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 you 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. Your own vantage point, standing on the ledge of a towering structure of glass and steel, offers you a dizzying view of the cityscape.

Your eyes scan the distance for enemies. Snipers could be set up in almost every building. 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 a Jedi.

Celevon took a deep breath of the polluted air of the Smuggler’s Moon, his mercurial eyes still flashing around as he subconsciously searched for possible enemies. Two weeks prior, their leave after the war had ended with no sign of the Quaestor. For the first several days, the members of the Arconan Summit awaited word of the Templar’s return with a lecture on their lips. More days passed with no word from the former Jedi and they began to suspect the worst.

Then, contacts within the Dajorra Intelligence Agency had a list of reported sighting of Sorenn frequenting dive bars and shady establishments on Nar Shaddaa.

The newest leader of Apex Brigade had wanted to seek out the AWOL Quaestor immediately. It was, however, not to be. She had been forcefully returned to the medical clinic to have the cybernetic replacement eye further calibrated and tested.

In order to placate the Sephi, the Onderonian had agreed to seek out and return the former Knight-Commander to Arconan space at any cost.

The Shadicar closed his eyes and extended his senses, hoping to find some vague impression of the Templar’s Force Presence. The chaos of the planet itself pushed at Celevon’s senses, the screams and suffering of those who had fought and clawed to survive the harsh environment enveloping him. Edraven sighed and rubbed at his right temple, the material of the gloves cool on his skin as his trenchcoat rippled with the motion.

“Of course it won’t be easy,” the Prelate muttered to himself as his senses returned to their normal area.

“When is it ever easy?”

~()~

The Onderonian strode through the winding streets, each step silent as the bottom of his trenchcoat billowed with his carefully measured motions. Many of the civilians and thugs stiffened or outright moved out of his path as the uneasy sensation the Arconan gave off flowed over them. Their primal instincts screamed for them to flee as he drew closer.

Whether he wanted to or not, Celevon gave off an air that spoke of the untold number of lives he had taken. The Human was dangerous. A predator.

To all appearances, the Aedile was unarmed save for the hilt of a katana that hung over his right shoulder. He knew where each weapon on his person was located: from the katana across his back, to the kerambit in the inverted sheath on his lower back. Even the lightsaber in a holster secured beneath the saya, though that would only be drawn as a last resort.

The Obelisk felt eyes on his back and stopped in his tracks, slowly swivelling his head in that direction, eyes like molten silver locking on a blue-skinned Twi’lek. When the male began backing away, Celevon’s lips curved into a small smirk. He moved again, each step taking him ever closer to one of the locations where the Quaestor had been reported to frequent.

As the Prelate drew nearer, the sounds of fighting reached his ears from a nearby alleyway. He planned to ignore the situation; he was no hero, after all.

The Onderonian’s eyes widened slightly as he felt the presence of his quarry emanating from that direction. He broke into a run towards the sound, leaping and sliding over obstacles rather than moving around them.

Celevon skidded to a halt as he came upon the older Human facing off against multiple opponents. The fact that Sorenn was surrounded by what appeared to be gang members wasn’t what had caused him pause. No, it was the appearance of the normally well-groomed Ex-Gangster that did so.

Turel’s face was unshaven and had grown a small beard. His typically short, military-style hair had grown to where it nearly fell into his eyes.

Absently, the Onderonian realized they were behind a nightclub if the thrumming bass of the music was anything to go by.

The Quaestor moved swiftly, sliding within the punches and taking advantage of the opponent’s momentum to cause them to stumble when he didn’t drop down gripping the arm, tossing one over his shoulder.

The Shadicar shook off the slight shock and leapt into the fray. His first target was quickly chosen by the slightly familiar firearm in his grasp, holding the revolver loosely in a tattooed hand. A deft motion had Celevon’s gloved hand tightening around the forearm of the Humanoid, hyperextending the elbow against his body as his other hand tightened in the flaxen hair, a sharp jerk pulling the head back.

