You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. A popular drinking and dining establishment located in the city of Mos Eisley on the desert world of Tatooine, Chalmun's Spaceport Cantina is run by the Wookiee Chalmun.

A single story building made of sandstone, the cantina consists of a bar area, private offices, a VIP lounge, a private hangar, a basement, and a phony shop in the rear. It caters to all sorts from across the galaxy, with spacious areas and wide arched doorways to allow patrons of all sizes passage. Unsurprisingly, a fair share of these guests lend to the cantina’s seedy reputation.

Entering through a small portal on one side of the building, a small passage curves around into the main bar area. Featuring many themed spigots resembling the heads of IG-series assassin droids, the bar is capable of producing several dozen drinks of Chalmun's own concoctions. Surrounded by eight different alcoves filled with stools, tables, and even a bandstand, the bar wraps from the public area around into the private back room.

The stench was sickening.

Meters of compacted earth, sandstone, and foundations, yet still the twin, beating suns of Tatooine were palpable, although in a very different way than on the surface.

Warm earth blanketed the sewage pipes running beneath the streets of Mos Eisley, insulating the fetid runoff from some of the busiest establishments in the city. The foul air was close, uncomfortable, and it was all Wuntila could do to avoid vomiting. The heavyset Arconan dragged his stooped frame through the feculent slop, tracking his movements on his datapad. He was close.

He squeezed his bulk around the last corner. Rays of artificial light shone through a drainage grate overhead, and the overtones of brewing yeast mixed with the putrid air confirmed his arrival.

“Lotus?” a shadow queried timidly through the grate.

“Lotus,” the Dragon reassured as he heaved himself up onto the rusty ladder leading up to the grille. It swung up, allowing Wuntila to pull himself into the basement of the cantina. The young male Duros who had opened the grate scurried behind a large barrel. Two more figures appeared from the shadows – another Duros and a particularly ugly Ongree who shifted uncomfortably at the Warlord’s arrival.

“We haven’t got much time,” Wuntila announced. “The route I have followed is clear. Take this.” He proffered his datapad to the first Duros. “Follow the red line back through the sewers–” The Ongree twitched. It was slight, but enough. He had made his choice. He leapt deftly forward, snatching the datapad from Wuntila’s fingertips, and disappearing with surprising speed up the narrow staircase into the cantina above.

The Dragon awoke.

“Stay here!” he roared as he skulked after the defector.

Head down to hide the scars. He had to be inconspicuous. The target was close. It would be a fool who wasted this chance. And a fool Laren Uscot was not.

He had been tracking the Ongree mercenary Deshlan G’luk for weeks. G’luk had become a target by stalking cargo routes to The Circle, the Plagueis training facility of which Laren was in command. The Ongree had been intercepting weapons, ammunition, and stores, thereby delaying the development of Plagueian recruits. This was the primary reason for Laren’s mission, but G’luk’s connections with the slave trade certainly helped to fuel the Raider’s motivations. According to the intelligence, it was in this capacity that the mercenary found himself on Tatooine; a vain attempt to lure a group of Lotus resistance fighters into his servitude. A petty criminal. But one who would draw the praise of Plagueis' Consul if brought before her.

“Uscot,” a distorted voice began from the comlink hidden in the sleeve of his long, grey overcoat. “Target has made contact with the buyer, our informant. Location confirmed. Basement.”

Laren pulled the overcoat close around his lithe frame and nursed the last of his drink, an interesting beverage of the Wookiee proprietor’s own brewing. He had waited long enough. It was time.

He stood, kicked his stool back from the bar, and made a motion for the basement door – a door which abruptly exploded in a shower of splintered Kashyyyk-wood. A body flailed through the eruption, stumbling as it looked over its shoulder in horror, and landed in a heap between Laren and the doorway from whence it came. The Ongree.

Reflexes and muscle memory more than conscious thought came into play. Laren deftly drew the DC-15S Blaster Carbine hidden inside his overcoat and levelled the barrel at the creature’s head. The cantina’s other patrons soon made themselves scarce in the ensuing disruption.

