Anakin once visited Coruscant’s underbelly, as an escort for Supreme Chancellor Palpatine’s secret visit. Festering within the 2685th level of Coruscant, it is a feeding ground to the best and worst criminals—bureaucrats among them. Slaves and contraband are bought and sold on the hour, while others gamble with their lives or ill-gotten gains on the roll of a chance cube.

Others are content to seek entertainment, watching holographic projections of exotic dancers in various states of undress—the likes of which will no doubt be traded as slaves in exchange for credits or other services. Games of chance are often obscured under the sheer volume of patrons gathered around the game tables. Smaller round tables serve for social or business gatherings, with more discreet booths tucked into alcoves along the walls.

Having undergone unfinished renovations at some point, the ceiling has been raised to resemble that of a warehouse. Smoke gathers among the durasteel supports, making a buffer for the intense red and violet beams lighting the cesspit below. Zeltron perfumes are among the most common smells in the establishment, while the rolling of dice cubes make for the most recognizable sound above the music. Fights don’t often break out, and violence is often dissuaded at the sight of armoured bouncers several heads taller than most humanoids

Under a triple full moon summer's night on a villa near a lake in the plains of Naboo Creon awoke from sleep by a notification on his remote code pad. This particular ringtone was for prospective bounties set by certain price ranges. Telekinetically Creon motioned the screen to his hand and opened the profile of the potential bounty. A poorly taken image of a Trandoshan and the name "Grot", but with distinctly marked facial ornaments. The credit reward would help upgrade the Phalanx Interceptor with a long-range slicer computer. His work in getting credits would simply be a hacking job than a hunting one. Pride in proving himself apex predator was felt. In response was a wave of fear felt from his sleeping wife beside him. Their electromagnetic fields tethered an instinctive emotion-based telepathic sensitivity to one another. Creon wanted to hunt, and she felt his pride and exerted concern for his life.

"Time for work," Creon said with a deep tone of voice and low volume. "Be careful," Elyon murmured.

Creon searched the network for images similar to the tribal design and found a native name in association of a pinpointed region in Trandoshan. Creon visited the planet and sliced the local networked transaction records under the name of "Grot". He found an account number and transfers to other accounts with code addresses on other planets. His first visit was coruscant and found more fund transfers with recent transaction timestamps. Creon parked his vehicle near that sector and flew on his jetpack to where the most recent transaction occurred, at a local club with a drink receipt. After landing on the roof, he used his control pad and linked it to his drone and helmet. The Acendant drone moved to the club and paid the entry fee wirelessly. It scanned the area and sent a stream connection to his helmet. The helmet's AI captured images of shapes close to a Trandoshan and displayed it in small stereoscopic screens. Creon identified the tribal ornaments with one on a booth in an alcove against the wall with food. After activating the armor's optical camouflage system and with a grappling hook from his utility belt, Creon cautiously moved from the roof the ground near the entrance. He timed with patience a moment to slip into the club when the bouncers were distracted by female attention. Walking along the walls Creon found a place to see an angle to the booths in the alcove. He saw the Trandoshan clothed in camouflage armor and a cloak. It was relaxed but armed. The blunt ridges around his skull made him out to be like the original bounty image. He pulled out his rifle and aimed at the head, but as he did his target swiftly moved from the booth and amongst a crowd on the dance floor. Creon couldn’t get a good sight picture and didn’t want to fire into a crowd, so he re-holstered his weapon and approached the dancefloor. A heavy bass techno beat played with strobe lights of different colors across the club. Only flashing images of movements could be traced, making it difficult for Creon to pinpoint Grot through his helmet’s visor. The Trandoshan had been dancing, but with eyes locked onto Creon’s position. When an opening presented itself within the dance crowd, Creon fired a saberdart from his vambrace, but the projectile deflected from Grot’s vambrace during a dance pose. Creon rushed through the opening until he was within melee range of Grot. Grot blocked the first few feigning jabs but slumped from an unexpected kick to the knee. The snake then slithered between a crowd and rested his hand on a pistol. Creon kept his hand just above his thigh holster ready to draw with telekinesis. The music shifted to a heavier song, with clashes of a dark red and purple through the lights as the two stood in a standstill amongst the crowd ready to crash the party at the right moment.

“Who the frak are you!?” Grot demanded, nostrils flaring. He held his hand ready to draw at any moment, aware of just how precarious the situation was. He'd gotten sloppy, letting man this obviously dangerous get so close to him. He’d spotted him at a distance, the bright and ostentatious beskar armor was hard to miss, but had assumed he was just another merc running protection for one VIP or another; Worth keeping an eye on, but hardly an active threat when protection duty at club Kasakar was usually a milk-run. The speed at which he'd crossed the floor had shocked him, and if he had reacted just a hair slower he might already be dead. That speed wasn't natural.

“You are a force user, yes?” Grot asked, his eyes narrowing behind the visor of his helmet. His question was pointedly ignored, all but confirming it in his mind. He slowly began to circle, still not willing to risk drawing on the man, and his attacker reciprocated. The crowd drew back with screams and panicked shouts, some fleeing the club altogether. Nobody wanted to be caught in a crossfire on a Saturday night.

“Someone paid a lot of money to see you dead, Trandoshan. I'm merely here to collect.” The man's voice was icy, calm, and collected. A professional killer.

