A gambler’s den of the Vertical City’s greatest bettors, Club Vertica is a casino reserved for the wealthiest of Nar Shaddaa. Cardshark droids are used exclusively to deal hands to those willing to risk their credits at the sabacc tables. Cheating is rendered near impossible under the surveillance of the droid's six photoreceptors. That, of course, does not stop the downtrodden from accusing others of being a fraud, which can often happen before someone receives a blaster bolt between the eyes. The few that have been able to use skiffers undetected are counted as some of the best swindlers in the Galaxy.

Cerulean lights illuminate the tables, making concealment during a game difficult. Seated around most of the oval tables are a mix of gamblers from different species, succumbing to their addiction for the ultimate prize—the sabacc pot. Credits are tossed onto the tables forming mountains that draw in fierce competitors with deeper pockets and faster wit than the usual patrons.

Behind the games of sabacc, drinks are being served from the alcove of a small bar. Most of these are a shade of blue in color, expertly mixed to dull the senses of all but the hardiest individuals. Onstage, a local band sets the mood of the venue with an upbeat number that deafens out most conversations. The stakes are always high at Club Vertica.

The city lights were bright tonight, hell, they were bright every night. Nar Shadaa was a neon distraction, festering with seedy and perilous lifestyles. There were good people there, yet they seemed to get lost in the crowds of off-worlders seeking fortune. The bars and casinos were dens of iniquity and were second homes to the, less than pleasant, members of galactic society. It wasn't at all surprising, that caught in the mix, was a Scoundrel whom considered those very casinos his stomping grounds.

The hustler's bulbous body could often be found slothing away at his favorite Sabacc table in the bowels of Club Vertica. The smell of smoke, liquor, and women were alluring and made him feel alive. The feel of the cards and plush furnishings satisfied. Life on a ship could be lonely, so finding a way to let off steam was of utmost importance to the spacer.

Through the crowd of people and the restless activity was where he could be seen, scanning the holographic menu that he summoned from his chair. It flashed before his eyes as he fingered his way through the plethora of options. 'Ohh, yeah," The Corellian brute smirked, stopping the page upon seeing Claing Juice, it was the drink of the evening and one of his favorites. It was typically found in the Eeropha system, not Nar Shadaa. High demand in colder climates kept it from being found this far out. It burned like fire and was favored due to its innate burn and warming quality. Of course that's what he would order, pointing it out to the Service Droid, thrilled that the club had just received a shipment.

"Yes, Master Zeek. Right away."

He toyed with his cards and shifted his eyes through the sea of sentient life. The drink took time to receive, but as soon as it touched the table, he shot it down. Instantly his eyes welled up with tears and his voice became rasp as he choked it down.

"Now, where were we?" to hold up a game was considered unsavory in any system. Especially prolonging it, knowing you were going to. "That's game, boys," win.. Zeek slid his last card onto the table and was ecstatic that it brought his total to twenty-three.

"E chu ta!" an Ithorian croaked as Zeek's heavy hands slammed down over his winnings.

"Easy, Sho-lu," a single brow slid to its peak, "I don't wanna have ta space ya."

Then he heard it.. cutting through the ambient sounds of the night life.

"You're just filled with idle threats aren't you?" rang an unfamiliar voice, "I've been listening to you all night, watched you swindle these fine beings. You're a fraud, nothing more."

"Who said that?!" the Corellian demanded with a sour tone.

"Me."

Stepping out of the lumbering Ithorian's shadow was a pretty man. Perhaps a Mirialan? It was hard to tell what was outside of the cerulean lights but the accent was unique.

Zeek chuckled as he cocked his head to one side and eyed the man up and down.

"You got nerve kid. I don't appreciate being called a cheat in my own casino"

"Oh, is this your casino?"

Zeek's smile had fallen and his eyes narrowed.

"What's the matter?" added the Mirialan, "You don't like me?" it was obvious, the hatred was as thick as the smoke.

"That's Ruka!" Came a voice from the table as the Arconan slammed his own hands down and positioned himself over Zeek's bounty which caused the Corellian to curse.

A rather large smile creased the corners of Ruka's mouth as he winked.

"Aaagh!" Roared Zeek as he swiveled in his chair and gripped his scatter-gun, it was mounted beneath the table for times such as these. Honestly, he knew it would come to this. A fight was a welcomed bonus and would only help with increasing his reputation. With a bigger reputation came bigger paychecks, with bigger paychecks came power, with power came the underground empire he yearned for.