“That was easy,” Laren mused to no one in particular.

“He’s mine!” a voice like thunder proclaimed. A thickset silhouette appeared, framed by the doorway, its features dancing in the unsteady purple glow of its lightsaber.

The Pantoran scanned his surroundings. “I’m not sure that’s so,” Laren retorted, a smile teasing the corners of his lips. The hulking figure made to step forward, but with practised speed and accuracy, Laren let loose a hail of blaster bolts into the large Bantha head trophy hanging above the cellar door.

The Force whispered a warning. Wuntila did not so much direct his heavy swing as guide its momentum. Two smouldering halves of the hunting trophy fell either side of him. Through the wisps of smoke he saw the assailant making for the exit, traitor in tow.

Perhaps not so easy.

The giant - as if the term could do the man justice - easily carved through the toppling Bantha head with his violet lightsaber, following Laren with a steady pace. He stared after the Raider, hardened eyes set on the cadaver Laren now possessed. The look of transparent fury on his pursuer's weathered face spoke of a man who had lived through the unfathomable, and likely the bloody. It was the look of a man who had experienced death, perhaps reveled in it. The look of a dangerous man, clearly unhappy at his predicament. That expression seemed to tug at the Raider's memory, referencing some file he had read as he researched potential enemies of the Clan. Those eyes, hard as stone, were distantly familiar. Sithspit, who was he?

Laren slithered through the scurrying patrons of the cantina into the private room, reaching the distant entrance of the hangar. He dropped what was once Deshlan to the floor at the foot of the hangar doorway, taking a brief moment to pat down the dead Ongree's clothing. He managed to rummage a simple datapad that had been hastily stuffed into a shabby leather jacket and a handful of credits. He regarded the former cautiously for a moment before stuffing it securely in his overcoat with the credits. The distinct hiss of a lightsaber was close, now, and the violet hue seemed to glare off the walls. It was time to move.

"Out of my way," Wuntila rumbled, pushing aside clientele as he steadily stepped through the throng to follow the escaping Pantoran. Running was not necessary, as the slender Pantoran was weighed down by the now lifeless defector. Soon, his enemy would corner himself elsewhere, and Wuntila would take full advantage of the situation. With each step the Arconae was one step closer to resolving this nuisance.

The Warlord tracked the mercenary through the private room, and he had just moments to see the Pantoran pocket the stolen datapad before tinkering with the door panel to access the wide hangar beyond. So, he had found it. Wuntila's anger, once simmering, was now a boiling inferno that threatened his cold tactical reasoning. Though few shots had been fired and strikes leveled, this was a battle. A battle where he had been robbed not once, but twice, and his foe had evolved from a hideous Ongree into a sly Pantoran who could shoot true and hack fast. Oh, what I will do to this fool, he thought distantly, thoughts of brutally murdering the mercenary in different ways shattering his once calm thoughts.

"Those scars brand you a coward," Wuntila goaded.

The Pantoran responded, the tails of his dark overcoat flaring as he whipped around, blaster carbine leveled firmly at the towering Arconae. Wuntila continued forward firmly, deflecting dangerously accurate blaster fire coursing through the open hangar doors. In the brief moment his opponent had taken to re-adjust his firing stance, Wuntila assumed the initiative. With a resounding cry, he violently drew upon the Force and pushed. Though it couldn't be seen, a powerful wave of kinetic energy burst forth from his outstretched right-hand, sending the Pantoran violently thrashing through the air before he crashing against the far wall of the hangar with a loud thud. Through the adrenaline he felt drained, but he ignored the brief fatigue and attempted to maintain some semblance of focus.

"You," he said, regaining control of his emotions. The mercenary was on his knees, and continuing to regain his footing, using the hangar wall for support. He was tougher than he looked, surprisingly still able to move after such an impact. However, Wuntila noticed he clutched his right arm tenderly. "Hand over that datapad and I'll make sure to kill you - slowly." His voice was brisk and commanding, equally suitable for addressing a room of military commanders or a cluttered closet of villainous scum.

