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.

You’ve been tasked with the retrieval of data from a thief who absconded with sensitive information. Not only is this to safeguard the Brotherhood, there’s also a substantial, but little-known bounty on the target, and the goodwill and favor to be earned from the source the data was thieved from. Of course, not everyone will go along with it. There may be those who desire to ensure the thief succeeds, and the source of the data is embarrassed. There are harsh penalties for those who return unsuccessful, and rewards for those who ensure the safe delivery of the information. No matter which side you’re on, you know success is vital.

Piss. Rust. Swill. Despair. Blood.

Scents which painted the same picture as the sky-high walls, clad in bright and broken neon signs, illuminating the semi-sentient aggregation of detritus and disappointment that was the refugee sector.

Or not; plenty of spots were so dark that any unlucky soul caught up in them had to follow their nose quite literally.

It was the kind of cesspool Jorm belonged in, and he was grinning wide.

Between the refugees’ turbans and togas, robes and sandals, and every other kind of conceivable and inconceivable clothing, the Kiffar’s long-sleeved and hooded black synth leather jacket and mirrored wraparound sunglasses weren’t conspicuous for their particular style, but for their good condition.

His dark cargo pants and boots were also comparatively clean and marked him as either a new arrival, lucky idiot, or tourist.

And in any case, a victim, he smiled to himself and kicked an empty can out of the way.

It rattled along the walkway, nearly deserted at this late time, and bounced down a flight of stairs, unnaturally loud in the relative calm.

The noise drew the gaze of two men upon Jorm, a Human or something close and a Weequay.

Both wore black jackets with crimson pants, with spray painted pieces or armor haphazardly riveted onto their quasi-uniforms.

Gang enforcers just waiting for someone to look at them the wrong way, Jorm thought and looked at them the wrong way - with a cocky smile.

Their presences lit up in his enhanced sphere of awareness as he turned into an alleyway.

Dark, full of trash, and walled by meters of steel barely more than five feet apart, the alley was a murderhole nobody in their right mind walked into without connections, despair, or a healthy bribe.

Jorm had made a point of not being in his right mind for most of his life, and launched himself upwards as soon as he was out of sight.

The enforcers, connected but not too bright, turned the corner a few moments later, just to find the alley empty of life - completely unaware of the Kiffar wedged between the walls four meters above them.

“He’s gotta be hiding in the trash,” the Weequay surmised and shoved the Human forward, “go flush him out.”

He’d established their little chain of command - and inadvertently, Jorm’s target priority.

While the junior gangster lumbered forward, cursing wordlessly, Na’trej dropped down behind the Weequay.

He didn’t leave them any time for more than a startled twitch before an explosive, high snap-kick to the back of the senior enforcer’s head sent the man flying into his colleague’s back and both of them to the ground in a pile of limbs.

Jorm wasn’t shy to add to the heap, jumping on the stunned Weequay’s back and snatching a vibrodagger from the nonhuman’s belt as he did so.

“G’evening,” he said over the groans and curses, “you wouldn’t know who’s doing the sentient trafficking around here, would you?”

“Frakk off, asshole,” the Human replied from the bottom of the body pile where he was pinned face-down by the weight of two men, “do you have any idea who we’re working for?!”

Jorm sighed and pushed his sunglasses up to rub the bridge of his nose.

Great, a dense one.

“Dude, I kinda just asked you that, didn’t I?”

He switched the vibrodagger on.

The whine of the activating weapon stilled the struggling gangster like no words could have.

And Jorm wasn’t in any mood to let him regain his composure - instead he pressed the weapon into the unconscious Weequay’s neck, artlessly sawing until dark blood came gushing out and showered the gangster below.

“Now. Your boss. Spill.”

“Frakk! Frakk!!! It’s Brekkha! Brekkha,” the squirming man cried out, all bravado washed away.

Jorm pointed the whining weapon at the Human’s ear.

“Where?”

Before he got an answer however, a doorway opened a few steps down the alleyway, illuminating their scuffle.

A scrawny Rodian stepped out, lost in thought and oblivious to the violence.

When he did pick up on the proceedings though, his eyes went wider and his antennae popped up.

“Mister Na’trej?”

The squeaky question - the name - was one Jorm absolutely didn’t want to hear.

He rammed the vibrodagger down through bone and ferrocrete and launched himself at the smaller alien at as close to lightspeed as he could manage.

The Rodian’s eyes threatened to pop from his head as Jorm rammed the barrel of his .48 Enforcer into his mouth, grabbed the green family jewels with his free hand, and manhandled him into the wall.

