Malgan Markets
Iziz, Onderon

33 ABY

To those who grew up and worked within the markets, its siren calls and exotic smells were a welcoming reverie from the cleaner and less exciting air that surrounded the residential sectors. Vendors desperately competed for the attention of anyone who would notice their multitudes of merchandise for sale, though even their voices were sometimes drowned out by passing hovercrafts and departing space-faring vessels. The market was an overflow of stimulation, providing almost anything possible, whether it was to be sold or to be experienced, to those walking its stone streets. Arguably, Iziz was a city that had a rugged, but very authentic beauty which attracted tourists who sought to immerse themselves in the old within the new. In other words, those fascinated by history, as well as by creating it, felt right at home immersing themselves in a romantic maze of activity.

Of course, being a less-than-normal sentient in the Universe meant that this beauty was lost. Normally, the reason for that was one’s focus was found elsewhere. In Laren’s case, he was trying to kill somebody. Laren found himself dashing through the central market, chasing his target with an energy and fervour that seemed contradicting to his frail frame. He adeptly bounded toppled chairs and tables and expertly dodged innocent passers-by, keeping the human male in sight and hoping the chase would soon give way. For every fruit thrown in his direction or bystander roughly toppled during the chase, Laren’s resolve to capture and kill his target increased. His steady breathing, deep but resolute, maintained his quick stride against the much larger prey. Though he had wanted to capture him before they hit the market, he understood now his best chance was to tire him out, and allow him to seal his own demise within a small entrapment.

Suddenly, the man bounded left between two rows of tall, uneven buildings facing toward the Royal Palace. The suspected street could in fact be an alley, making it easier to track his target in a limited space. However, it could just as easily be a dead end, or worse, a deathtrap. But Laren was committed, and he slowed his pace and drew his DL-44, rounding the corner and about to fire upon his target...

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen stood before him, wiping her used, ruby-stained daggers on the plain black robes of his fallen former target. Clearly Togruta by her red complexion and flowing montrals and head tails, her eyes were a deep and intense blue he could only compare to the vast and clean oceans of Mon Calamari. She was tall, nearly as tall as he was and very well built, with a body toned by year of combat and hunting. Her stance was strong and slightly arrogant, completely open to attack yet tense, as if waiting for Laren to make a move and seemingly knowing she could be ready to face him. The very pride emanating from the small smirk on her face brought a slight purple tinge into his warm cheeks. A gorgeous killer - my kind of girl.

“Seems like I got here FIRST!” she said, her voice echoing in his ears like the first time he heard rainfall after leaving Pantora.

He should have been angry with the fact his target had just been taken from him and the fact she was still speaking, and he immediately should have shot her dead and taken the human’s body back to his shuttle for safe transport and payment. His hesitation was taken advantage of, and she threw one of her daggers with target precision straight at his chest. Though he rolled in time to have the dagger miss his chest, the sharp blade still struck true, slicing a deep cut in his left arm before finding itself lodged and vibrating in the wall behind him. With only enough time to briefly look at his gushing flesh wound before taking a fighting stance, he found the Togruta bearing down expertly with her second dagger.

As they began their deadly dance , Laren focused inwards into his mind, recalling his teachings. He barely had time to react before she brought her blade to bear in a reverse grip, striking at his abdomen. He dodged her advances, though her attacks were pivoting him into the corner. A few more expert swipes, and Laren found his opening, using his palm to hit a sensitive nerve above her wrist. His blow caused her hand to open in pain, dropping the dagger a few paces away and out of direct reach. Laren had no time to retrieve the weapon, as the Togruta began an agile and deliberate advance.

Trained in the Echani arts, Laren flowed from a quick blow from the hips into a defensive posture, utilizing her movement to bring her off balance. He couldn’t help but notice her own expertise, in what form he couldn’t recognize, coming to bear against his own technique. After feeling confident his body had remembered its training, he focused outward, time seemingly slowing as the stalemate continued. Neither could find the weakness in one another as they continued to engage for brief and intense bouts before returning to their slow, graceful steps of death. He felt outward, using what he had learned to try to understand her. Her immaculate eyes held pain and anger, and the way she held her stance in combat had an aggressive tenacity that was beyond merely defeating a skilled opponent such as Laren. She was trying to prove something, yet it wasn't her superiority.

