So named because it is located one thousand, three hundred, and thirteen levels from the core of Coruscant, Level 1313 is distanced from the politics of the upper levels. Overlooking the chasm burrowing further into Coruscant’s core, one can watch freighters transporting their illicit cargo between levels. One misstep would send the careless careening into the bottomless pit, or aid the local gangs in staging “accidents.”

Weathered duracrete forms the retainer along the chasm wall, built in concentric rings that descend down an untold height. Strengthened with solid durasteel braces, maintenance has not been needed this far into Coruscant for a long time. Nevertheless, droids pre-programmed to fill in the cracks and crevices that might form in the walls float on repulsorlifts without drawing attention from the criminal gangs; themselves, being focused on their next smuggling operation or struggle for control over Coruscant’s scum-filled underbelly.

For those willing to travel into the depths of Coruscant, their journey would inevitably lead them to Level 1313. Whether it was crime, luck, or simple circumstance, it was a constant hub of activity. The crowds hustled and bustled among the circular platform and away from the central chasm, visiting the various kiosks and less than legal shops and dives lining the interior. The homeless bordered the rusted durasteel guard rails overlooking the abyss, their existence driven by the tiny spark of hope that perhaps even scum had a microbe of generosity in their corrupted bodies. These stale souls, or the soulless to some, were typically the slime of the galaxy. Most of them traveled in groups, parting the crowd as they pleased. Their armaments and arrogant demeanour were never challenged openly, though a keen eye could spot the various factions and machinations at play.

However, even among thieves and sometimes on-and-off again gangsters, there was neutral ground in their eternal struggle for control. Barak’s was a small cantina nestled into what could barely be considered a hole in the wall. Its entrance was no more than two metres high and a quarter metre wide. The meek opening led into a surprisingly wide, dimly lit, and relatively low-ceilinged establishment. Heavily stained tables made of rusted durasteel were haphazardly strewn about, their residents sitting in mismatched plasteel chairs that had clearly been borrowed or gifted from various origins. Groups as large as ten and as small as a lone occupant made up the denizens of the rowdy dive, all of whom collectively fumbled their way up to the bar for their various concoctions. The semicircular countertop was located directly opposite of the entrance along the far wall and various beverages were decoratively placed in the crumbling, duracrete wall. Beside the bar was a small door which led to an apartment complex that served as an infrequently used alternate entrance. Barak himself, an unnaturally tall and broad human, worked the bar in complete silence, answering the queries of his customers with a drink, another drink, or a flat stare that hid a troubled past and a clear disdain for the majority of his customers.

Nestled into a small table near the entrance, a quiet game of pazaak was being played. Sitting against the wall was a Pantoran man, his scarred face a mask of concentration as he contemplated his next move. He was dressed in well-tailored, gray breeches tucked into black, knee-high boots and a dark blue shirt. His black, hooded cloak was resting comfortably behind him on his rickety, armless chair, providing a small measure of comfort for his back.

Opposite from him sat a balding, ebony-skinned human man, well into his middle years, but with striking hazel eyes that were as sharp now as they were in his youth. His face was a focused mask, patiently awaiting the Pantoran's next move in their low stakes pazaak game. He was dressed in a simple brown shirt and equally plain blue pants, and he wore a pair of ankle-high black boots that had seen wear and tear beyond the confines of Coruscant’s condemned underbelly.

“Damn it,” the Pantoran mumbled as he drew from the deck. He placed down a familiar, green-hued card with a number five etched lazily onto it beside his other cards. The combination of the other cards arrayed on his side of the table had put him over the limit to a total of twenty-four. His hand wasn't enough to get him twenty, but he had a negative five that could bring him close. He set it down gently and looked up at the human sitting opposite.

“I'll leave it there. You're up, Kairn.”

Kairn chuckled as he drew a card, though Laren didn't know if it was at his comment, or something else entirely.

“I never thought we would have been back here, Laren. I think Barak still remembers the time you came in here and made bantha fodder of Reeo. And ha!” Kairn had a natural twenty that had just won the final round of their tenth match.

Laren sighed and pushed his used cards away. “I swear you stack the deck, Kairn.”