“Now, why would you call me that,” Jorm inquired.

“Swwy, swwy! Dnd wnd d disdrb,” his victim attempted to vocalize.

“Has your mother not taught you that mumbling is impolite,” the Kiffar sighed.

“Ih ahm sorry,” the Rodian answered, distorting his mouth around the barrel.

“Stop drooling on my gun, you pig,” Jorm demanded.

The Rodian froze for a moment, then he very carefully turned his head to extract the muzzle from his teeth.

Jorm wiped it clean on the alien’s clothes and holstered the weapon.

His hand however stayed firmly gripping the Rodian’s junk.

“From the top,” Na’trej ordered, “who the frakk are you and why the frakk would you call me that?”

“But you are...” the Rodian’s voice trailed off, “don’t you remember me? I worked with Bale, you’re the Jester! Or, well, the Chancellor n-OW!”

Jorm toned down the squeeze as the alien shut up.

“Careful what comes out of that trumpet of yours. Worked with Bale, eh? Hell, might be true, never kept track of his pet projects. What was the name? Dean? Dirk? Dick?”

“Deezn,” came the reply.

“Deezn...” Jorm spoke the name with an upwards inflection and gave his victim’s reproductive parts a little jiggle.

“Jarok! Deezn Jarok!”

“Perfect waste of an opportunity there, but that’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a trip to a few bureaus. What are you doing here, Deezn?”

“Do you mind releasing my choobies first,” Deezn asked.

“I do,” Jorm answered and held on.

“Kark! I was hit up by Aylin a few weeks ago - you remember Aylin? Green, Nautolan, techie...”

“Giggles,” Jorm interjected the old nickname.

“Yes! Giggles! She brought me into T-” he cut himself off, “into the family? Is that a good word? Into the family a few weeks ago! The big boss, the one in red, sent me here to find a data thief who absconded from Arx,” Deezn blurted out.

“Find and do what, Deezn?”

“He wasn’t too specific,” Jarok explained, “but he said the data was more important than the thief’s fate, so I thought... steal it from him?”

Jorm chuckled and finally released little Deezn from his grip.

“Looks like we’re after the same thing. And since we’re already getting along so well... partners?”

“Yeah, uh, sure. Partners,” croaked the Rodian.

He puffed his cheeks then blew the air out the moment this Jester character turned his back to him, looking up at the building from which Deezn had exited. Partners, he thought. More like hostage. Never in his life did expect to run into Jorm Natrej in the middle of Nar Shaddaa and now he was regretting calling the man out, even if he’d done so reflexively, driven by sheer surprise. If he could rewind time even by a minute, he’d be curled up in a ball inside a dumpster, keeping the hell out of his path. This guy had quite the reputation and in their infinitesimal time together, a time far more intimate than he cared to admit, he could tell the stories about him barely grazed the surface.

Of course, he had no choice about it. Had he turned the fellow down, there was no doubt he was getting a facefull of blasterfire. If he tried to sneak off now, it would be a backfull. It did come to Deezn’s mind to do the shooting, plugging him in the back the first chance he got, but he had this nagging feeling that it’d be a real bad idea. He reckoned making the fellow angry would only lead to something far, far worse. So he went along with it. With some luck, he’d make it through the evening alive and walk away with some extra credits lining his pockets. Plus, it couldn’t hurt to have the Chancellor of Chyron owing you one, could it?

“So, huh, what now?” he asked.

“What were you doing in here?” Jorm asked, already taking the steps up two at a time. Deezn scurried after him but he was inside before he could answer.

“I tracked the thief to this place. It belongs to a fellow called Brekkha,” Deezn answered as he caught up with his new companion. “He’s not here right now. Snuck in from the rooftops, got what I needed, got out.”

“A tip for next time? Don’t call people out when you’re making an escape,” Jorm said. He lifted one hand and furniture was tossed aside before him as thrown by a charging reek. Another flick of his wrist and more of the room was swept aside. Such an overt display of the Force took Deezn by surprise. He realized he had not seen it in action since Bale Andros and his daughter had disappeared. He didn’t miss it. Not one bit. “So tell me, Choobies, what did you find?”

Deezn scoffed at the nickname. “Deezn, mister Natrej. Choobies means—”

“I know what it means. Don’t make me ask again.”

“Uh, it’s all on here,” Deezn said, holding up a datashard between two fingers. “Borrowed this, downloaded the data to the thief’s current hideout.”

“Or the last one on record,” Jorm said, sounding oddly bored by the proceedings.

