building, and it painted a bleak picture. Rubble was strewn about haphazardly from a collapsing ceiling, and there was little cover save for thick, durasteel enforced duracrete columns. Some scattered garbage completed the bleak picture, but save for that there was nothing. Such an escape it had turned out to be.

“It seems there’s nowhere to run, traitor.”

A lightsaber ignited behind him, coating the dark room in a field of vibrating red.

Turning, Laren frowned at his Sith companion, though nothing of mirth touched his cold stare. He was a traitor now, was he?

“Seems you’re right,” Laren replied simply. He would puzzle out the meaning of being a traitor later. His life was on the line, and there was no time for idle thought.

“Might as well surrender now, ” Areticus said confidently, blade held in front of his chest parallel to the ground, blue eyes fixed on Laren’s. “Your skills are no match for the power of the Dark Side.”

“Freeze in the icy hells, Sith.”

Laren reacted first. He reached for his holstered hand blaster, released the clasp and fired a quick succession of bolts. Areticus managed to deflect the bolts wildly, and Laren released more, slowly stepping away from the target. The man seemed to be predicting the shots, throwing plasma at ceiling or floor with but a moment to spare. Once, the Sith even managed to deflect a bolt at Laren, the plasma grazing his right shoulder. Searing pain erupted where the flesh was scorched, but he was deep in his focus and ignored it. Mission first, target first. He fired faster, the trigger mechanism working as fast as his finger would squeeze, the hand blaster beginning to emit steam from excessive heat. He had to hit that bloody Human, he just had to hit the man once and he would have the advantage.

One of the bolts found its mark, striking the electronic looking gloves and managing to break skin. Areticus roared with an amalgamation of fury and pain, and he deactivated his lightsaber. Laren kept firing wildly for another few seconds, bolts reaching the far end of the building or shooting out of broken windows. The man, it seemed, had disappeared. Yet you can’t be far.

“You managed to hit me,” Areticus said, surprised. His voice was loud, booming, and seemingly coming from everywhere at once. “I will not forget.”

Without warning, Areticus was multiple places at once and advancing on him slowly.

“It will be an honor to kill a traitorous Proconsul, even one so undeserving of the title.” Areticus’s laugh - the laughs, Laren conceded - were a deep baritone, the chortle of a hunter toying with his kill.

Laren blinked, and when he looked again, the prowling avatars of Areticus had changed position. They all grinned at him, eyes twinkling with deadly mischief, before simultaneously running behind the thick columns nearest them. Laren whirled, searching, waiting. More appeared at the corner of his eye, coming closer, dancing in his field of vision. Laren couldn’t see clearly. He knew they were not real, and yet they appeared and reappeared in a blinding fashion, four at once disorienting his senses. Closer and closer they edged, lightsaber deactivated but in hand, ready to strike.

Shaking his head, the Pantoran focused inwards.It is not real, he told himself. He ran through all the scenarios outside of his mind’s calm, reassuring himself what he saw wasn’t real. Yet it seemed real, from the detail of the buckle down to the notches on his lightsaber. It is not real. Briefly he closed his eyes, washing away all doubt in his mind like rolling waves at low tide, revealing nothing but the shore of truth. It’s not real!

Opening his eyes, there was only one Areticus, off to his right and creeping forward slowly. Hoping to trick Laren Uscot, was he? Attempting to take him off guard with some conjurable doubles of himself? He would not go down so easy as that.

Turning, Laren aimed to fire.

Areticus manifested a screen of dark mist to match the hue of his environment. He then ducked, with one arm for support and the other extended into a passata sotto with a reignited lightsaber. Tip of the blade dipped lightly into Laren's thigh and caused him to wince back. The red blade then disappeared into the smokescreen followed by Laren's retaliating shots. The dark mist became more clear as Laren looked at it, but there was no Sith to be found. Laren scanned the room and counted four pillars as the only concealment for his opponent. He tried to keep distance between each of them, but slowly turned the corner of the column on his leftmost side.