Stunned and pained brown eyes locked with silver before Celevon took note of one of the thugs turning towards them. A tight squeeze of the forearm within his right hand on the cluster of nerves caused the tattooed hand to reflexively close.

BANG!

Or, at least as much as one was able with a .48 caliber revolver in their hand. It went off, striking the other gang member in the stomach. Turel and the other gang members froze, turning towards the location of the sound.

Reaching out with the Force, Celevon sent as simple a message as he could. ‘Turel. Catch!’

The Onderonian released the forearm he held and ripped the firearm free, tossing it to his Quaestor. Once the weapon was free of his hands, Edraven jerked harder on the hair gripped in his left. The already off-balance Humanoid began falling backwards.

Celevon spun, moving so swiftly his form almost blurred as he caught the jaw of the tattooed gangster in the open palm of his right hand and pushed to the side. Gravity took care of the rest. A harsh snap was audible over the thrum of the bass as the Humanoid landed, his neck broken.

Turel snatched the grip of his Enforcer Pistol from the air, continuing the motion as he swung it sharply around. The cylinder and barrel struck the side of the head of the gang member nearest the former Knight-Commander, sending him to the ground with grunt. The Templar placed his finger on the trigger, aiming the barrel straight at the forehead of the next thug, who froze in his tracks.

“Why don’t you boys get out of here before things really get out of hand?” The Templar quipped with a condescending sneer. Even though he clearly wasn’t in the best condition, Turel was more than a match for a group of wannabe street thugs. He pressed the slugthrower deeper into the thug’s forehead.

The Quaestor send his Aedile a telepathic message of ”Just play along.” The Shadicar gave the slightest of head nods in response as he slowly pulled out his Kerambit. The back alley brawl had come to a screeching halt as the gang members looked at their wounded comrades and assessed their odds. The gangster who had been shot in the stomach moaned in pain.

“Do you really want to die over a spilled drink? Because that’s what is about to happen. My bodyguard here just loves to cut people and let them bleed out, real slow.” Right on cue, Celevon licked the blade of his weapon in a menacing manner. Turel turned to the thug at the other end of his slugthrower. “And you, your brains will be splattered all over the pavement before any of your crew can move another inch. So tell me, what’s it gonna be? You going to walk out of here with your crew and live to gang bang another day or you going to all end up a bloody mess on the pavement because I ‘disrespected’ you?”

The thug at the business end of Turel’s slugthrower took his eyes off the weapon for a moment to look at his crew. The odds were against him. He had clearly underestimated the scarred up whack job and had no clue about that creepy ‘bodyguard.’ His comrades looked to him for leadership, he got them into this mess and now he was going to get them out. “Alright, alright! Let’s get outta here and leave this sleemo and his boyfriend.”

Turel was taken a bit off guard by the gangster’s parting shot. It was clearly meant as an insult, but the Templar didn’t take it that way.

Boyfriend? Where’d he get that idea? I mean Celevon isn’t that bad on the eyes when he ditches the mask and dons some civilian clothes and...why I am thinking about this? Focus Turel!

The ex-gangster took just a split second to try to gauge his Aedile’s reaction to the comment. A slight grin was all he could discern. His focus returned to the gangster in front of him. “A wise move young blood.” He raised the slugthrower away from the gang member’s forehead, leaving behind a noticeable red mark. “You may rise in the underworld yet.” Turel winked at his opponent. “But not today. Now take your men and get lost.”

Celevon and Turel stood with threatening looks as the gang members collected their wounded and slinked off into the soft neon glow of the Nar Shadaa night. Finding themselves relatively alone they locked gazes on one another. The fact that the Shadicar had positioned himself between the Templar and the alley’s only exit did not escape Turel’s notice.

“Thanks for helping me teach those punks a lesson. Kids these days have no manners.” The Quaestor casually moved toward the exit but Celevon moved to block his path, like jungle cat cornering his prey. “Something tells me this isn’t a social visit.”