Deezn reckoned the fellow was itching to kill someone already. He hoped it wouldn’t be him but the likelihood of that was increasing with every moment spent standing around. He had to get specific real fast. He blurted out the next words with a hint of panic, “The Leaky Rodian.”

“Come again?” Jorm looked over his shoulder, an eyebrow cocked.

“Uh, it’s a cantina in the worker district. Can’t, uh, miss it. Look for the big Rodian head.”

“A relative of yours?” Jorm asked as he pushed past Deezn and disappeared out the door into the alley.

“No, no,” Deezn answered as he followed. They stepped over the dead bodies of the two thugs as they made their way out of the alleyway. “I figure it’s Hutt humor. There was a time it was said they used Rodian pheromones to brew the perfect liquor. It’s all bantha poodoo if you ask me. Rodians don’t secrete pheromones as far as I know.”

“As far as you know?” Jorm asked, looking him up and down over his shoulder, a vicious grin splitting his lips. “You were sweating oil alright with a blaster up your snout.”

“Uh,” Deezn said, stumbling at the memory. He decided to avoid small talk from now on.

They walked through the cramped, ill-lit slums of Nar Shaddaa. There was one advantage to partnering up with a fellow like Jorm. People just knew to give this guy a wide berth. Sure, he was dressed to stand out in a way that almost made him look like an easy mark. Almost. There there was something in his eyes that screamed get out of my karking way. He might as well have been wearing a neon sign on his back spelling out DANGER.

After some time, they came out on more populated streets and immediately hailed a speeder, or more specifically, Jorm jumped into the first speeder unfortunate enough to slow down near them and held a driver, an old Ugnaught, at gunpoint. Deezn had to throw himself into the backseat lest the vehicle flew off without him.

“I hear the Leaky Rodian’s all the rage these days,” Jorm told the driver. “Feeling wild tonight.”

To his credit, the diminutive, swine-faced driver didn’t so much as flinch even when his would-be passenger tapped the barrel of his blaster against his ribcage. Without a word, looking as if this happened every day, the Ugnaught grabbed the controls white knuckle tight and kicked the repulsor engine into action. The speeder launched forward, nearly bucking Deezn in the process. They flew for some time, Jorm questioning the stoic driver while Deezn took in the sights of the neon-ladden city, each one grander and more colorful than the last, savoring the fact that his partner’s manic attention was on someone else.

The driver eventually banked the speeder down a secondary artery until they came out in the worker district. They heard the thump-thumping rhythm of bass drums before they saw their destination but it wasn’t much longer before a massive neon sign depicting the giant, upturned head of a decapitated Rodian with X’s for eyes appeared over them.

Deezn sure hoped this wouldn’t be him later.

“You know what, Uggy? That was perfectly amenable service, five out of five stars,” Jorm told the Ugnaught and shoved his silenced monster of a gun back into the thigh holster. “You should totally think about making this your job.”

He launched himself out of the vehicle and tossed a paltry handful of coins onto the dashboard - truguts and wupiupi.

“That’s for the ride. Choobies here will pay for the cleaner,” the Kiffar stated with his perpetual smile.

The scrawny green teenager muttered something under his breath and added a credit coin of middling denomination to the clutter before he got out.

Jorm was shuffling some items from his pants and belt into his jacket when Deezn chewed on his lip and turned to him.

“Okay, partner,” the Rodian almost tested the word, “do you have a plan? And where do I not figure in?”

Jorm chuckled.

“I’m gonna go in there and ask the local boss to hand over our thief. Nicely.”

“...and do you expect him to just deliver?”

Jorm barked out a laugh.

“Frakk no, that would blow his reputation and cost him tens or hundreds of thousands in opportunities. Nah, I’ll put his pride and joy in a tighter vise than I did yours, and while all eyes are on me, you sneak through to the back and see if you can’t get ahead,” he stated with a nod towards the sign.

“That, uh... sounds good,” Deezn admitted.

“As for the other part,” Jorm began and watched his unenthusiastic accomplice flinch, “I don’t want you any further than a block away. That would seriously strain my trust into our blooming partnership. Do what you need, but I want that data."

He turned around and went for the bar’s entrance without waiting for a reply. A moment later, Deezn’s lighter footsteps followed suit.

The Marauder shoved the mirrored sunglasses back onto his face and made sure the hood was up. The entrance to the bar was of course flanked by a weapon scanner, but earlier patrons had apparently taken issue and shot the damn thing. And by the first look at the inside, it could have been any of them.

