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.

Nar Shaddaa. As filthy and slimy as a boil on a Hutt’s backside, if there was one place Bale Andros could wipe off the Galaxy map, it’d be this place. His eyes crawled up the decrepit towers of the Refugee Sector, past the crumbling duracrete, the dangling cables, and the flapping tarps, past the skylanes and the neon billboards. Beyond the decay and filth, he could just make out the orange sky, choked out by smog, darkening as night approached. He breathed in, grateful for his helmet’s filtration system, then puffed the air out. The truth was, he’d spent all too many years here, first as a refugee, hiding away working in the factories, then as a bounty hunter. This is where he lost the love of his life, the mother of his daughter, assassinated by Black Sun thugs as payback for his own sins.

What in all the blazes am I doing here? he thought, emotion catching in his throat..

He swallowed hard and shook his head, slapped his helmet with one hand in an attempt to shake the dark thoughts away. Even if he’d sworn never to come back, even if he was content living out retirement on Chyron running his swoop shop, taking care of the orphans, when the blasted Voice of the Brotherhood comes calling, you pfassking well answer. All the more reason to when this so-called Voice was an old friend, one he owed his life to many times over,

He shouldered his way through a throng of civilians. He had no trouble navigating the cluster, towering above all but the tallest of them and twice as wide. Those that failed to step out of his way bounced off his chest like buoys off a speeder’s hull without slowing down, often earning a curse or two hurled at his back. After some time, he veered off the main walkway past a couple of merchant stands into an alleyway and up a flight of duracrete stairs. He rounded a corner then another, climbing up more stairs until he came out on a belvedere overlooking part of the sector. There were three people there—a Mandalorian, black Beskar armor reflecting the light of a dozen neon signs, and a couple of lovers to whom Bale barked, “Beat it.”

The two scampered off without so much as a glance back, disappearing out of sight down the stairs. He waited a moment longer, making sure no one else was coming. Once he was confident no one was eavesdropping, he joined the Mandalorian, patting him on the shoulder before leaning on his forearms against the parapet. They leaned in silence for a moment, both of them watching the city below as night descended upon it.

“Been a while, huh, kid?” said Bale, his deep, growling voice modulated by his helmet, coming out that much deeper.

“That it has,” agreed Idris Aiden with a nod of his reflective helmet.

“I reckon neither of us gets out much these days.”

The Mandalorian groaned, turning away from the parapet and leaning back on it instead, crossing his arms over his armored chest. He puffed out a sigh before he said, “Tell me about it. It’s a constant yap, yap, yap of politics, Bale. You have no idea how good it feels to get away from all that.”

“To be honest, I half thought they were keeping you under lock and key,” said Bale, chuckling.

“It’s as good as, I’d say,” Idris chuckled too, though there was a dryness to it that told Bale he wasn't all that far off from the truth.

“Eh, you can tell me all about it over a drink later. I’m sure you didn’t drag my sorry hide out here to chit-chat. What’s going on?”

“Straight to the point. I always liked that about you, old man. Look, you’re the only one I can trust to have my back. By some stroke of dumb luck, some two-bit gangsters got hold of some highly sensitive information. Information concerning my, huh, dealings. And I’m not using the word sensitive lightly here, so let that sink in. It’s the same old story. If that falls into the wrong hands bla, bla, bla,” Idris explained, letting his head roll back over his shoulders in exasperation. “Short story, I need big muscles I can trust to help me get it back.”

“Wouldn’t a slicer be better?”

“Nah, we’re going after a slicer and I’m not looking to fight fire with fire here. He’s holed up with a gang and I know exactly where. So what I need is some good ol’ wanton destruction while I wring my hands around that slimy slugchucker’s neck. Couldn’t think of a better person to ask.”

“You know I’m retired, right?”

To that, Idris barked a laugh.

---

Night had fallen on Nar Shaddaa. Only the brightest, most stubborn of stars shone through the haze of light pollution, a hundred different neon signs bathing the streets in a wide array of bright, eye-bleeding colors. With night, the dynamics had shifted on the streets, the droning refugees moving about their business replaced by clubbers and revelers in the light, thugs and cutthroats in the shadows. High octane music reverberated across the district, heavy rhythmic bass thump-thumping so loud Bale could feel the impact of sound against his chest.

Bale and Idris stood side by side looking down an alleyway. In the shadows, they could barely make out the old, shuttered bar, neon sign dark, blast door closed, durasteel shutters over the windows. They could have dismissed the place if not for the lone Gran sitting on the entryway stairs, lit only by a faint glowrod, fat fingers strumming the chords of a seven-string halikset.

“You sure that’s the place?” asked Bale one more time.

“No doubt about it. Tapped the Inquisitorius network for information before we met up. That Gran’s called Trods. He’s a low-level gangbanger. This is one of their hideouts. Intel pins them at twenty three members. There’s going to be more of them inside but there’s no telling how many there are tonight,” Idris answered.

“Eh, does it even matter?”

“No.”

“Well, there you go,” Bale said with a shrug, stepping into the alleyway towards the bar.

The clanking of boots behind him confirmed Idris was following. Bale shrugged the DLT-19 rifle from his shoulders as he walked, carrying it in his off-hand. With his good hand, he pulled the Bryar pistol from its holster on his hip. The Gran stopped strumming, his three eyes narrowing as he noticed them approaching. He set his halikset down, and pushed himself to his feet.