Areticus could hear his footsteps of caution. He could feel Laren's presence and curving movement to his left with just the still shuffle of feet. The injury from Areticus' saber made the steps incoherent and sloppy, it seemed. "Have you ever heard the theory of natural selection?" the illusionist asked with his voice thrown around the room with the Force. "Fascinating topic I read in a book once. It states an evolutionary process to where a species with a superior genetic trait will replace the inferior. This process is relatively slow and takes multiple generations. However, the inferior species eventually become extinct." The lecture gave enough time for him to remove his gloves and take out his stim kit. He was still a little shaky, but the throbbing on his knuckles subsided from his nerves. That implant was well worth every ounce of credits, he thought to himself. "I find that one who can innately wield the forces of nature is quite the advanced trait, don't you? Of course, I doubt you would. You would only agree if you too felt reality itself bend to your will," Areticus continued. He wouldn't have much time before his opponent would catch on. After filling the syringe, he inserted it into the vein of his forearm and emptied it. He then checked the locator on his comlink, Just need to buy a few more moments for the cavalry. The footsteps were louder now. Based on the pitch, Laren was due to be in view of Areticus within just a few seconds. The Sith drew upon the Force once more and gripped his saber tight. His focus was unwavering now, and he was filled with energy as if his previous cardio pursuit had never occurred.

Areticus came out from the corner of his column in an aggressive power walk towards Laren. Expectantly, Laren immediately fired off well-aimed shots, only to have them absorbed in an invisible barrier. The Sith activated his weapon once more and dashed at the Pantoran. A quick wrist flick sent his crimson blade horizontally through the barrel of his pistol. The accuracy of the focus behind his shock and awe put his opponent in a state of desperation. Laren retreated back outside the building but was slowed by the burning flare in his thigh wound.

"Please don't run anymore or I'll just kill you outright," Areticus stated with a tone of boredom.

Laren grimaced and lowered his hips in a deep stance with both of his extended palms facing upward. Areticus fought to keep his composure, but couldn't help but leak a subtle chuckle, "How quaint, what is that?"

There was a moment of silence before Areticus' amused expression became more stern, "Altainatus Industries, the hyperdrive corporation on Coruscant, whom within it is collaborating with the Collective? I won't ask twice."

Laren's eyes squinted at a throbbing headache in his mind from Areticus' voice. He looked up to see the Sith's hand extended towards him, possibly attempting to draw information from his mind yet again. He had to resist. Altainatus Industries? Laren had never heard of the business. It must have been minor. If it was backing the Collective, however, it's reasonable to believe it would give a Sith bearing the name a concern. "I don't know," Laren answered.

Areticus pushed his interrogation in the Force harder, "Someone of your station in Plagueis and with hands in the Collective would keep track of such matters, given the regulation of trade customs the industry is involved with."

Laren gave an expression of weary openness, "I really don't. I think you have me misunderstood. Please, allow me to explain."

Areticus listened to the details of Laren's mission. A reconnaissance for the location of one of the prestigious leaders of the Technocratic Guild, as well as information a certain Clawdite broker. The Clawdite's information was believed to tip the scales in the conflict against the Collective, not that the Brotherhood didn't have the current upper hand in the first place. What interested Areticus the most about the Proconsul's situation is the way it could be perceived.

As Laren finished his explanation, Areticus curled a smile, "You do know there is enough evidence as a whole to incriminate you, be it your intentions are genuine or not."

Laren didn't like that smile, and he started to catch on to the Sith's new plot, "The Consul is aware of my mission and knows I wouldn't act as a double agent."

Areticus wasn't convinced, "Yes well, more trusting individuals have betrayed the Brotherhood in the past. How is it working with Selika?"

"A pain," Laren replied plainly.

Both the Pantoran and Human ceased their conversation at the arrival of an HK series droid painted in the pattern of a tuxedo attire. With it was a WESTAR-M5 aimed and at the ready, "Forgive my tardiness sir, do you require assistance?"

"Ah, Walter, good to see you. This is Laren, the Plagueis proconsul. Don't be rude, do say hello, Walter."

"Hello," Walter responded with the end of the barrel aimed at Laren.

"Hi?" Laren said, awkwardly confused.

"Do you wish for me to engage, sir?" Walter asked again.

"That all depends," Areticus states with an arched eyebrow to Laren, "does the good Proconsul have an offer I cannot refuse?"