It was pretty typical for a place like this, a large central bar, a sidebar, booths along the walls and tables cluttered everywhere else, not-quite-illuminated by broken lightglobes, neon signs and lit smokes. Nar Shaddaa’s odor of piss, rust, swill, despair and blood weighed heavily towards its organic constituents here and was accompanied by a family of narcotic aromas and an unhealthy dose of aggression.

Of course, the biggest booth was occupied by guys with black tops, red bottoms, attitude and in one case gold jewelry. It looked ridiculous on the bald Umbaran, but nobody present would tell him.

Jorm rushed past the evening’s audience and third-class strippers and blindly tapped a few buttons on a cylindrical object in his pocket. A bouncer stepped into his way.

“Private party here sleemo, and you ain’t inv- hey!”

A feint, a duck and a twist got the Kiffar past the ganger and into the booth, where he casually flung the object from his pocket onto the table and kicked the only other person not wearing black and red out of an armchair, which he then promptly occupied.

“‘Sup,” he greeted the congregation, split between staring at him and the thermal detonator which had just bowled a few drinks off the furniture, “I bet you’re wondering just what led you into this situation.”

The bejeweled Umbaran sneered at the interloper, who in turn raised his comm and showed off the red screen which asked in big, friendly letters: DETONATE?

"You've got balls. No brain, but balls and a death wish" the pale gang leader spat, "do you even know how deep in the septic tank you just got yourself? You better hit that button and atomize us all, because that'll be a lot easier on you than what'll happen if you don't."

Oh great, another dense one, Jorm sighed to himself. He dove deep within himself, to a place he rarely admitted existed.

A pinprick sized leak sprung forth in the prison of discipline and redirection that he had erected around everything the Kiffar had ever feared, and he allowed the contents to bleed into his gaze as he locked eyes with his opposite and smiled brightly.

"Sure, I can do that, but I'll have some answers first if you don't mind," he responded to the threat with cheer.

"Answers, huh? They won't be worth a fart when you blow yourself up along with us. Who even are you, freak," the Umbaran scoffed.

"My friends call me 'Asshole,' but we're not quite there yet," Jorm replied chipper as ever, "and you're Bricky or something."

"Brekkha," came the correction, "but you wouldn't pull this shit if you didn't know that, would you? Whaddayawant?"

"Ale," Jorm stated and looked around. He found plenty of people staring, among them the drinkslinger of the sidebar - and behind that man, Deezn. He snapped his fingers at the barkeeper and gestured for him to fulfill his request. With a sour look on his face, the man began to pour.

"Well now, what else do I want, Jorm pondered out loud, "oh yes. You're a trafficker, Brekkha. You smuggle people. I want one of them."

"Slave market's open tomorrow, have your pick," the ganger retorted with somewhat muted bravado as Jorm's drink arrived. The Kiffar took a glance at the barkeeper and his domain, where a closing door quietly highlighted Deezn's absence.

"No, not that kind," he clarified, "the paying kind. A Bith. Handy with a pad and a spike, been here for about ten days."

Brekkha leaned back and picked up a drink, careful not to disturb the explosive on the table. "If you know that much, you also know I couldn't give him to you," he said flatly and took a large swig from the glass.

He looked even paler than a minute before, and his crew in turn picked up on their boss' nervous energy. Looks were cast and some feet began to shuffle as their tenuous discipline began to erode.

"Lucky for both of us," Brekkha stated with a wide grin, "our friend ain't here anymore!"

"Then why is he still on your books with an open tab? Unless you're lying through your teeth, of course" the Marauder called the bluff. He casually wiped a smudge off the edge of the display and relished in the gang's alarmed twitches. "Quit stalling, B-Boy."

Jorm could feel the Umbaran tread close to panic and saw him glance around for a way - any way - to not end his existence as a cloud of plasma today, when the detonator beeped twice and powered down.

"Ha! Ha," Brekkha celebrated and downed the rest of the drink before slamming the glass down, the spell of terror broken. "You didn't think I'd have a slicer here, did you? Well surprise, asshole!"

He picked the glass up again and smashed the rim on the table's edge, turning the vessel into a thick glass plate with shards sticking out. The gang closed in, whooping and hollering, faces flush with relief and excitement for the payback to come while Jorm calmly pocketed his comm.

"Now here's a question for you, freak," the gang leader snarled, "would you like this glass up your peehole?"

"Here's a better one," Jorm replied and casually raised his right hand. A dull metal hilt slid from the sleeve and hovered above his palm, spinning slowly in the grip of the Force. It wasn't Jorm's usual telltale yellow lightsaber, but an armory model with a blade that would shine with all the crimson that just drained from the faces around its wielder.

"Will it blend?"

