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. From 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. The streets 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.

The life of a mercenary, especially one acting alone, was always a life of incredible interest to the hundreds of billions across the galaxy typically minding their own business. The trade was highly romanticized, with tales being told of bountiful riches, rewarding adventure and the chance of fame in exchange for the service of your blaster. What most didn't tell you was that it was also in exchange for your life.

In Laren Uscot's case, he had a particular knack for getting in over his head. Whether it was taking on more jobs than he could handle or more opponents than he could chew, the Pantoran had an almost regular upswing and downswing to the unwanted excitement of his career. Not for the first time in his life - let alone the history of the scum-filled city - he found himself running frantically through the narrow, crowded streets, the tails of his loose overcoat rippling behind him as he ran. He was pushing himself as hard as he could manage, sweat dripping down his face, and his nostrils filled with the familiar, sickly stench of Nar Shaddaa. He held his well maintained blaster carbine firmly, ready to fire at a moment's notice. He would have been more than capable without the blaster, considering his training in hand-to-hand combat, but he found himself being chased by foes who rarely allowed a man such as himself to get close enough to use it.

Since becoming acquainted and involved with the Dark Brotherhood, Laren had had opportunities he could barely have imagined prior to his relationship with Teylas Ramar, and faced dangers that still made his blood run colder than the frosty winters of Orto Plutonia. His abilities as an agent for their cause was valuable enough that the current Headmaster had dispatched him to Nar Shaddaa on an important assignment. He had eavesdropped on the tail-end of a meeting between two Sith, Braecen Kaeth, and another sentient that had been cloaked in dark gray from head to foot, his concealed by cloth further complicating Laren's attempt to identify the person. It would have been an easy assignment, if they had not been bloody Sith. Even as he ran he shook his head, chiding himself as a fool for thinking his presence would not have gone unnoticed. He had been on a high feature overlooking the alley, but he always seemed to underestimate the Dark side wielders for their cunning, focusing more on their usually illogical rage.

Laren went to turn a corner, and stopped abruptly. The dossier he had read en route to Nar Shaddaa had said Braecen was imposing, in his own way. Standing the same height as Laren, it wasn't only the two deactivated lightsabers in his hand that made him imposing. A pair of penetrating, icy blue eyes locked onto Laren with a zealous focus. The man began to slowly but deliberately use well-honed bulk to shift through the crowd, never letting his eyes off the mercenary. He had thought he had lost the pursuing Sith in the markets on the level below, but Braecen was proving more cunning than he could predict. I have to do something he won't expect, Laren thought quickly, searching his surroundings for anything of use. He had wanted his presence to go unnoticed on Nar Shaddaa, but perhaps it was common-place for someone to go shooting up a common area or ten. It was the Smuggler's Moon, after all.

Looking up, the Pantoran noticed a high-rise to his left, sitting around six or seven stories in height and connecting to another level above. There was no time to think, and only barely enough time to act. Pulling his grappling hook free, he aimed and launched` it toward the top of the building. As Laren pulled the cord tight and began to let the thing slowly repel upward, he noticed the human man's pace quicken, using both his fists and the Force to push onlookers out of the way.

As the grappling hook assisted Laren as he propelled upward, he grinned maniacally before using his free hand to level the carbine at the Sith. He had no qualms killing innocent people or burning their shops or kiosks to the ground, though the preferred outcome would to eventually hit the Sith. He knew his blaster fire would be shaky at best, considering he was using his right hand and the weapon was meant to be held firmly with two, but it would have to do. He fired.

Braecen opened himself to the Force. It boiled in the pit of his stomach and flooded him with an avalanche of nausea. He felt it pulse through his veins like molten lava and set his skin afire with omnipotent potential. The power was heady and swirled about him – a tempest of the Force – fed from the wellspring of the Dark Side.

With his feet set, his arms raised upward, and his brow knit in furious concentration, he summoned an invisible wall of power between himself and the mercenary. The scatter shot of blaster bolts screamed through the makeshift arena. They ripped into the duracrete at the feet of the Elder or splashed against his defensive corona. The violence scattered the nearby pedestrians – a great deal bolting from the street while a few dove for cover.

Laren continued his upward ascent, taking himself well out of his foe’s range. As he neared the edge, he clipped his BlasTech DC-15S blaster carbine to the clip on his left hip. The place where he often held the weapon to obscure its shape from prying eyes. He reached out with his now free hand and hefted himself into a roll over the lip of the surface onto his back. Adrenaline heightened his pulse and he took several moments to recover.

He knew the Sith would be coming for him. He could either stand his ground and fight. Or he could run. He chose to think of it as a tactical withdraw instead. As he ran towards his Delta 7-B Aethersprite-class Light Interceptor, he began to consider potential ambushes and traps to draw his foe into. Laren was a survivor and he planned to keep taking contracts well after today. Perspiration began to bead along his brow and glistened against his blue skin and dark blue hair. His golden eyes blinked rapidly in a futile attempt to discard the moisture.

A cloaked silhouette appeared ahead, stepping out from the shadows along the wall. Laren feared for a moment that Braecen had gotten ahead of him and been lying in wait. But the man turned in the opposite direction and started down the corridor away from him, and the shadow from which he had come broadened into an intersecting passage. Laren did not even break stride. He raised his hand, which now held a BlasTech DC-17, and unleashed a blast of scarlet energy. The shot was true, but the crescendo of a lightsaber - snap-hiss - echoed through the tunnel and a white flame batted the red bolt aside at the last possible second.

Laren darted straight towards a low wall and launched himself into a high, arcing dive over it. He landed hard in a forward somersault that was more of a forward slam and still managed to come back onto his feet. He extended one leg and spun on the other, coming around just as the blue-eyed man stepped into the middle of the intersection. He pulled the trigger and did not stop until the weapon overheated. The Sith made to stand his ground, but abandoned his attempt under the shear onslaught and dove for nearby cover.

Fight or flight. The Pantoran had to make another snap-decision. He elected to press his advantage and close ranks with his opponent. Laren had seen where he dove, so he made a best guess to the exact location of the Sith as he rounded the corner. He sprang into a one-handed cartwheel, landing a vicious roundhouse kick on the way past his head, then drew his own hunting knife and brought it sweeping up to finish the fight. His moves would have been perfect-except the Sith Elder was not there. He was standing just beyond his reach, shaking his head clear and holding his lightsabers in a low guard that seemed a little too careless.