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.

"An illusion that numbs the pain," the gruff man at the bar slammed a shot, "that will never heal."

His eyes closed and his lips recoiled from the bite of the liquid. His matted beard seemingly crunched as he propped his head with his fists and fought back the all too familiar nausea that had become as normal to him as breathing.

The pounding in his head wasn't caused by the band on the stage, rather, the Rancor's Breath which had become his sweet succor.

The lids protecting his bloodshot eyes snapped open and his vision flicked to the left as the door beyond the tables slid open. His senses may have been dulled, but they were, unfortunately, as alive as he was. Wandering Wild Space kept them sharp. While he wanted to forget that the Force existed, he wasn't allowed to abandon it. It was a siren's call leading to the rocks. Nothing good came from it and he could never dislodge the nagging in his skull. The whisper of the Galaxy.

A presence was on the other side of that door that caused restlessness to stir and pings of adrenaline to tickle his senses. It ignited a spark that could never be extinguished as stepping through was an air of confusion and uncertainty wrapped within a shell of beskar.

Unkal sat up as straight as he could before ordering another drink. He was well aware of the substantial bounty on his head. A zabraki crime boss with a vendetta would stop at nothing to see him completely destroyed. Afterall, losing a loved one in a shuttle crash, a crash that could have been avoided if not for hasty decision making would be enough to fan the flames of vengeance in any sentient being.

"The sigil of Vizsla." He instantly recognized the markings on the armor and his suspicion became reality. This mandalorian wasn't there to partake of the pleasantries, the man behind that recognizable armor was on a mission. A mission where delivering Bron was the objective.

Shimrah's eyes scanned the patrons of Club Vertica and the Force spoke to him differently than it had to Bron.

How could a Force that binds all things together operate with such different intentions? where it aided one being, it could just as easily endanger another. This was Bron's conundrum.

Iridonian eyes cycled through the crowd before falling on a heavily built man at the bar. His hands, which were never far away from the Westar's on his hips, pulled them with a movement as smooth as shimmer-silk.

"You'll never leave me," Bron spat at the Force, "The least you could do is shield me now."

Customers screamed as soon as the blaster fire lanced out in Unkal's general direction. They demanded their pound of flesh, but melted away as they connected with an invisible barrier.

Shimrah growled, he had seen this technique before from the defenders of the Jedi Order and knew that while it was a useful tool. It couldn't be maintained forever. He unleashed another volley.

Bron couldn't maintain this shield for an extended period of time. He knew that, but what he could maintain was an effortless array of deflection. A calloused hand, hardened by years of working in the Santhe Shipyards slid beneath his poncho. While he rarely used his Lightsaber anymore. The Corellian blademaster's engaging flourish would have been flawless had the bubbling brew in his belly remained in his flask.

Of the four shots fired, three sloppily struck various points of the bar as they seemingly bounced off of the light blue blade, and one successful redirect scraped across Shimrah's armor. The glancing blow could not pierce the carapace, but it was enough to send a message.

Rotating on his heels, the Vizslan broke away from the entrance, plowing through a Rodian as he fired twice more. The blade dipped, almost as if Unkal had lost all strength in his arm, but then it swept upward to send each bolt into the ceiling with one precise stroke. The Jedi stumbled to the left and rounded a pillar as another shot bit into it. His not so graceful dance carried him forward and another shot struck the table he had just passed. The Force was guiding his steps as it always had. There was no luck involved, only its will.