The Shadicar did not break eye contact. “I’m here to bring you back.”

“I’m on leave remember, whatever it is can surely wait.” Turel gave a dismissive wave.

“Leave ended two weeks ago.”

“Over for two weeks? Has it been that long?” The Jedi rubbed his forehead, genuinely confused. “It...it doesn’t matter. I’ll go back when I’m damn good and ready to.”

Celevon began to grow deeply concerned. This was way out of character for Turel; something was very wrong. Korriban had taken a greater toll on the Jedi than he thought. Fighting and killing his former Odan-Urr comrades had been especially troubling for the Quaestor but he had soldiered on and completed their missions. Leave was supposed to give him time to decompress, not send him into a downward spiral. The Onderonian’s silver eyes began to pierce the man who had lead Qel-Droma into battle with him. He did not like what he saw. “Are you drunk right now?”

Turel rolled his eyes dismissively. “What, are you my mother now? I didn’t know you cared.”

It didn’t take the Force to see what was going on. The Jedi was losing the battle with his personal demons. He’d never admit it, but Celevon was somewhat pained to see a man who had slowly earned his loyalty on several battlefields brought so low. The Shadicar counted few as his friend, but for those he did, there was a fierce loyalty. He knew what he had to do. It was time for some tough love. “You’re coming with me, right now. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Pride and embarrassment stoked the fires of Turel’s defiance. He holstered the slugthrower and motioned for Celevon to come at him. “You’re going to have to drag me out of here by force, if you can.”

The Shadicar sheathed his Kerambit. He wouldn’t need it. Turel was obviously not one hundred percent and probably inebriated enough to affect his coordination. Even with an advantage in sobriety and raw skill in hand to hand combat, Celevon knew better than to underestimate the Templar. Still, he was confident he could knock some sense into his Quaestor without much difficulty.

The Prelate shifted his right leg back, palms kept open and held diagonal to one another as he studied the Quaestor. Despite his inebriated state, it was clear that the Templar was accustomed to his chosen style. The pair of them had never seen the other fight without weapons and it was clear that both were being cautious.

Celevon swiftly moved forward, throwing a rapid succession of blows to the former Knight-Commander. Sorenn leaned away from the first, the swing towards his neck missing by a hair. The second was aimed towards his left kidney.

Turel allowed the strike come close to connecting, his own hands moving to grasp the gloved ones of his Aedile when the part between the thumb and index finger of the Shadicar’s right hand struck his throat.

The Quaestor’s eyes filled with tears in reaction as his hand automatically went to the area, trying to get his breathing under control. When the Marauder’s eyesight had cleared, he glared at the Assassin whose face bore a small smirk.

“A feint? So... you want to fight dirty? Fine. I’ll happily give you a lesson in that area,” Turel growled, his voice taking on a more noticeable rasp after the strike to his trachea.

Celevon’s amused smirk grew imperceptibly, the left side of his lips curving a little higher.

The Quaestor and Aedile team moved toward one another as though it were choreographed, clenched fists and open palm strikes flying back and forth so quickly they almost blurred together. The Onderonian carefully avoided the cybernetic replacement, knowing that a well-placed blow would put him out of the fight. It would also be near impossible to break the metal grasp.

Spotting an opening, the Prelate pushed Turel up against the wall, using his left hand to keep the former Knight-Commander’s arms above his head.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

The Onderonian playfully shushed Sorenn, placing a gloved finger over his lips. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t seduce you in your drunken state. I’m bringing you home.”

The Templar blinked. “But... you just said-”

Celevon cut him off with a rough kiss to the Quaestor’s lips. “I’m bringing you home to Qel-Droma.”

Sorenn looked stunned and confused, conflicted emotions clear in his green eyes. An open-palmed strike to the Marauder’s temple send him into a blissful state of unconsciousness.