A kick to Laren's jaw, throwing him off balance, actually allowed him the ability to draw her in. She closed in a quick bound, her first attempting to hit home in the centre of his chest. He grabbed her by her striking arm, using her momentum to toss her against a nearby wall. She looked up after a brief moment, a smile on her full lips that had nothing to do with the battle at hand. Drawing on all of her strength to win this battle, she quickly bounded again and re-engaged her slightly larger, though somewhat skinny opponent. The punches kept coming, and he utilized her body weight to throw her off balance once again, though this time she recovered quickly with a kick to his left thigh. After a mere second of recovering his stance, he barely had time to notice she had rolled to the location of the dagger she dropped previously. She swiped expertly, bringing the weapon to bear with a soft hiss through the air.

Suddenly she jumped, leaving Laren the opportunity to strike a punch into her exposed chest. However, before he could bring his first to bear, he had a mere moment as he realized what was happening. Laren stepped forward and she tossed the dagger right where his left foot was about to be. He withdrew, taking three steps back and setting a basic stance, hands held at the ready and his body at a slight angle, presenting his petite frame at its smallest possible angle.

“How is someone who is out to kill me so damn gorgeous?” he asked her, trying to convey the truth of his comment. He had no qualms of killing her if it came to that, but he would avoid it if he could.

Without a word she retrieved the dagger she had just thrown from the ground, and her eyes found his. She raised her left brow and smiled, as if teasing Laren. This left him with a puzzled mind, a racing heart, and an unsure feeling as he had no idea what was to happen next.

"Honey, listen. If we can just stop and talk for a moment, I would rather discuss where I am taking you for a drink. With every hit you throw at me, I am falling in love." He had no idea why, but he was telling the truth. A woman who could kill him, or anyone who could kill him, deserved his respect. When she was as near to perfection as could be created for him in the Universe, and a warrior of great skill, and a scoundrel - he had a thing for bad girls since his days as a slave.

Expecting her to stop to react to the comment, he found himself on the defensive as she carried out a series of powerful strikes, aiming to find his least protected and most sensitive area on his body. He knew it was a feint, designed to have him protect that which was injured so that she could present a deadly blow to a target such as his head or his nether regions. But regardless of what he knew, she was quickly successful, striking at his kidney and causing him to reel in pain. She followed with an expertly executed grapple, bringing him to the ground and pinning him, dagger at his throat. He was finished and completely taken aback.

She sat there for a moment, holding the dagger at his throat, her face close to his even as her powerful grip pressed down. Her perfume smelled of a rose he had found on one of the Mid Rim worlds, of which he couldn't remember as the woman of his dreams pressed a dagger to his jugular, deciding whether to cut him or not. Regardless, his heart was racing for various reasons.

“You really are quite handsome. The datapads just do not give you credit,” she whispered in his ear, her sultry voice sending shivers down his spine even as he feared his life could be cut in a single flourish along his jugular.

He couldn't believe it. All of this, to find him? Was he being hunted and didn't know about it? So many thoughts at once, and none leading to any answers. Honesty was the best course of action here.

“You were so beautiful I hesitated. I never hesitate," he replied in a near whisper, making sure his words were carefully chosen and his mouth and throat moved as little as possible.

“Deadly and gorgeous is my business, darling,” a finger released its grip on the dagger still at his throat, touching the scars on his cheeks. “These add a rugged look about you. I almost couldn’t take this job you were too perfect.”

A silence overcame the two as they thought through their options. Laren had two, both of which were less than ideal. One was to die at her hands, his blood spilling onto the pavement as she walked away with ten thousand credits and her own life. The other, and the more optimistic option, had him either talk his way out or somehow use what little body weight advantage he had over her to knock her off balance, escape her vicegrip and possibly escape for his life or, if she followed, begin the battle anew.

She let go of his arm, though he didn’t move as the dagger was still held at his throat. She bent down further, her face nearly touching the pavement and her eyes poured into his own. Her smile was soft and, somehow, genuine in her moment of triumph. He found his heart racing, knowing she could feel his chest pounding under the pressure of her own body keeping him in place.

“So about this whole dagger-at-my-throat deal… perhaps it’s best -”

The dagger dropped and her slender finger touched his lips gently, causing him to stop in mid-sentence, stunned by the act.