Deezn remembered watching a news broadcast when he was a kid back on Chyron. He’d clung onto his mother’s sleeve, every fiber of his body screaming and begging for him to look away as he watched a star destroyer crash into a residential sector on the holofeed. He’d wanted to look away, but his eyes would not leave the grim spectacle unfolding before him. This is what it felt like to watch Jorm work. After slipping behind the bar unnoticed, Deezn made his way down a long corridor and up a flight up stairs to a roomy loft on the second level. That’s where he found his target sitting at a terminal, bulbous black eyes glued to the many screens streaming live feed from the club below. Clearly, Jorm’s work had the same effect on the thief as it did on him. Deezn reckoned the fellow was so consumed by the strange spectacle unfolding at Brekkah’s table that he could’ve walked up to him twirling his blaster and whistling and the Bith wouldn’t have noticed. That said, he wasn’t the gambling type and opted for a silent approach. He wasn’t all that great at it, but the loft was roomy, clean and clutter-free, a far cry from… well, the entirety of Nar Shaddaa, so he closed the distance without knocking anything over for once in his blasted life.

He reached the Bith as his white fingers hammered a string of commands into the terminal. Deezn was about to press his blaster’s barrel to the back of the thief’s head when something caught his attention on one of the screens. He watched as a blade of red light appeared out of nowhere and Jorm lunged over the table, bisecting two of Brekkah’s goons along with the chairs they’d been sitting in. What happened next was a blur of red flashes and flying body parts. Chaos erupted around the Leaky Rodian as patrons fled for their lives in every direction at the sight of the carnage. More thugs pushed through the madness towards Jorm.

“Pfassk,” let out a long-drawn moan Deezn.

The thief jumped and spun in his chair with a startled cry. Bith and Rodian stared at one another in disbelief, frozen for a few seconds, both pairs of black eyes looking like they were about to pop. It was only dumb luck that Deezn’s blaster was up and pointed at the thief’s chest. He was the first to break the silence with a short grin on his green snout.

“Uh, guess I forgot where I was.”

“So it would seem,” the Bith deadpanned, still as a statue. They glared at one another for a moment longer, silent, the distant screams of dying thugs and the low hum of the terminal the only sounds. Deezn grew uneasy, his finger twitching on the trigger.

He finally spoke, “So, I was going to sneak in, knock you out, copy the data you stole, but it looks like my partner just slashed my time by half. So, how about I skip that and you give me what I need?”

The Bith laughed. It was an odd, high-pitched sound. So weird. Deezn didn’t think he’d said anything amusing but he supposed this happened to him often enough. What didn’t happen all that often was the boot that came up between his legs, ringing him right in the choobies. He went down with a Gamorrean-sounding squeal, blaster clattering to the floor as his hands went to his groin. The thief shot out of his chair, grabbing Deezn’s blaster and shooting the terminal in one swoop of his arm. The screens flickered out as the electronic device went up in smoke, the data stored on it gone in a flash. The Bith turned the blaster onto Deezn but before he could shoot, the thing was ripped out of his hands by an unseen force. It flew across the loft towards the entrance where it landed snug in Jorm’s fist. He fired once, the shot missing the Bith’s everything by a wide berth.

“Ugh, blasters,” he said, disdain in his voice. He tossed it aside, the weapon clattering once more across the floor and out of sight. The Bith made a break for a window on the far-side of the loft but he only made it a few steps before Jorm threw his hand out. Like the blaster before him, the thief flew across the room but this time it wasn’t a closed fist that greeted him. It was the full, searing length of a crimson lightsaber. The shrill, crackling sound the blade made when it pierced the Bith made Deezn’s skin crawl and the smell, oh the smell. The stench of charred skin nearly made him hurl. He probably would have had he not been distracted nursing his junk.

“Pfassk,” Deezn groaned as he slowly, grudgingly climbed his way back to his feet. Jorm was already rummaging through the thief’s pockets.

“What’s up, Choobs?” Jorm fished something out from inside the Bith’s vest and held up a pair of old data disks between two fingers. “Lookie here, think we got what we were looking for, great job.”

Deezn almost laughed. Almost. “Yeah, great job.”

“Hey, liven up, we got what we needed, you played your part,” Jorm walked up to him, smacking him on the shoulder. It would have been a relief if the man wasn’t so terrifying. He slipped the disks in Deezn’s pocket. Considering it could have been a lightsaber blade, that was a relief. “You did good, kid.”

“I just spent the night getting the ol’ rucksack pounded!”

“Like. A. Pro.” Jorm flashed him a grin.

Deezn did laugh this time. And doing so hurt like hell down there.