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.

Never before had something been so improperly named as Nar Shaddaa’s “Refugee Sector”. A cesspit of filth and corruption, rank and violent, one might even say that it had fallen into dereliction. However, that would imply the rest of the welt-of-a-moon was any better, which it surely was not. Certainly, it could be prettied up, and the Hutts might hold a more vested interest in the more ‘well-off’ quarters and municipalities, but it was still that: run by the Hutts.

Fiscally responsible? No one could ever accuse the cartels of a deficit there, but law and order weren’t particularly at the forefront of their priorities. No, across all of Hutt Space, it was might that made right, especially in this offensive sump, where all manners of ‘crimes’ and atrocities went unpunished every day, quickly forgotten and reiterated upon in the Refugee Sector’s savage anarchy. Ironic, then, that Živa—a Zygerrian of all peoples—should have to sully herself to bring a person of interest to justice… of a sort.

No, the reason that she was debasing herself in and amongst these… people, was to find and kill an individual that had disrupted one of the larger consortiums’ glitterstim operations in the either kidnap or murder, of some of their more valuable members. She didn’t care about the details, all that mattered was the job. Having just finished a pub-crawl, trawling for scraps of information, Živa had made certain she knew—as much as one could—the character she was tracking down; some fixer or another. Had a few fingers in a few pies. Maybe they were looking to expand into the narcotics trade?

Stooping to duck under a low overhanging archway, the Zygerrian brushed an oily drape out of the way and peered across into the adjoining street from the overlooked alley she was lurking in. There wasn’t much to be impressed with, perhaps one, two gangers that looked like they might put up a fight? The rest of the pedestrians Živa likely could dismiss as dross, as likely to run as they were to sell out any disturbance to the underboss that lorded over this particular fief.

Mentally shrugging to herself, Živa made to step back into the shadows as something caught her eye. Rounding a corner, previously out of sight, returning from patrol was a broad Mirialan. Narrowing her eyes, Živa’s lips pressed together to form a thin, grim line. This one looked far more competent, carrying himself like a shark. Wetting her lips, the hybrid evaluated the situation afore her: A handful of enforcers, one of which likely had some experience. Combine that with the inevitable time limit that would last for the time it took for the spat to be reported, and Živa had a situation that she didn’t like the odds of.

Weighing up her options, the Zygerrian guilelessly pulled the Bryar off her hip and lined up her sights, deciding she ought to be quick rather than clean this time around. Letting loose, the first two shots rang true, hitting their marks in the forehead and neck respectively, turning on her third target calmly as they crumpled—who’d started to slip into a side-street the second shots had begun to fly it seemed—and pulling the trigger.

She missed.

Barely batting an eye, Živa tore the rag down as she scrambled to get out into the street, out of the cramped confines of the alleyway, and slipping behind some detritus to serve as cover, blaster close to her chest.