The Vertical City, Nar Shaddaa. They call it the Smuggler's Moon—an apt description based on the myriad of sentients shuffling back and forth with their illegal wares and hidden weapons. The narrow streets below criss-cross endlessly, soaring miles above the planet's surface. Exposed and uncovered, the streets offer a nearly perfect setting for someone with some skills with ranged weapons. A vantage point on the ledge of a towering structure of glass and steel offers a dizzying view of the cityscape.

Simple shops and merchants peddle both legitimate and illegitimate wares. Storefronts are just as plentiful as open-market pop-up tents, and the cantina's adapt the same lowlife air as the rest of the Smuggler's Moon. Enemies could be hidden in plain sight, whether one of the Hutts’ gangsters or mercenaries-for-hire looking to earn some credits. The streets are plagued with violent gangs and the general riff raff of the poor and destitute. They may be an ideal place for blasters, but the winding streets are difficult to disappear from. An opponent would be easily boxed in and simple to finish with a few quick slashes of a lightsaber. The moon is dangerous—even for one gifted in the Force.

A simple job Work’t had thought. A nice, expensive sword made of some shiny grubbing Beskar to take back and work into something. Incredibly expensive, very useful. The mark herself was staggering a little from over drinking. It started so well, the sword lifting effortless out of its holster and floating up rapidly to his hiding space above the dark streets of Nar Shaddaa.

Then it all went right up the trash chute. First the long-leg had pulled her blaster out at an almost pre-natural speed, slamming bolts somehow directly into where Work’t was hiding, into his short furry form and dark blast armour. Then the mark, who definitely was not a force sensitive according to his mind sense, proceeded to fly on karking jets of fire directly up towards him as if she knew where he was. The Sephi effortlessly grabbed the blade into her hand, spinning it into a ready position as she landed.

Work’t flattened himself, hoping he hadn’t been seen. Hoping that this karking long legged flying freak wasn’t about to toast his fur. He heard the firing of jets again, the sound receding into the distance. He breathed softly, leaning slightly out before jerking back immediately; his force sense detected the bolt moments before it burnt out his forehead. He instead simply felt his ear burst into flames, a chunk burst off by the shot. Using his meditations he quickly dulled the pain and ignited his saber, the red blade shrouding the damp roof as he stepped out. If she was going to insist on shooting at him, he hoped could at least return the favour of being shot with that blaster, or at least defend long enough to use his telekinesis to drag her down. Work’t began focusing a hex on her comms system to blaze static through her helm.