Altainatus Industries. Another piece of the puzzle Laren had not gleaned before. Someone was working from within a galactic corporation connected to this fool Sith funneling information to the Clawdite, and the Collective. The man dared interrogate him while his own employees sought to undermine the Dark Jedi Brotherhood? It was all Laren could do to simply scowl, while below the surface a passionate fury was welling up inside him. Thoughts of snapping the man’s neck danced silhouetted across his vision, an open-eyed daydream he was determined to see fulfilled. Better than staring at the arrogant smile he wanted to claw from Areticus’s lips. How dare that man interrupt his investigation! How dare he allow his target to escape his own hands.

When the assassin droid suddenly appeared, black as night and leveling a blaster his direction, Laren’s scowl deepened. His rage, first gently simmering, was gently fanned when the man’s final offer was left hanging in the air. Laren had no immediate answer to the question, his thoughts focused on his own. Had Areticus already decided to kill him, or not? Why hadn’t he thought of bringing R3? No, that droid had its own tasks. Besides, it was more than likely it would have taunted Laren rather than actually assisting in any capacity. The questions continued. Would the Clawdite investigation be salvageable? Who exactly was Areticus?

No, he thought with sudden, grim determination. He lacked time and control. Everything else had to wait. Survival always came first. Thoughts of his desperate situation only deepened the dread and rage he felt. It seemed there was always one thing he never kept track of, one detail that crept up and stabbed him in the leg he hadn’t yet considered. This time, he was in over his bloody head because of this damn Human, and a rich one with the attitude to match no less. Laren’s rage at being caught so unaware by such a high nosed fellow almost distracted him from coming to terms with his current state.

The wound of his scalded shoulder throbbed with the pain of what felt like a thousand sharp nettles, while the cauterized wound in his thigh wanted to make him howl in agony. Such a small thing, that leg wound, and yet one puncture of that man’s scarlet saber had nearly driven him to the ground in utter defeat. The silver lining of his leg wound was that it had been sealed, and the only blood he had spilled thus far oozed from under the liquified, pussy remnants of cerulean skin from the graze of a blaster bolt. He was down, to be sure, knocked down a peg or three, but he was most certainly not out.

Moments passed, yet Laren said nothing, holding the Sith’s gaze with a steady stare of his own, eyes glittering like twin golden suns against a crimson morning sky. Areticus was clearly annoyed at the lack of response, though to his credit he held back the equally silent assassin droid with his blaster pointed at him. It seemed Areticus liked to toy with his enemy and remain in complete control. He had to know his enemy’s every move, to anticipate their reactions down to the last breath in their weary bones. Could he find a break in such a detailed plan?

Laren saw his opponent’s eyes narrow, saw the man’s feet shuffle ever so slightly, the fingers grasping the hilt of his lightsaber undulate with barely veiled impatience as the seconds ticked onward. Now something else: there were tiny beads of sweat growing on the man’s brow, Laren realized. He concluded that the Sith must have expended enough energy in the initial chase to outwardly show signs of wear. Perhaps he could foil such a carefully laid design.

Finally, Laren stood, easing from the ready stance he had assumed earlier, arms held loose and casual at his side. He would play this aristocrat’s fool game, and Laren banked on the man having some semblance of honor in order to even the score. Honor was likely the only thing that held the droid back from engaging his blaster. After all, what was he to Areticus besides a mere assassin in a helpless situation, a mouse on the edge of death being toyed with by its feline hunter?

“You have me in quite the bind, Sith,” Laren began. “An offer you can’t refuse, eh? Well money doesn’t seem to be any concern considering your company has been in league with The Collective -”

“Careful, assassin. I might just allow Walter here to loose a salvo into your gut.”

“No need for that.” He paused, moving his sore leg just slightly. He was sluggish, but he had some energy reserves left. Enough for one final boost of speed, one final charge of pure fury. He would take this man off guard if it was the last thing he did in the galaxy before being thrown into the icy hells. “I’m in no shape to tango, you see. But what can I offer a man with so much? Title, perhaps? No, the company holds that sway again.”

“And yet there is something, isn’t there?” Areticus intoned, the attempt to lead Laren onto a pre-planned conclusion clear. A confession, no doubt.