Ruka's eyes grew wide and shifted down to the table as Zeek's thumb pulled back the hammer. In an instant an unseen blast ripped through the table as Ruka was leaping out of the way. He rolled upon hitting the floor and the Scoundrel would receive another vital piece of information as a Lightsaber Hilt flashed before his eyes only to disappear back into Ruka's robes.

"Oh ho ho," said Zeek as he stood to his feet, kicking over the table while simultaneously squeezing off another shot. The end of his barrel erupted with a flash, the recoil causing his tight shirt to crawl up his belly "What have we here?"

Ruka growled as he scurried behind the bar, his hand gestured as if he were gripping something and Zeek stopped. This curious creature was definitely a strange "Wham!" The Reaver couldn't even finish his thought as he was immediately struck in the back by the very table he blasted.

He crumpled to one side and bit his lip, growling as he pulled himself back up to his feet, forced to duck yet another piece of debris, this time a chair. Luckily for him he managed to duck it and drew his sidearm as the chair skidded across the dancer's platform.

Vertica was filled with screams and in the back corner, veteran gamblers were placing bets as they watched the brawl unfold.

With no time to take aim, Zeek began to fire shots into the bar, hoping to catch Ruka's head if it were to pop up, instead, he heard an all too familiar snap-hiss and saw the blue glow.

"Sithspit," barked Zeek as he momentarily ceased firing and watched as the intruder leapt over the bar and propelled himself into a spin. The Arconan was aimed right for him and coming in hot as he landed within reach and lunged his laser-sword forward. However, instead of frying the bacon that was Zeek's midriff, the crafty Corellian side-stepped and in doing so reached out to grab Ruka's wrist. "If you control the wrist, you control the weapon," he thought as he balled his other fist and sent it sailing into the Mirialan's jaw more than once, twice, three times. His blows were ferocious and continuous, sending spittle and blood into the air.

The punches kept falling, three, then four, then five. Brutal strikes meant to break. But the strange kid— he didn't. He wasn't crumpling yet. In fact, the Mirialan turned his face into the crunch of the Corellian's knuckles, baring bloodied teeth, eyes seeming to shine a strange gold like credits caught in bright lights.

Zeek didn't understand why.

But he hadn't come so far in his disreputable life by letting some surprises stop him, and moreover, he had a lovely audience, so he drew his arm back for another hit, swinging with his whole side. This time, though, his fist didn't connect; instead, he found himself falling forward with his own momentum as his opponent gripped his arm where he held the Mirialan's wrist and yanked, spinning them both around and practically tossing the heavy Human.

The gambler stumbled, catching himself on the floor in the midst of overturned tables and spiled drinks — and what a shame that was, to have Claing Juice sticky on his palms and not warming in his belly. A vein in his corpulent forehead throbbed, sweat from exertion and the alcohol already clamming his skin and making his hair stick. He twisted about to see this Ruka character staggering somewhat, shaking his head like some rabid Corellian hound, spitting a mouthful of coppery red that looked purple in Vertica's flashing lights. The Mirialan snarled when Zeek stood, half-raising that laser-sword of his again.

"Franger," the boy spat. "You drunks and cheaters and every ganger like you—" he cut off rather than continue his whining, expression twisting with concentration, and stood up a little straighter despite his partially pulped face. Squared his stance.

"What's your angle, huh, kid?" Zeek taunted, eyeing his blaster pistol where it lay by the kid's boots. His scattergun was further away, dropped when the brat had thrown a table at him. He didn't really like the idea of knife-fighting someone holding a stick of plasma longer than his leg. Bloody lightsabers. If he could just get to the gun… "Can't be you're defending my tablemates here...we're all playing to win. You trying to steal my pot? Not a smart move, especially not in my own house. But if you wisen up, I'd be willing to deal a little. You put away your sword now, maybe I won't have to make a trophy out of you. I get my credits and my drinks, and we're all happy."

As he'd started to suspect, his offer only made the boy look angrier. The Mirialan said something vicious in his own language that to Zeek's intergalactic ears was certainly not kind to the Human or any of his ancestors. The Corellian laughed.

"Spirited refusal, alright, brat...but come on...I'm defenseless here." He spread both open palms.

For a moment, the Force-User seemed to be considering it, guilt appearing on his young, stupid features. But then the Ruka kid narrowed his eyes at him. The gambler froze from where he'd started to slide one foot forwards, inching towards his fallen pistol.