“Yet you always come back for more,” Kairn replied, leaning back in his own chair.

Laren knew that Kairn was referring less to his stubborn insistence to play and lose at pazaak, but more towards their on-again-off-again association in the bounty hunting trade. There had been times in the past where Kairn had been a rival, even an enemy. But somehow, the two managed to remain the oddest of friends, meeting only when their paths collided - which, when Laren thought about it, was quite frequently.

“So when do you start?” Kairn asked as he gathered the cards.

“Well, the target is supposed to be dropping by within the hour. My source told me he would be in his usual location for a drop — ”

Laren was interrupted by the sight of a figure tumbling into the cantina. The petite individual wildly rolled through the entrance until coming into contact with a table. Laren stood to get a better view, grabbing his cloak in his right hand and reaching for his holstered hand blaster with his left.

The figure, a Twi’lek woman dressed in black robes, stood and looked about wildly before dashing toward the door. Laren ran the quick look he got of her through his head and quickly he realized that was her. Laren adeptly donned the cloak in moments and drew his blaster, following the bewildered woman through the apartment complex exit, much to the displeasure of the grim looking Barak.

The door revealed a long, shabby hallway dotted with somewhat working lamps on the wall, providing an eerie atmosphere to the unusually deserted area. It ran left and right, curving naturally to the concentric architecture of Coruscant’s inner levels. Laren waited for a moment outside the closed doorway to Barak’s, hoping a moment of patience would reveal where she had gone.

A scream nearby broke the sound of the indistinct chatter of 1313’s inhabitants. Laren spun right and leapt in a frenzied pace, hoping to quickly converge on the Twi’lek and the source of her fear. He sprinted along the curving hallway, a desperation to understand and take control of the situation driving him forward and forcing him to act quickly. No one is stealing my bloody pay cheque. Moments later, Laren ran right into the thick of it.

In front of him, the Twi’lek woman was wielding a vibroblade in one hand and a DL-44 blaster in the other. Her back was to the Pantoran, who had his own weapon centered on her torso. But before Laren could demand that she surrender, another humanoid form began to take an opaque form. A large, crimson Zabrak had suddenly appeared out of nowhere and he was about to land a massive, clawed gauntlet into the unsuspecting Twi’lek.

“Drol?”

Kul’tak faltered, his head rapidly swiveling to the right to get a peripheral view of the bony bounty hunter. His hesitation cost him the element of surprise as the Twi’lek turned and made ready to fire her blaster into Kul’tak’s ribs. Laren raised his blaster, firing a plasma bolt directly into the lower receiver of the Twi’lek’s blaster, disabling the weapon and burning her left hand slightly. As she turned tail and ran, Laren took two steps with the intention of running after her, but was sent flying onto his back with a wave of Kul’tak’s hand.

“This one is mine,” Kul’tak grumbled.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Kul growled menacingly, a deep rumble that was almost animalistic. The anger radiating from him was palpable, but he refrained from driving a fist into the Pantoran’s wiry body. No matter how much he wanted to. He was a ranking officer. Which was also more than a little annoying.

“You're becoming a thorn in my side, Uscot. One I'd be happy to pluck if you try to stand in my way. The bounty is mine.”

Laren shoved himself back to his feet and held his ground as the Zabrak stood at his full height, positioning his body so the mercenary could not leave without going through him.

“Actually, Drol, the bounty was offered to whoever would take it. I decided I’d give it a shot, as well. The fact that you were also tailing them just made this more exciting.” The mercenary grinned, clearly eager to test his mettle against another. “How about a competition, Drol? A race to see who can catch her first, eh? I know you can’t refuse a challenge with that pride of yours.”

The Zabrak sighed, trying to release his anger long enough to not commit treason against his clan. He wiped a hand across his cheek, tracing the jagged tattoo there. He hazarded a glance backwards, not surprised when he failed to see the Twi’lek waiting for them to finish their conversation.

“Neither one of us is going to have a bounty if she gets away, mercenary.”

“If you could find here from across the galaxy, I’m sure you can track her in a city, Drol. Now listen up.”