“There’s always something,” Laren agreed.

In his mind, Laren readied himself for the attack. If Walter was an example of assassin droids Laren had trained to defeat, the droid would aim for centre of mass. If that wasn’t available, it would calculate his next likely trajectory based on his movement, as any good soldier would. But if Laren could close in on Areticus, get his master in the way, then the droid was as good as useless in the fight. The plan was suicide, but Laren felt backed into a corner. He resigned himself to being a dead man walking, with nothing but malice and the intent to snap the Human man’s neck in his final moments.

“So perhaps a simple truth may suffice as an offer for you, Sith.”

“And what would that be, assassin?” Areticus responded, a thin smile painting an image of victory.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

Drawing upon all of his focus and remaining energy, Laren dropped low and into a complex and speedy barrel roll. He felt his leg protest at the movement but ignored it, the torrent of adrenaline in the opening moment enough to keep the pain temporarily at bay. He heard the first shots that had emanated from Walter’s blaster. One had come close enough to rip through a loose piece of his cloak. Laren ignored all else but the Sith in front of him, though. Stray shots meant nothing. He was a Loth Wolf on the high plains, ready to pounce upon his kill.

He regained his footing less than a meter from the man, his scarlet lightsaber activated and poised to strike a killing blow. Laren flowed gracefully forward, darting about uncontrollably in a low crouch and evading the stray bursts of blaster fire while Areticus waited. The droid would not have his prey quite yet.

The man had never dueled with the likes of me before, he thought with a snarl.

Areticus moved to slash at Laren, the saber beginning its arc toward the Pantoran’s chest. He’s used to enemies wielding a lightsaber at a slight distance. The blaster bolts had ceased, and time seemed to slow as the engagement grew into a tense flurry of activity. Laren’s thoughts and emotions drifted outside of the bulwark of serenity he had erected inside his mind. Thoughts told him that he suspected the droid was changing its position for a clearer shot. He felt anger, and fear, afraid that the droid would be the killing blow, let alone the Human's saber through his heart. The assassin realized he had only a few seconds to deliver his next strikes, or death would surely take only him. All pretense of thought was destroyed, and nothing remained but the target in his mind’s eye. Laren ducked under the attempted slash. The lightsaber had singed wisps of his stray hair, but he felt the blade pass over his head.

An opening.

The Pantoran was off balance and at his deadliest, flowing forward from the hip and around the Sith. His first strike was deliberate as he edged a hard elbow into Areticus’s abdomen, though with only some of the grace he could encapsulate prior to his injuries. His adept mastery of the flowing Echani form was evident, however. Laren caught a look of genuine surprise on the Human’s face as he began to turn to meet Laren with another, desperate strike, but Laren kept low and close to the man’s body to inhibit his lightsaber movement.

Momentum now carrying him forward, Laren thrust his left hand, palm closed in a tight fist, into the exposed armpit of his opponent’s lightsaber wielding right arm. First strike. His tightened fist connected with flesh, and he heard the Human man scream his agony, but Laren’s flurry of assaults continued. He heard something clatter to the ground, skidding a few paces away. Lightsaber dropped. Good. Not much time left. He bombarded Human flesh with both hands, striking chest, neck, the other armpit, numerous quick motions into soft targets as swift as he could make them. He flowed about, following the natural movement and reaction of his body to sweep or swirl into the next strike, all the while keeping Areticus between him and Walter. The Sith managed to block a few strikes, clearly adept at some form of fighting in his own right, but was no match for the cold fury of a master Echani practitioner levelling blow after blow in mere seconds.

Laren ignored the sweat staining his eyes, but he felt death’s grip slowly begin to encompass him. His all out effort was already dragging him down. His leg injury forced him to slow his encirclement, and his shoulder roared in disgust at the excess movement it was forced to endure. Areticus was regaining his stride, blocking back attacks with focused precision, narrowed eyes following the ebb and flow of Laren’s onslaught. In moments, the counterattack would begin.

I have to end this. No time.