Laren looked down, regarding the arm he gripped gently with a passing glance that hid the excruciating pain he felt. He couldn't see the damage, but he knew the impact had fractured his right arm. He was no medical expert, though he knew enough that his right arm was out of commission, and even attempting use of it would be futile.

Without warning, the mercenary swiftly reached into his overcoat, revealing a well-kept hand blaster. Laren side-stepped as he opened fire, condensed blasts of sapphire plasma charging toward his gargantuan opponent with malicious intent.

Bolts of blue brilliance besieged Wuntila in an instant. His response was not conscious, simply a reaction. Amethyst arcs swept wildly across the Human-Theelin’s frame as he deflected bolts of energy with wide lightsaber strokes. His feet were planted firmly, his body turned to reduce his profile.

The assault was nothing short of a maelstrom; burst-fire shots from all angles against which Wuntila could scarcely defend. Laren careered towards the Dragon, the veins visibly bulging from the Plagueian’s neck and temples. He was a Pantoran possessed, but his aim was unfaltering – Wuntila’s defense, on the other hand, was not.

It struck. A glancing bolt caught Wuntila on his right upper shoulder, cauterising the top of his trapezius and blackening the surrounding skin. He stumbled. His legs went limp. And then the adrenaline. He felt his body surge forward and – channelling the raw energy pulsating through the ether – propelled himself out of danger and into the air with a preternatural quickness. Landing clumsily between the wall and the floor where Laren had been moments ago, he turned to see the Pantoran skidding to a halt where he once stood. They had switched places. The only difference was that the Plagueian now had an escape route.

“Win some, lose some!” Laren shouted across the hangar, backing his way into the doorway leading into the private room. The Dragon darted towards the Pantoran, but it was hopeless. Laren, his injured right arm hanging motionless at his side, waved the datapad at the Arconan, before sliding it into his overcoat and proffering his blaster pistol. Two swift shots into the hangar door control panel, and the monolithic metal aperture closed with a thud-hiss.

Wuntila bellowed and ran. Dragonsbreath spat fire and fury as the Arconan levelled his lightsaber. He was like a freighter in hyperspace – all bulk and speed. With the momentum of his sprint and all the strength he could summon, he plunged the lightsaber hilt-deep into the blast door.

Not much time. A glance over his shoulder confirmed as much. The door changed colour. Black to red to orange to white.

The main door was locked. No escape. He rested the Arconan’s datapad on one of the tables strewn about the room. It would not take long to upload the data files from the handheld device to his Aethersprite-class Interceptor docked in a nearby hangar. First, though, he had to establish a secure connection.

Glop. A globule of molten metal hit the floor.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered.

Connection established. Uploading: 3%

Pain seared through his right shoulder as he carved a hole in the blast door. His heavy musculature had taken the majority of the impact. A flesh wound. But one that would need attention – especially with the dried sewage still clinging to his skin.

He completed the circuit and, tapping into the rapidly depleting stores of energy, delivered a herculean kick to the heavy metal slug in the blast door. It slid inwards, landing with a deafening clunk.

“This is no game!” the Arconan barked, stepping through the makeshift entranceway. He glanced at the body of the Ongree slumped against the doorframe. The Arconan had no recollection of how the traitor had died. Nevertheless, he welcomed the Ongree’s demise.

Wuntila’s eyes drifted from the Ongree to the open space of the private room, landing on Laren. Instead of a blaster, the Plagueian held a bottle with a smouldering rag stuffed into the neck. Behind him was a row of bottles, all readily prepared. And in the distance was the datapad. Wuntila could just see the screen:

Uploading: 89%

“The owner has a penchant for brewing,” the mercenary said with a smirk. “High proof. Flammable.” His uninjured arm released like a trebuchet, grabbing and throwing the rudimentary firebombs with abandon.

With his last reserves of raw Force energy, Wuntila danced across the floor, easily avoiding the exploding bottles, and closed the gap in a matter of seconds. He slammed into the Plagueian with remarkable force, throwing the mercenary backwards over the table. The Dragon saw red. He jumped onto the Pantoran and erupted in a storm of blunt force. The writhing body soon slackened. Laren’s gold-yellow eyes were lifeless, and yet the Dragon continued.