“Darling, you passed the test with flying colours. You will find a datapad near your docking pad in a small container detailing a job that is double the price of this one. It’s not everyday one can land a hit on me,” she flashed a grin, proving at once her arrogance, and her passion for her trade: bounty hunting.

"Will I ever see you again?" The woman who beat him. The only woman who mattered.

She hesitated, unsure as to whether she should say what she wanted, going out of her comfort zone. He had learned that much from their duel.“You’ll find my method of contact, should you so desire. Until then, sweet dreams, handsome.”

Laren barely realized she had kissed him on the cheek with a tenderness he knew she reserved for very few. His eyes began closing shut. He had fallen for her again, this time a serum that would knock him on conscious. Laren barely noticed as the mystery woman stood up, taking her daggers with her, folding her cloak over her shoulders to rejoin the throng unnoticed, leaving Laren dreaming her floral scent, her immaculately executed fight plan, and the woman of his dreams, quite literally. The woman who had beat him. The woman he would find again. And, possibly, the only thing Laren could come to love in the entire galaxy.

Though I will provide text here, I will also provide a google document in case you want to edit it. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1bMaPTHv6zq3kbuQm_DIUJF60OPbsAi_9yZ-p2X4equ0/edit

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Stygian Caldera
Classified Location

34 ABY

Aboard the ancient space station the cult - or Clan, as they referred to themselves - called home, a scarred Pantoran man, frail but in his prime, found himself in an especially unique position. Having been asked by the Dread Lord for a meeting, Laren had entered the large, square conference room to find the Dread Lord dead, and a masked assassin caught off guard by his arrival. Laren’s yellow eyes had focused within microseconds, and he had drawn his weapon and fired a bead faster than he had ever thought possible. The humanoid assassin had, as well, dropped to the ground in an unruly heap, the pair of bodies contorted in such a way that it was clear their bodies were limp with an all-too-recent death. This left Laren, his D-C-seventeen still billowing smoke from its short barrel. As far as Laren was concerned, and according to the traditions set forth in the ‘Clan’, Laren was technically the new Dread Lord.

The doors behind him opened, two heavily armoured and black-robed individuals entering, lightsabers already at the ready. Understanding Force-users a little more since he had been working with Plagueis, Laren assumed they must have sensed their Master’s death, and perhaps even the intruder who had seemingly killed their Master. Of course, the first thing they see is Laren’s blaster smouldering from a recent shot, and they slowly began to bare down on him.

“Okay, listen. This is some sort of mistake!” He began stepping back, as the guards drew closer and closer, lightsabers no deactivated but resting at their sides. “You know that I definitely couldn’t have shot the Dread Lord. Even I am not that good.” Laren had passed the elongated conference table, his back now against the wall of the room to the right of where the bodies stay lay. His blaster was held at the ready, waiting for the first strike of these dangerous individuals.

Suddenly the guards kneeled, their lightsabers laying atop their exposed knees, heads bowed in complete reverence. Though heavy heartedly and with a touch of hesitation, the two in unison said, “Dread Lord, we are yours to command.”

“Excuse me? Now, listen, I know you folks have your laws and your traditions,” Laren basically spat out the last words, pausing to catch his own train of thought. “But you can’t be serious in calling me your Dread Lord -”

“You think we want this, Dread Lord?” The guard to his left asked, his face covered by a black veil, but his blue eyes were steeled with defiance. “You are one of The Willing. How you ever became a Second, let alone now the Dread Lord? I should strike you down where you stand -”

As the man stood up, about to activate his lightsaber, Laren put his hand out in earnest, simultaneously also raising his blaster to the ready in his left hand. “You wouldn’t want to go doing that. I may not wield this so-called Force you all value so dearly, but I know as mere guards to the Dread Lord that you are not powerful enough to stand up to the other di Plagia who will surely try to usurp this position.” His two companions were now standing, Laren slowly making his way toward the far end of the conference near where the bodies lay. “Let me be your leader, your puppet. Your scapegoat. I may not know the Force, but I am not a fool. They will be making their moves, gathering their support. But if you throw your support behind me, the man who killed not one but two Dread Lords to assume the title, you would be unstoppable. The popular support would fall behind me, and thus you.” Laren could tell he was getting through to them. The dirtiest way he knew how to win a battle was with words. You could always do so much more with words than a gun.