A deafening and guttural cry erupted from Laren, a concoction of rage and pain seeming to emanate from the depths of his soul. If I have one. He was probably dead and had accepted as such, but there was no chance in the icy hells he would allow Areticus to leave without being bludgeoned out of existence. He would be a pulverized hunk of flesh his quirky assassin droid would have to drag home, bruised worse than a Corellian peach.

The Sith shot a knee into Laren’s ribcage, the cap connecting with lithe flesh below Laren’ coat that sent torrents of pain shooting through his breathless body. At least one, perhaps two broken ribs. In those quick moments, breathless or not, was his final chance for revenge. Grasping the still outstretched leg Areticus had unknowingly proliferated, he pulled the man toward him with the last of his strength. Simultaneously, Laren sent his own skull flying forward to meet the man’s own. Foreheads connected with a loud crack. His vision had faded to black, but in his final moments of coherent consciousness, he had writhed on the ground, laughing hoarsely. His last thought said it all.

Hopefully I broke pretty man’s head.

Then the nothingness overcame him.

---

Walter ambled forward cautiously, his blaster still trained on the unconscious Pantoran nearest his Master. His life sign readings were faint, at best, but the Master had not issued a killing command before succumbing to that insufferable opponent. Programming battled furiously in his brain, large campaigns of base, ethical precedence waged across vast microseconds. Does he kill the Master’s enemy without the consent of the Master, thus eliminating a threat, or does he tend to the Master, leaving the unconscious life form alive, and perhaps able to challenge the Master another day? He ran simulation after simulation, discovering every possible scenario, factoring in the Master’s own health as well as their current location, their intentions, everything.

In the span of a few seconds, the blackened HK-series Assassin Droid had reached its conclusion. Ambling forward, he ignored the immobile mass of cerulean flesh, coming to kneel beside his own unconscious Master. The Master's black hair, once slick and oh so carefully groomed, was now in complete disarray, as messy and mangled as the rest of his contorted, limp body.

He accessed his memory banks, recalling combat first aid techniques used during the late Imperial period, as well as that of the Clone Wars and their own troopers. Two of the best examples of battlefield medical treatment by a non-medical expert, the document search in his head had concluded. Walter had no medical consumables available, but he checked Master’s life signs and accessed the damage. Though battered and bruised, with a particularly nasty gash on his forehead, the Master was alive. He had little programming remaining besides that of combat related nature, but his prime directive was the care of his Master.

His experience with first aid had been exhausted, and it was time to extract the Master. One metallic hand gripped the blaster firmly, while the droid bent over and scooped up the Master with his other free arm. The Master was athletically built and of average human weight. He had more than enough strength in his durasteel frame to carry the man a few miles. The limp form of Areticus under the crook of his arm, Walter left the scene to find safety, and perhaps a medical professional, leaving the Pantoran sprawled in the dark, garbage strewn surface of the building, alone.

---

Some distance away, R3 looked down from its shadowy perch atop another tall building, purposefully oblivious to the fact his master lay unconscious and possibly dying just a few blocks away. The droid’s scanners had picked up civilian speech patterns of a distressed nature talking about some blue skinned fool being chased by a Jedi. The droid’s memory database doubted this assertion, however. Jedi did not carry red lightsabers, as the crowd clearly agreed, though talk of that specific topic was nearly ninety-two-point-eight percent less likely than talk of the chase. Its Master had clearly been chased - again - by some sentient that had it out for him. Master always tried his best, but he could never plan for every eventuality. If only he had used R3’s skills a bit more, he might stand a better chance in the future.

But the droid realigned its processors, returning its primary attention to the mission. Master Laren did plan for some eventualities, it seemed. Below on a dimly lit side-street, the Clawdite and his remaining companions were conferring in hushed tones, though R3 could clearly hear what they were talking about. Master had concluded something would go wrong during the mission, but he never exactly knew what that would be. So he had set R3 to some reconnaissance, watching Master and the Clawdite from above until the meeting Master had heard about took place. He remembered Master Laren’s specific order once that meeting was underway.

”No matter what happens to me, you make sure to follow that Clawdite and whoever he is meeting with. No matter what, R3.”

R3 protested with angry beeps, using his holographic imagery device to display his message translated into Basic. “But Master, what about you? What if you’re under attack?” Master needed to learn Binary one day.