A bleep broke him from his attack. He looked up.

Upload complete.

He plucked the comlink from within his armour. “Auresh Nine reporting. Severe data breach. Potential Inquisitorius threat. Begin Operation Deep Clean.”

Wuntila deactivated his lightsaber and rolled forward, agile and precise despite his hulking frame, quickly regaining his footing. He reactivated his violet blade just in time to deflect more cerulean bolts, sending them flying into the hangar walls.

Yet suddenly, there was pain. He almost didn't notice it over the swirling currents of his harnessed rage, but it was there. The mercenary had landed a shot just under his ribs, piercing his intricate Aegis armor. Outside of the void, he could feel warm blood oozing down his side. He knew enough of blasters and how to handle them that the Pantoran he now faced was an excellent shot, rarely missing his mark except under extreme duress. Wuntila counted himself lucky that he had not been on the receiving end of more. He let thought slip from his mind, embracing the fires of hatred deep within him, pulling on the Force and charging methodically toward his opponent.

"This ends now," he rumbled.

He was close, now, perhaps a pace or two away. He could see the look of fear in the man's golden eyes, the fear of knowing death was coming in the form of a twirling lightsaber, deflecting well-placed shots and intending to cut him down. A thought drifted through, distant yet still noticed. Never back someone into a corner, unless you want to see how someone fights with nothing to lose. The words of tactical reason floated in his mind, but he let them slide away, focusing instead on plunging headfirst into victory. He would kill this bloody thief, and leave his scarred head on the floor of the hangar.

"Perhaps," the Pantoran replied flatly, his voice contained despite his predicament. His blaster fire had ceased now, the weapon bolstered and his left hand in front of him. "But I'm taking you with me."

Time seemed to slow as Wuntila realized his mistake. It wouldn't cost him his life, but perhaps would cost him time. Time that the Lotus did not have. Time wasted as Inquisitors scoured the galaxy amid the chaos of a seemingly leaderless Brotherhood. For all the tactical knowledge at his disposal, he had let bloodlust overcome cold calculation. Even as Wuntila strode forward, his blade plunging forward in a brutal stab at the Pantoran's chest, the mercenary had produced a dagger in his left hand. Wuntila could not and would not stop the crippling blow, now. A little blood - or perhaps much more - was worth a chance at victory.

The duo stared for a moment, knowing looks passing between them. Laren had a lightsaber through his gut, the purple blade sticking put from behind him just below his heart. Though his expression was pained and distant, a small grin could be seen. Wuntila looked back, lips curled into a wordless snarl, the well-crafted stiletto stuck into his chest between the detailed scales of his armor.

Wuntila let the lightsaber deactivate, the Pantoran falling to the floor in a heap. His breathing was hoarse and barely audible, but Wuntila's augmented senses could still hear the man breathe. He was alive, and may perhaps survive with medical attention. And yet, those same senses quickly faded away as the din of battle subsided, revealing the excruciating pain of his two injuries. He was not used to the open wounds of blades and blasters, and he almost preferred the feel of cauterized lightsaber strikes. In truth, he would have preferred no injuries at all, if it could be helped.

With a roar the Sith removed the blade, blood bursting from the wound. Perhaps it wasn't meant to be removed - his knowledge of battlefield medicine amateur, at best - though he didn't care.

"What's your name? Who sent you?" He knelt down beside the mercenary, both for his own comfort and for the benefit of his downed opponent. He brought the stiletto to the Pantoran's throat, resting the tip of the blade on his neck gently.

The mercenary tried laughing, but found himself coughing hoarsely instead.

"Laren," he breathed in reply. With a final, piercing glance, the mercenary passed into unconsciousness.

Wuntila reached into Laren's coat and retrieved the datapad, though he noticed it was damaged beyond repair. Not ideal, but better than being stolen.

So there are more pieces on the board. Lotus. Inquisitors. And more. Yet who could it be? As Wuntila limped away, thoughts of unseen shadows attempting to disrupt the current order plagued his thoughts. It was more complicated than it appeared.