“Hey, what do you guys wan—” He didn’t get to finish his sentence, the force of the Bryar’s charged shot blasting him from his feet. He bounced off the blast door then rolled off the steps, ending face down in a pile of garbage, black carbon smoke rising from his corpse.

“Wanton destruction, huh?” Bale asked over his shoulder.

“Oh yeah,” Idris confirmed, a tinge of excitement in his voice.

Bale slipped a spherical device from his belt, pressed his thumb down on the activator. There was a series of bleeps and lights coming on along the circumference of the ball. When the blast door opened, goons coming to check on the commotion, Bale chucked the thermal detonator through the opening.

“Wanton destruction” could have been the marketing sales pitch for thermal detonators.

Idris lifted a gloved hand and wiped some charred chunks of a gang member off his helmet. Or it might have been several gang members. It was hard to tell exactly. Through the smoke, a red flashing light began to pulse, standing out even among the neon lights of the Smuggler’s Moon.

Both men aimed their weapons through the opening of the now bent out of shape blast door, which wouldn’t be able to open or close any time soon.

The ground still pulsed with the thrum of music. But nothing more. Bale looked back over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow. Idris sighed — stupid criminals, but smart enough not to start pouring through a narrow opening. A movement warning flashed on Idris’ helmet’s HUD.

“Movement 5 o’clock”, E.D.I.’s synthetic voice alerted him. He spun, dual Westars locked in, ready to fire.

It was a boy. A Twi’lek with deep green skin and big bright blue eyes, filthy and ragged. Couldn’t have been more than twelve. He had been sleeping behind a dumpster down the alleyway. Idris holstered one of his blasters and grabbed a pouch at his waist before throwing it towards the child. It clanged at the boy’s feet with a distinctive jingle of small metal objects. The boy looked down at the pouch of credits, then back up to the two men, then back down again.

He grabbed the pouch and ran.

“Sorry, looks like we scared off another potential foundling for you to raise,” Idris said, pulling his stashed Westar back out.

“I can track him down later,” Bale said with a grin. He nodded towards the broken blast door, “After you, my lord.”

Idris inhaled sharply, the stench of the moon permeating even into his helmet. Lungs full to the point of bursting, he exhaled and bolted through the opening.

Inside was as shitty as the outside, rusted metal panels, broken seats, a red flashing neon sign. As he crossed the threshold, he slipped on the remains of gang members before tripping slightly on the damaged floor. Thankfully, he caught himself.

But he didn’t have long to take in the sights of this world-class establishment. A volley of blaster fire was there to meet him. The bolts slammed into his Beskar armor before bouncing off back into the bar.

Bale was quick to follow, using Idris as a shield while he entered and dove behind an upturned table.

“Clear,” the Zabrak yelled as he hit the ground. Idris dove after him.

“This takes me back, remember that time on Cato Neimoidia?” Bale yelled. He glanced over the top of the table and let off a few shots with his Bryar.

“Don’t remind me,” Idris replied, letting off several shots of his own.

“We have their attention, now what?”

Idris pointed to a floating shadow moving along the upper wall on the far side of the bar.

“E.D.I. will give us an opening,” he said, moving into a crouching position, ready to move to the right. Bale positioned himself to do the same to the left.

Right on cue, the drone let off a blast of deep red energy, its ascendant crystal matrix firing at full power before speeding off towards the other wall. Both men jumped forward and ran, flanking a huddled group of the gang members.

Within seconds, the collapsing thud of bodies hitting the floor was all that could be heard.

“I count seven dead,” E.D.I. relayed through Idris’ comms. She was already floating towards the back wall where a poorly crafted aftermarket blast door had been affixed towards what should have been the bar office and storage. She extended a probe and began hacking into the door system. She left off what could almost be interpreted as a sigh.

“E.D.I. issues with the door?” Idris said, standing up straight. He nodded back towards the entrance of the bar, but Bale had already turned, pistol fixed on the opening, should any other gang members decide to join them.

“No,” she relayed so Bale could hear her too. “This is just shoddy work. How someone could have gotten their hands on your data while also having such weak security protocols. Doesn’t anyone have a sense of pride in thei–” she stopped as the door slid open.

Bale came up behind Idris, bumping into his back.

“Got your six, let's move,” he said.

The pair quickly moved towards the door. It immediately opened into a short hallway, one door at the end, and another along the right wall. They slunk forward, and Idris peered into the room to the right.

What had once been the storage room for the bar had been converted into some shoddy living quarters. Small cots and mattress pads littered the ground in a manner that could only be described as organized chaos. But beyond that, it was empty.

“Clear,” Idris relayed, fixating on the door at the end of the hall. It’s security panel had already been blown off, but it was open just a crack.

“Help me with this,” the Mandalorian said, taking up position, working his fingers into the crack to pry it open. Bale moved in next to him.

“On three,” Bale said as he secured his grip.

“One. Two. Three,” they counted in unison before throwing all their strength into it. The door slid a few millimeters then stopped. For a moment, they strained against it before their combined efforts broke it free, sliding into the wall.

E.D.I. flew in, beam charged ready to fire.

“We have a runner,” she relayed quickly. Both men ran into the room to see a collection of data terminals sparking and fried, and the feet of a person who had just jumped through a window before vanishing out of sight.

The pair ran and looked through the window to see a Kyuzo hoping onto a speeder bike.