A cesspool of the downtrodden, the Refugee Sector on Nar Shaddaa is home to both the misfortunate and criminals alike. Offering their protection for credits, the criminal organizations that control the sector tax the populace outrageous sums. Unable to provide these fees, refugees are forced to work under hazardous conditions producing glitterstim and adrenals for their overseers. Some of these refugees are addicted to the substances themselves—for which the cartels increase the price of their tithes in exchange for a share of the product.

Crammed with stalls and makeshift hovels, several of the sector’s inhabitants find refuge on the streets and in the alleyways. Those who managed to avoid the dangers of drug production can be found selling their limited and often defective goods to others. Behind these stalls, a selective stock of black market wares is hidden, reserved for mercenaries and thugs.

Littered with garbage, it is obvious that no maintenance droids have been programmed to maintain the sector. The surrounding towers have fallen into decay, bits of debris falling every so often into the middle of the street. The duracrete streets are covered in a film of filth and chemicals from the abandoned warehouses, making movement cumbersome when traveling through the most inhabited areas.

Patrols armed with blasters and vibroswords come through these areas regularly, making a show of force to advertise the merits of their ‘protection’ while extorting the occasional shopkeeper. Screams and shouts are a common enough sound, which is never in the refugees’ best interests to interfere in.

You’ve been tasked with the retrieval of data from a thief who absconded with sensitive information. Not only is this to safeguard the Brotherhood, there’s also a substantial, but little-known bounty on the target, and the goodwill and favor to be earned from the source the data was thieved from. Of course, not everyone will go along with it. There may be those who desire to ensure the thief succeeds, and the source of the data is embarrassed. There are harsh penalties for those who return unsuccessful, and rewards for those who ensure the safe delivery of the information. No matter which side you’re on, you know success is vital.

Very little things in life were worse than Nar Shaddaa.

For one, the planet was disgusting, and the Plinth neighborhood on D block was without a doubt the worst offender. "Plinth" because this was the highest neighborhood in the area, and "on" because the houses and other buildings--if you could call them that--were raised up on smelted trash blocks to keep sewage from seeping indoors. With the exception of one or two structures, the buildings surrounding the fecal lake were just stacks of literal trash shaped vaguely into rectangles, and all had the distinct honor of smelling strongly of rotting corn.

Arryn wished very strongly that she had not gotten the Brotherhood missive instructing her to come here, and that she had not gotten off the bus that had brought her to the middle of this decomposing corpse of a planet. Being here tasted like grief, the same grief that came with the phrase, very little things in life were worse than Nar Shaddaa, the same grief that had driven her to the Brotherhood in the first place. But none that mattered now, could matter, because she had her orders: meet up with one Juda Graves, find the thief, and return the (presumably) stolen data.

The unspoken or else hung with a weightless finality in the back of her mind. Return or else. Catch the thief or else. This was the price of safety, the price of freedom: loyalty, or else.

The trouble remained that looking for a thief here was as pointless. Might as well throw a rock at a bantha and call it a banana. Arryn watched a pack of feral...canines? Children? Carnivorous plants? as they tore into a chunk of--you guessed it--trash and ran off howling. How would she ever find a thief here? Finding this Juda person would be easy enough; in her short time in the Brotherhood, she had yet to observe a single individual who embodied the meaning of the word "subtlety". But a thief? Who had stolen information and run? There wasn't a single person on this planet who--

"Incoming message," chirped the comm she'd almost forgotten about. Annoyed, she ignored the notification and stared glumly out at the neighborhood. It was going to get dark soon. The first rule of Nar Shaddaa had always been not to stick out, and waiting around here would--

"Incoming message."

...Would get her in--

"Incoming message."

...in a ton of trouble, and--

"Incoming message."

...likely lead to her untimely--

Arryn lifted her head, staring off towards the lake where the light of a lone lamp sprung into view. Behind her in the depth of the darkness something rather large crushed a piece of trash beneath a booted foot. Someone was coming, was already here--and everything she'd ever been taught about the Force seemed pointless, now, in the face of this new threat.

Nar Shaddaa was going to be the death of her.

Time to go.

Slowly, carefully, the Kiffar crouched out of sight and crept behind a nearby structure. Automatically she kept it moving, kept up the pace, never still enough to get caught. Nevermind that it was probably Juda, nevermind that she was not the slave from four years ago or that she had survived worse than this. If this was a patrol then she was doomed; damn the mission, damn the Brotherhood, a patrol would kill her. The beings that made up the planet's roving gangs were vicious, tending to possess enough armor to make a simple blaster worthless and enough vibroswords to decorate a museum. "Vicious" wasn't a strong enough word to describe them. They employed everyone, from children armed to the teeth to the old women who sat on street corners and threatened your family.

The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. Closer. Guided by the nagging feeling to turn left, then right, then left again, Arryn ducked down a side street lit only by a flickering trash fire in the window of a decrepit house as her heart hammered in her chest. The lightsaber tucked into her boot reminded her that she was hardly defenseless, while her fingers itched to wrap around the blaster holstered at her waistband. Drawing weapons would only make her a target but still, the thought was there.

"Incoming message," her comm chirped.

"Ssssh!" she hissed, clamping a hand on her wrist to muffle the sound. Risking a glance behind her, she blew out a relieved breath and straightened up to her full height when the way behind her remained blessedly clear. If it had been a patrol, it seemed they'd lost her...for now. Still, though, it was best to keep moving. The original missive had given her coordinates that hadn't appeared to be too far from D block; with any luck, she--

"Dank ferrik!"

The blood-tinged expletive left her mouth as she tripped over the lifeless body slumped precisely in her way. Pain exploded behind her eyeballs as her face connected with the ground, leaving her with a gash on her forehead a mile wide and the taste of death in her mouth. Stars swam in her eyes as Arryn spat out a tooth.

"Don't move," a voice said. It wasn't one she recognized--too young, too fear-ridden to belong to anyone in Vizsla. Which meant it wasn't Juda. "D-don't move, I-Iron T-Throne scum. O...or I'll, I'll shoot."

Somehow, she hadn't imagined that finding the thief would be this easy.