A civilian approached and Kul immediately assessed their combat value. The dark-skinned man appeared to be interested in their conversation only, but Kul noticed his stance warned of someone who was trained in firearms, and most likely wielding one. He sidled up next to the Pantoran, huffing slightly from trying to catch up. As if he were important to their conversation, he began to speak regardless of their current discussion.

“I’m not quite as young as I used to be, Laren. At least warn me next time you do something like that.”

Laren smiled mischievously, “Worried you weren’t going to get to collect on your winnings, Kairn? Ah, this is a comrade of mine--”

A loose term at best, mercenary, the Zabrak mused.

“--from the Brotherhood I mentioned once to you.”

Kairn nodded solemnly. “One of those Sith, huh? He doesn’t look like much. How is he at cards? I hope you didn’t teach him.” He laughed at his own joke. “On second thought, I hope you did. I’d be happy to take his credits, as well.”

The man never knew how close he came to dying as Laren stepped in front of Kul’s path, who had begun to take a step forward. Instead the Zabrak grabbed the Pantoran, spinning him around again.

“My patience grows short, Uscot. If you have a challenge, let’s hear it.”

The mercenary clapped two thin, sapphire hands together in eagerness.

“Excellent! Here’s what I propose: we both attempt to capture the refugee, and if you successfully capture her then I will put in a good word for you with the Dread Lord--”

Kairn interrupted him with a barking laugh.

“‘Dread Lord?’ What is this, Lorien’s Justice? You religious zealot types kill my sides, you know?”

The Pantoran waved him to be quiet. If looks alone could kill, Kul’s gaze would have buried the man right there. Beneath tons of rock and durasteel and then blasted with an orbital strike. Laren cleared his throat before continuing.

“That happens to be a great performance, Kairn. Anyway, as I was saying, if you win I’ll see what I can do about helping you get recommended for Equite training. But if I win…”

The Zabrak’s left eyebrow spiked. “And if you win?”

“You owe me a favor. To be fulfilled in whatever manner I see fit.”

Kul considered the offer. It was intriguing. He had craved a chance to receive Equite training for awhile now, wanting to pursue stronger techniques with which to increase his strength. And now that Laren was a Quaestor he could follow up on such a promise. The cost if he lost, though. He had no insight into what the mercenary’s dealings were while employed by the Dread Lord, but being at the Pantoran’s beck and call, if only once, was a grating prospect. In the end, however, his hunger for power drove Kul’s decision. He stretched out a gauntleted hand and grasped the Pantoran’s tightly. Hard enough to send a message, but light enough to not hurt anything long-term.

“So be it, vysht’mayneh.” He used the rough Zabraki term for mercenary as a sign of his loyalty to tradition and his desire to uphold the arrangement made. Not that the Pantoran knew that, but it made him feel slightly less dirty making a deal with a mercenary.

Laren smiled and nodded excitedly, his wanderlust coming out in force. His pazaak partner looked skeptical, but shrugged his shoulders and headed back towards Barak’s, most likely to swindle someone else out of their credits. Laren waited until the scuffs of his friend’s boots on the cement become absolutely silent before continuing. He felt it wouldn’t hurt to make sure the Zabrak did not begin his inevitable rampage while Kairn was still around.

“Ok, Drol, shall we begin?”

The Zabrak gave a crooked grin, and waved a hand in the Pantoran’s direction.

“We already have.”

That’s when Laren’s vision went black. As his sense of balance began to klaxon and threatened to tip him over sideways, his ears filled with the sound of the Zabrak’s deep laughter and the scrape of his armored boots as they propelled him in the direction of the Twi’lek. The mercenary remained calm as he was well aware of the Zabrak’s bag of tricks, having been a victim of them before. He began to move, albeit slowly, by placing a hand on the protective rail marking the inner portion of the floor’s concrete ring. It’s rough and gritty surface provided him the means to keep moving. He remembered seeing the girl turning right ahead and heading down after passing a few complexes as Kul confronted him. A sight the Zabrak had missed with his back turned. So he just had to find that staircase and keep moving. Because he knew that Kul couldn’t keep the darkness up for long at this range. He just had to wait. Then, it was his turn.