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 stench of garbage and decaying organic matter was strong, even through the distinctive helmets the two Mandalorians wore. They stood in silence, staring at a wall covered in very explicit graffiti. They paid no attention to the refugees who walked behind them, just as the refugees did their best to keep their eyes down and not notice the pair.

Propped up against the wall was a man, mid-thirties, completely unconscious. The refugees took extra care not to notice this. As the wall began to pull back, and the unconscious man fell into the opening, the refugees continued on with a forced ignorance. The two men nodded at each other, and both took an arm of the unconscious man, dragging him into the dark opening before them.

“Three hours, impressive. Most impressive,” Jed Kultier said without standing from his desk. While the room was dark, it was clean, and the smell from outside was far less noticeable. Evio Nezsa and Idris Adenn nodded in appreciation at the praise.

“Time is money,” Idris said, giving the unconscious man a slight kick to roll him on to his back. It had been a suspiciously easy bounty for the two Mandalorian cousins to bring in, especially for how much was being offered for the man.

“That it is,” Jed replied, casually brushing his hand over a button under his desk. Within seconds there were a dozen armed thugs in the room, blaster pistols and rifles pointed squarely at the two Mandalorians.

“There has been a change of plans, my friends. While my boss is grateful you retrieved this sniveling sack of Bantha fodder before he could give away our secrets, payment will now come in the form of your lives. The beskar that was promised is just too useful to give up,” Jed continued.

“Do you really think a dozen men is enough to stop us?” Evio asked, hands hovering next to the WESTAR-35s at his waist. Jed smiled and pointed to the wall behind them. Several screens showed even more gang thugs, weapons in hand, crowding the halls of the building, and alleyways outside.

“I think we have more than enough to handle two mercenaries,” Jed replied. “Leave and live, stay and die. The choice is yours.” Jed began to stand when two blaster bolts hit him in the chest, the combined force throwing his body back into his seat. Both Mandalorians had fired together.

“We like those odds,” they said in unison, as all hell broke loose in the office.