“Do what your Clan namesake did. Plagueis ruled for years in the shadows, manipulating the Galaxy to his advantage. He was more than willing to leave his legacy to the shadows.” Laren holstered his blaster, pointing down at the bodies behind him.

“Greatness isn’t measured by history. It is measured by your own power, and the ability to wield it. Their power has been gifted to me - and thus, to you. Make me your power, your tool to be used, and take the Clan for yourselves. What say you?”

Laren had never been a gambling man. Gambling required chance, and chance was never a factor Laren relied on. He had taken many risks, and would hopefully take many more in his long, blood-filled life, but he had never gone in blind. Gambling was blind chance, the odds determined by the balance of the Universe. Laren always made his own odds, bending the circumstances to his will. But he was gambling his own life, now, with these two ambitious and power-hungry humanoids. He hoped that using them to suit his own ends wouldn’t be his own undoing.

They spoke in hushed tones, looking over at Laren and back toward themselves again. This went on for a few moments, though there was no time to dally on a decision the likes of this.

“It is decided, bounty hunter. You will be our Dread Lord.”

Laren’s face slowly lit up with a smile. It was devoid of any form of happiness. His smile was one of victory, one of resolve, and one of deceit. For the first time in possibly ever, though only partially so, a Non-Force User sat atop a throne of Clan Plagueis. Though he would not have the backing of the other Lords, and he may even face outright hostility, if he had the Legions on his side through his own overseers, there would be no denying his authority.

“Let’s get to work."

It was dark as Quo entered into Sang’s accommodation. Nobody saw him enter the area, and nobody would see him leave, his form merging into the background. Without sound he made his way through the living area towards the sleeping quarters. Listening intently at the thin door he tried to make out any sound issuing forth from the room behind the plasteel divider. There was no sign of movement from inside, no discernible echoes of habitation. Placing his prosthetic hand against it he used the precision engineering piece as an amplifier, feeling for slightest vibration. There was none. Easing the door sideways he entered the bedroom of the human Jedi.

Looking around he could see little in the way of ornamentation, save from a stack of data pads, and old fashioned books lining the back wall, surrounding a small desk and computer terminal. The bed didn’t look as though it had been slept in for several days, the bedding crisply laid on the bed looked undisturbed. Scanning the area for any sign of intrusion Quo could see no such evidence. The doors to the wardrobe slid open at his touch. Looking along the neatly arranged clothes nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His eyes took in the garments that were hung up, the all appeared to be pressed and clean, although something nagged at the back of his mind. What was it?

His hands opened up the built in drawers one by one, everything laid out in order, and everything apparently in its place. Opening each one told a story about the Jedi beneath his every day face to the Clan. He liked everything to be in its rightful place, organised, regimented. Maybe it was the way the academics brain functioned. Even the footwear at the bottom was arranged into pairs, with the fastenings tucked inside. There must be something more, his instincts were screaming that to him. As the last drawer opened at his touch there was a noise from the back that did not seem normal to him, not part of the operation of the unit. Pulling it forwards to its full extent Quo used one of his throwing knives to slide along the side, dislodging it from the runners that supported it. A click signified that it was now free of its shackles. Pulling sharply on the drawer it came free. The Zabrak placed it on the floor in front of the wardrobe.

Reaching into the dark space his fingers searched for the source of the noise. After a few seconds he felt it. A minuscule difference in height between the floor of the space and the object. Whatever it was was extremely thin, no more than a couple of microns thick at the most. Gently stroking it forwards it finally made its way out of the darkness, into the semi gloom of the room. It was a micro thin piece of acetate, clear and shiny, and in this light it was difficult to assess what was on it. Taking it gently in his hand he placed it into the same pouch as his interface unit, at least it should be protected within its plasteel shell. He replaced the drawer as it had been before, making sure that it appeared exactly the same as it had done before his disassembly of the unit.

Turning to the desk he scanned it, looking for the minutiae of ever day workings. No sign of anything being slid across its surface, nor any clues as to what Sang had been doing before he left. Quo moved over to it, lifting up the lid of the portable terminal. A hair detached itself from the lid of the unit, drifting on the currents of air until it landed on the work surface. Quo lifted it gently, rolling it in his fingertips, trying to ascertain from whom it had come by sight alone, failing utterly.