"Yeah, right," the boy hissed, and lunged.

Zeek's eyes couldn't follow. One second he was there, across the casino floor, and then he was just in the mercenary's space, so close he felt the heat off that green skin like the heat of his earlier drink.

A fist or knee or something slammed into the Human's round gut with impossible force, throwing him flat on his back and knocking the air out of him. He gagged, stomach roiling, and felt bile and booze sliding back up his throat. It choked him, and he rolled onto his side, spitting and gasping, only to again feel himself lifted and flung as if a speeder had barreled into him. This time, though, he sailed straight across the room, all the lights and faces and flashes a dizzying blur before he crashed into something hard and crumpled.

Darkness closed in around him, washing over his vision, heat and shadows dragging him down, down, down in their undertow. He groaned, low in his throat, engorged heart beating double-time in panic to pump his whiskey-soaked blood through his veins. His body both shrieked at him to move and run and also to curl up very tightly and never move again. Pain radiated from his shoulder and back, throbbing through his skull like he hadn't felt since the hangovers of his teenage years, before a good glass had become more habitual than most meals.

But then the agony started to fade, the familiar tingle of his implant working, cool and soothing and invasive. Aided by that relief, his ever-present survival instinct won out eventually over his stunned stupor, and Zeek forced his verdant eyes to screw open and his legs to wobble. He heaved himself to his knees, squinting through the lingering pounding in his head and the flashing club lights, searching for one light in particular; and there it was, that blue blade, as the Mirialan stalked through the crowd that parted around him. Coming closer.

"Kriff, just stay down," the kid was yelling over the drumming bass, "before I make you."

"No, please, don't hurt me anymore—" the Human plead, putting up both hands as he got one foot under him. Ruka sneered, slowed.

And that was enough.

Zeek lunged upright, snagging the nearest server around her waist and sending the tray of dishware she held crashing to the ground. One of the vibroblades always hidden on him somewhere was in his hand, pressed quickly to her throat. The Twi'lek's scream cut off when he dug its serrated edge in threateningly. Her headtails shivered under his chin, her scent in his nose.

Across from him, the kid froze.

"Drop that laser-sword or I cut her throat," the Corellian promised, watching with a smile as Ruka obligated at once. The thing hit the ground and winked out, nothing more than a pathetic little cylinder when it wasn't lit. "Kick it over."

He did so, with both his palms lifted this time and every muscle tense, expression deadly serious. "Don't hurt her or anyone else, I'll do whatever you want," he plead.

"Your other weapons too, all of them." With that, too, the Mirialan complied, unbelting a more standard — if still very valuable-looking, to the Corellian's edacious eye — sword of sapphire blue and two shorter blades of emerald and amethyst, as best he could tell in the light. Finally a tiny knife came out of one boot; how honorable. He dutifully sent all those with several more kicks and clangs. Good. Zeek had suspected from the other's original little goodie intervention and all his comments that the kid was the sort who'd care too much about some casualties, but this was even better than he'd hoped. Downright hero type.

The easiest of them all.

"Splendid, kid. Now, I'll just be collecting those, and my sabacc bounty, thank you all, and you'll be on your way to tell everyone you know not to mess with the Zeek. Go on now, so I can go back to enjoying my evening."

"Alright," Ruka replied, obediently. "Just...one thing. Please." He gestured with one hand, face pinched, eyes fixed on Zeek's knife, on the girl. "Just lower your knife."

"Lower my knife…" Zeek muttered, lowering said knife just slightly but not all the way, confused at such an absurd suggestion or why it sounded even passingly sensible. "Now why would I do that…?"

The Twi'lek gasped in a breath, and several things happened very fast.

Ruka's other hand shot out, and then the serving girl was ripped out of the Corellian's hold by some invisible force, yanked forward and into the Mirialan's arms. The blade cut into her blue flesh, but along her arm, not her throat, and the boy clutched her to him protectively, turning her away from Zeek even as the gambler realized what was happening and grimaced, lifting his dagger again. The Mirialan was unarmed, after all.

But before he could make his counter, the boy's free hand thrust up towards the ceiling, his eyes glowing gold again, and all of a sudden, actual lightning clawed from his fingertips, crackling through the perspirant air and exploding into the neon glowbanks above them. Electricity fizzled, light dancing and popping all along the ceiling, blubs cracking and circuits frying as the stream overwhelmed them.

And then, for the first time possibly since its opening, Club Vertica was plunged into darkness.