“Don’t worry about me, R3. My life is pebbles compared to the intel we might gather from this. Who cares about being rich, I could sell this to make sure bigger heads than Selika’s stay off my back.”

R3 directed its antenna toward the group below, listening and recording. The Clawdite and his Collective friends had no idea it was there. Master would be most pleased by its findings. Most pleased, indeed.

The Sith wanted something out of all this. This was Laren's tool for survival. "Naturally," Laren began, "A good office comes with good benefits. Let's say I was discovered by the broker and had an encounter with some thugs. You saved me, and together we both completed my mission. Because you were such a philanthropist in aiding Plagueis' cause, you'd be rewarded for your merit."

"Yes of course, because I have complete trust you are a man of your word behind my back," Areticus replied.

His logic was sound, but it was frustrating dealing with someone who thought things through. "Listen, one or two things can happen here. Either you report to a woman who is known as the 'Mindwalker' with my head on a pike, or she gets a report from someone she knows and trusts without doubts on the semantics of the situation."

Areticus' nostrils flared a bit. It wasn't the answer he wanted, but he couldn't refute the likelihood of Selika interrogating him. The thought of that woman alone made him shudder. He didn't want to have to face her, not yet anyway. "Seems we have an accord. Stand down, Walter," Areticus concluded with a deactivation of his lightsaber.

"Thank you," Laren replied, "Let's shake on it?"

"Sure," Areticus said with an extension of his arm to Laren. Laren yanked him forward by the wrist and sent in a knife hand blow to the pressure point in his armpit. He whirled behind the Sith to use as a human shield from the droid who pulled up the rifle on his target once again. With Laren's left hand holding up Areticus' right arm, he drew a stiletto and lightly pressed it to Areticus' armpit, "Drop the rifle else this knife will go straight into your master's heart."

"Oh for the love of-" the hostage griped before being told to stay silent. Areticus had a solution for this in mind, though it would include revisiting an ability he often neglected. He closed his eyes and drew in the Force with his mind focused on the Stiletto. "Do as he says, Walter," he told the butler. Walter obeyed the command and lowered the weapon onto the ground, and got back up with its hands raised.

"Good, now kick it towards me," Laren demanded.

Areticus gritted his teeth, putting all his attention on the image of the stiletto. He urged it to move away, higher at an angle towards his raised arm and to pull it in hand.

Walter kicked aside the rifle, keeping its photoreceptors locked on the two.

Something was fighting Areticus' pull, he wasn't able to take it off of Laren's grip but he did manage to tilt it higher and away from his vitals. It was good enough. Areticus yanked his elbow towards his ribs against Laren's strength on the hold. The stiletto slid inside Areticus' shoulder as a result, causing him to roar in pain. He tried to twist his body to break the stiletto, but it was already out and in Laren's hands again. How?! Then Areticus noticed the plating on his gloves; magnetism. With the blood soon to drain all over his shirt, he kept his elbow at his side in hopes of keeping the pressure on the opening.

Laren took a step back and retreated back into the building they came out of. There would be no point in holding Areticus hostage again, he would soon faint from blood loss. That droid would soon end him with a weapon like that. With it dropped, however, he had enough time to make it back into the building to hide and devise a plan of escape from there.

Instead of retrieving the blaster and taking a shot, Walter immediately ran over to its master, "Is there anything I can do to assist in ceasing the hemorrhage, sir?"

Areticus was growled in pain and motioned with his free hand to the pocket in his coat. Walter reached inside and took out a bacta bomb. "Sir, how do I-"

"Press the karking button and slam it down beside me!" Areticus yelled.

"Of course, sir" and the HK followed its master's instructions. A small green mist then surrounded them both that made Areticus sigh in relief, despite the lingering pain. "Good," he continued, "Now take my tie off. We'll use it as an improvised tourniquet. It won't be perfect, so I need you to follow my instructions exactly." The HK did as he was told as Areticus guided him step by step in removing the tie and knotting it around Areticus' arm. He then picked up the Human and carried him by the fold of his legs and upper back.

"Walter," Areticus muttered as the two headed off the fight scene.

"Yes, sir?"

"Just shoot them next time."