Grot’s blood turned cold. A bounty hunter was one thing, but a force user in Mandalorian armor is something very few people walked away from. He'd really pickd the worst night possible to loosen up by dancing on the job.

“They'll pay more to take you in warm,” Creon offered, in an almost conciliatory manner. “Hands off the weapon if you want to live.” Grot snorted. This man clearly didn't know much about him besides the bounty.

“I'd rather die.”

Grot drew in a flurry of motion almost too fast to see, but Creon was faster. His blaster leapt into his hand seeming of its own accord, blood red runes glowing. Grot felt a sudden wave of nausea,a tiny bit of his life-force forcibly ripped from his body as it let off a howling, demonic shriek and fired. The disrupter bolt crossed the distance between them and splashed with a bright cacophony of light and sound against Grot’s shield. He thanked whatever god or goddess watched over him that he'd trained to activate it as soon as he drew his weapon.

Grot fell to one knee, his smart-pistol rising towards the ceiling as a second bolt crossed the dance floor and sailed just over his left shoulder. The interference caused his sensor pod to shriek in protest as he fired on one of the clubs many chandeliers, the explosive flechettes ripping tiny holes into the ceiling and tearing it free of its moorings directly above their heads. He dove away, rolling up to his feet and sprinting for the nearest table before it could fall, another shot slamming into his shielding. He felt the heat from the emitter as it slowly began to overheat from the assault.

Creon cursed, the noise of the chandelier ripping free of its bolts drawing his attention upward. He outstretched a hand, feeling the force leap to his command as he concentrated on the plummeting mass of glass, steel, and wiring. Grot ducked behind a thick, plasteel pazaak table and watched as the broken chandelier, which must have weighed nearly a ton, slowed to a stop just above Creon’s head, the armored man trembled with the effort as he shoved it to the side. This was the moment to strike.

With a practiced and accurate motion he drew and heaved an impact grenade at Creon, the dull gray sphere sailing through the air towards him. Without a moment to think he released his hold on the chandelier, bracing himself just as the grenade landed. The explosion nearly threw him from his feet, sending him sliding backwards across the floor and dealing deep, painful bruises even through his armor. The chandelier landed in a crash of broken glass and twisted metal, both it and the grenade sending up a cloud of dust and smoke that his Creon from view.

Grot took a deep breath as he waited behind his makeshift cover, holstering his smart pistol and drawing the grenade launcher strapped to his back. He scanned the cloud of smoke with its sonic scope, sure that the blast must have knocked the man down or rendered him on conscious. He should have known better. If anything, it had only made the force user angry.

Bacta mist mixed with the smoke from the grenade explosion. Grot's attention was forced away to the drone that fired at the table he hid behind, chipping away bits and pieces near the edge. He launched a round at the drone, bringing it to the ground as an inert husk. A screech of whistling birds made his heart rate jump, to which instinctively Grot rolled away from his cover on the prone. Red tendrils stretched forth from the fingertips of the approaching Mandalorian in black. Grot could feel the soreness one feels from exerting their muscle in exercise and the stiffness from dehydration. The drain did not stop him from firing another round into the smoke. Upon firing Creon launched forward from a small burst from his jetpack leaving behind a trail of smoke that followed. Grot's eyes darted but his body was too slow to react once Creon fired another round from his pistol at the launcher's barrel knocking it out of Grot's hand. Grot felt more exhausted than before, and the force user continued to further drain him.

"If you don't move and let unconsciousness will soon take you and you'll have the chance to live and see another day. This is your final chance. Don't make me kill you," Creon warned.

Grot responded with a knee jerking action that sent his kneepad's rocket darts into action. At the moment he did so, Creon's vambrace blasted a repulsor that pushed Grot back which caused the rockets to miss its target and impact the opposite wall. As he was pushed an activated thermal detonator rolled out from Grot's cloak to Creon's feet. Creon cursed and turned to run, activating another burst from his jetpack in the process. A distance was made but the detonator's impact threw off Creon's landing. Most of the shrapnel hit the jetpack and parts his armor, but a piece found its way into his left thigh and left tricep. Both combatants brought themselves to their feet. Creon's left slide was slightly slumped, but he was able to take a firm stance with the soulscorn aimed just as Grot drew both of his pistols in kind. Both took a moment to breathe and hold their aim, knowing that the finger automatically flexes after getting shot, and that they would fire on each other if one were to pull their trigger. This moment gave Creon the chance to hinder Grot's body through the Force. Once the slow effect was activated, Creon jumped to the right and fired his pistol. His landing hurt and he almost buckled from the pain of the rounds, yet the frequency of his breath kept his body stable despite the hemorrhaging. Grot was impacted at the chest and fell to the ground. Creon took a knee and closed his eyes, and focused with the Force to pull out the shrapnel and closed the wounds with an accelerated homeostasis of platelet clotting. When he had looked up, Grot was gone. The club was completely empty, but the sirens of security forces could be heard on approach in the distance. Creon rose to his feet but the muscles that were damaged still slightly buckled with a controlled shock of pain when he tried to move them.

"Another time," Creon spoke loudly in the event Grot was still within earshot. He then activated his armor's camouflage system and limped his way outside the club before taking off with his jetpack from the vacinity.