The Onderonian chuckled as he lifted the Templar onto his shoulder. “‘Bring him home using any means necessary’, indeed.”

The pair paced back and forth in the alley while maintaining their stand off distance, like an animal squaring off with its own reflection. Celevon took stock of Turel’s greatly diminished response time in mirroring his movements. Seeing an opportunity, the Shadicar made the first move and lunged at the Templar with all his speed. Celevon sensed imminent danger through the Force, but observed no movement on Turel’s part save a small grin.

The Aedile felt Force energy coalesce in front of him and changed his angle of attack just in time. If he had continued on his original course, he would have smacked into a solid wall of invisible Force energy. Instead, the Shadicar threw out his left arm and leg to springboard off the barrier Turel had thrown up, landing gracefully into a crouched position. The Templar slapped his knees and laughed, thoroughly amused with his own cleverness. “That’s the oldest trick in the book and I almost got you with it.”

Celevon knew his opponent would have a hard time throwing up a second barrier. He felt the first one shatter as he bounced off it. The Shadicar also knew that even in top condition, Turel required intense concentration to maintain a Force Barrier. The Templar clearly wasn’t concentrating now. Celevon charged again, this time reaching his opponent without inhibition.

At his peak, Turel could nearly match an Elder’s speed, but now he barely dodged Celevon’s opening strike of a right cross. The Templar sluggishly shifted his torso and head to his right while attempting a counter-strike with his right arm. Celevon effortlessly batted the telegraphed strike with his left hand while landing a palm strike directly to Turel’s sternum, sending the Jedi staggering back a few steps with the wind knocked out of him.

The Shadicar did not relent and followed up with a palm strike to the chin and a quick leg sweep to knock the Jedi on his back. Celevon began to wonder just how inebriated Turel was, subduing the Jedi should not have been this easy. Before the Quaestor could sit up, the Aedile straddled his torso and drove a forearm into his throat.

Turel reached up to grab Celevon’s forearm to loosen the pressure on his throat. “Trying to take advantage of me, eh?” He croaked with half a smile.

“No, if I did something like this,” The Shadicar shifted his weight to the Templars chest and leaned in for a slow, passionate kiss. “That would be taking advantage of you.” The maneuver was less than tactical and exposed Celevon to the risk of a headbutt. Turel was too flabbergasted to seize any opportunity presented.

For a fleeting moment the two men locked eyes and both their faces betrayed a sudden rush of color. The Jedi was still too shocked to deploy one of his signature quips and the Shadicar suddenly remembered his mission. With his free hand, Celevon reached into one of his belt pouches and produced a small syringe. In a single fluid motion the assassin shifted his forearm up into Turel’s chin and jammed the syringe into his neck.

As the Jedi faded from consciousness, he looked up to see his Aedile standing over him. “It’s time to go home.”

3 Days Later

Medical Ward, Arcona Citadel

Selen, Dajorra System

Celevon paced outside of Turel’s room like a caged Nexu, waiting for word. Within a few moments the automated door flew open with a whoosh as the unmistakable clicking of Atyiru’s high heeled boots emanated from the now open doorway. The Shadow Lady departed the room, flanked by two members of the summit guard.

“How is he?” The Shadicar inquired.

“Physically, he’s fine. It will take a few more days for him to completely detox. He had a lot of recreational drugs in his system. Must have been quite the bender.”

“Mentally?”

The Miraluka sighed. “His aura hasn’t been the same since Korriban. I fear his spirit is gravely injured somehow, though he hasn’t opened up about it just yet. He’s not ready to resume his summit duties and quite frankly doesn’t seem to want to.” A profound sadness came across Atyriu’s face, as she felt the Templar’s mental anguish and the Aedile’s concern. “It’s good you were able to bring him back without harming him. I know how much you care for him, whether you openly admit it or not.”

“I’d rather you keep that last bit between us.”

“Of course.”