It struck him. The clothes. There were none of Sang’s combat fatigues hanging up. The ones in the wardrobe were either social or ceremonial wear, none of it had any use except for showing off in. Looking around he searched, it was here, he knew it was. Placing his face as close as possible to the wall surfaces he used the available light to highlight any abnormalities not usually detected. As he approached the third wall, the one to which the head of the bed was aligned it hit him. There was another hair, but this one was protruding from the wall itself. Moving closer to it, now standing on the bed itself, Quo’s fingers drummed as he scanned, gently, barely grazing the surface, but giving enough feedback for his ear to pick up as he pressed it to the wall. Approximately three feet above the head board the sound changed. It became more metallic, with a distinct echo.

Pressing gently in the middle of the area of the new sound he felt the click rather than heard it. Sliding out from the wall was a secret cubby hole. Extending itself away from the wall’s surface Quo could make out a data chip held within a suspensor field. Reaching out he took it, retrieving the hair at the same time. These would have to be analyzed. Pressing again on the front of the panel it retracted leaving no trace of its existence. Remaking the bed, and replacing everything as he had found it Quo egressed the quarters. He had to get somewhere where he could work on these parts of the puzzle.

His cloak of invisibility was his greatest ally, he remained fully concentrated on the image as he made his way back to his own quarters. Checking his own door for signs of tampering and satisfying himself that there were none he entered. His room remained in darkness as he made his way to his own litter, setting the windows to fully opaque, and setting the internal sensors to scan for any incursion into the immediate area. He switched his own desk light onto its lowest setting he arranged his interface, along with the data chip and both hairs onto his simple work bench.

Inserting the chip his pad lit up. DNA access required. Who’s though? Taking one of the hairs he set the sensors on the pad to read it. He watched as the small computer ran its scans, data scrolling across the screen, it shouldn’t take long for the owner of this particular hair was known to him. He would process the second as soon as this one was complete.

His mind reached out, searching the surrounding corridors for any signs of life. There were a couple, but they passed by, seemingly uninterested in the Zabraks ministrations. Still there was no harm in being extra cautious in the current series of events.

A beep signified a result. Glancing down he read, one eyebrow lifting slightly. It wasn’t Sang’s, and the owner was well known to the Sith. Tasha’Vel Versea, his Master. Quo saved the profile and placed the second hair onto the sensor area, again the pages of data scrolled across the view screen. Quo waited, he was good at waiting, championship material in fact.

Several minutes passed before the familiar tone signified the completion of the task. The results were in, his data pad displayed the results on the viewer, no surprise there, it was Sang’s. Quo was about to try that one first as the machine suddenly emitted a squeal, the screen went haywire, and then black. The Sith’s finger hovered over the access keys, the screaming interrupting his button press. The machine flashed back on, a holo-projection of his master appearing in the centre of his room.

“Well done my apprentice. I had no doubt you would figure out the clues and activate this message. You always were a clever little Sith,” a smile crossed the image’s face, “I am taking Sanguinius away for a while, although I shall return as soon as possible. We have to protect him from the mad ravings of the Grand Master, so I have taken your ship and have left to a place of safety. I’m taking him to Degobah, that should be far enough away from this madness. Cover our tracks my friend, I have complete confidence in your ability to do this, and shall return as soon as I possibly can. We can’t have two ranking officers disappear at the same time can we? Thank you for this my apprentice, I know that I have put you in a terrible position, but I shall explain all on my return. Thank you my friend.”

The interface closed down, before rebooting to it’s default setting. Quo scanned the database for the recent activity, the DNA files, and the message. All were gone. His Master had done a good job with the programming on the chip, which now displayed as empty. Taking the chip from his pad he held it in mid air, hovering, seemingly flying on its own, before igniting his lightsaber, incinerating it completely within the burning crimson energy beam. Nothing remained, not even dust. The hairs were treated to the same inconspicuous end, a brief smell of singing entering his nostrils as they were vaporised.

Cloaking himself in the Force again he made his way back over his tracks. Time to cover the trail. He knew that his Master would have done everything to cover the course of her actions, however, he knew that there would be no harm in double checking. This Grand Master was thorough if nothing else.

See Starfighter
See Starfighter Flee
Pew Pew Starfighter, Pew.