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.

The Refugee Sector of Nar Shaddaa stank of desperation and decay. Neon signs flickered above sagging shanties, their glow filtered through rising smoke and the green-tinted haze of leaking coolant lines. The duracrete beneath CT-4147’s boots was slick with grime—glitterstim runoff, oil, the rot of neglect.

He relished the weight of his steps.

This sector was a maze of shadows and whispers. Somewhere in it lurked his real target: a slicer who’d stolen encrypted data off a cartel server. High-value intel. Forty-One wasn’t here for credits—this protection racket was just a cover, a way to draw out the thief. The moment someone made contact or ran for cover, he’d know who was hiding something.

“Protection fee,” Forty-One said coldly, voice modulated through his helmet like gravel under pressure. “Cartel’s got mouths to feed.”

The Ithorian elder trembled, his long fingers offering up a soft, woven pouch. A few meager credits clinked together inside. Not nearly enough.

Forty-One snatched the pouch with a jerk and stuffed it into his belt. When the alien’s trembling hand lingered in protest—crack—a boot met a frail chest. The elder crumpled into a pile of robes, coughing in the dirt, already forgotten.

A few heads turned, but quickly looked away. Eyes stayed down in the Refugee Sector.

All except one.

"Hey."

The voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of voice that came just before something changed.

Forty-One turned.

Lontra strode forward from the shadows, his steps unhurried but unyielding, like a man who’d already done the math and knew how this ended. His sun-worn skin caught the flickering glow of a broken holosign above. His medium-length crew cut swept back in disarray, framing those sharp green eyes like twin sabers of their own.

“That’s enough,” Lontra said, voice as sharp as his posture. “You’ve made your point.”

Forty-One didn’t answer with words. His fingers slid with practiced ease to his belt and drew a DC-17m blaster pistol, the motion fluid and full of intent. He leveled it with one hand, legs locking into a firing stance.

“Out of my way, Jedi.”

The pistol barked.

Lontra moved before the bolt had finished forming. His lightsaber snapped to life with a signature snap-hiss, a bright blue flash cleaving the dark. The bolt was swatted aside like a fly—p’kew!—into a rusted vendor stall that erupted in a small fireball of burning fabric and dust.

Another shot came faster. Then a third, more desperate.

Lontra stepped forward into the line of fire, blade spinning now in short, contained arcs. Each bolt redirected with barely a twitch of effort—one into the wall, another into a sparking droid husk. The Jedi’s footwork was smooth, circles within circles—the classical Niman form, graceful and composed, designed as much for peace as combat.

Then he stopped.

His free hand rose.

The Force surged.

Forty-One staggered—his stance broken—then flew backward as if caught in a hurricane’s fist. He slammed through a scaffold of rusted durasteel and brittle plastiboard. The stall behind him exploded in a wash of glitterstim powder and leaking adrenal canisters. The chemical stench was immediate and eye-watering.

Debris rained around him. A steel beam clanged down beside his helmeted head.

Silence swallowed the street.

A moment later, a small, sleek form slinked into the wreckage. Bubbles, Lontra’s ever-curious polecat, padded across the oily pavement. She sniffed at the clone’s boot, now jutting limply from the wreckage like the foot of a fallen statue. She sneezed once, then sat down on her haunches, utterly unimpressed.

Lontra deactivated his saber, the blade folding back into the hilt with a hiss.

"She’s got a good sense for people,” he said with a smirk, eyes still on the twitching wreckage. “Don’t worry. He’s not evil. Just a bit… misunderstood.”

And a little too comfortable with violence.

The thought held back a disappointing sigh from Lontra Boglach as he stepped closer to the wreckage and squatted. Rocking on the balls of his foot, Lontra feigned a look of concern and waited for a hushed response from the Zabrak. When one didn’t come in a reasonable time, Lontra felt his expression grow sincere and reached out to shake the tip of Forty-One’s boot.

“Hey, you alright?” Lontra mustered under his breath. A subtle look each way down the alley let the Jedi know that an audience was growing as others came to assist the elderly Ithorian back to his feet and refugees of every type leaned out their stalls to see the result of the exchange. As Lontra kept surveying the environment, a whisper came from beneath the ruined stall.

“You overdid that push.” Came the strained response from the Zabrak.

“Like you oversold your part?” Lontra clenched his jaw before his voice rose, he knew the plan required Forty-One to impersonate a cartel member but that didn’t excuse assaulting the vulnerable. With his emotion back in check and the crowd moving, the man stood and gestured to the polecat like he was speaking to it. “Let’s not get carried away here.”

Bubbles immediately responded with a quick chitter, but Lontra ignored the creature and turned to the approaching Ithorian.

“Are you injured?”

“No, thank you, Jedi.” The words came from the elder in a slow and deep rumbling voice out of either side of the creature’s neck, a feature of Ithorians that still gave Lontra a pause when he encountered it. Yet it was the deep bow of the creature’s hammerhead that made Lontra take a step back. “Are you here to help us?”

“Unfortunately, I am unable to help all of you.” Lontra gestured to the crowd and continued to scan through the faces. The crowd seemed to be full of every species in the galaxy but it was on the face of a young Rodian boy that Lontra finally rested his eyes and spoke directly towards. “But I heard that there is one of you that needs my help.”

“Speak for yourself!” The rallying cry of Forty-One caused gasps from the crowd as Lontra spun on his feet back to the downed Zabrak. As weapons sprung back into hands, the crowd drew back and a few scattered.

Yet, it was screams of Bubbles that troubled Lontra the most.

Grabbed by the scruff of his neck, the polecat was drawn into the Zabrak’s chest and firmly held with a blaster pistol pointed at his temple. Again the crowd gasped and a few more turned away unable to watch where this drama was going. Forty-One, however, used the growing space to move out of the ruined stall and back down the alley away from the Jedi while he continued to restrain his ‘hostage’. Lontra again clenched his jaw at the Zabrak’s improvisation, but bit his tongue to see where this was going. As the Zabrak spoke, Lontra tried to arch his brow at the Rodian so Forty-One could notice.

“One comm from me and these streets will be filled with the cartel.” It appeared to Lontra that it was at this moment that the Zabrak noticed the Rodian. Forty-One adjusted his hold on the polecat and then gestured towards the Rodian boy with the tip of his pistol. “And every one of you will be dealt with.”

Admirably, the young Rodian stood his ground before Forty-One and didn’t even flinch at the sight of the pistol. Instead, the child was fixated on the polecat in the Zabrak’s clutches. As if numb to the threat of the Zabrak, the Rodian stepped forwarded and bent over to pick up a piece of debris. Before Lontra could intervene, the object was hucked at the Zabrak’s head with a cry from the boy.

“Leave him alone!”

Forty-One didn’t slow.

His boots cracked against the duracrete, slime and chemical runoff hissing beneath each armored step. The Zabrak moved with a predator’s rhythm - deliberate, unflinching.

Bubbles squirmed in his arm. The polecat’s claws scraped across plastoid plates, panic squeaking through its throat. Forty-One didn’t glance down.

The blaster hung loose in his grip, angled sideways - a grip that said: I don’t miss.

Behind the visor, his HUD blinked red. MFTAS swept the alley. Heat signatures. Breathing shifts. Elevated heart rates. Faces watching. Eyes calculating.

Someone was hiding here. Someone who cared.

Come on. Show your hand. This is Nar Shaddaa. Even saints bleed when cornered.

He halted at a stall. A Twi’lek vendor - one lekku twitching - bolted as he slammed Bubbles down on the counter. Not enough to break it. Just enough to hurt.

The crates shook. A dented canister of stim-paste clattered to the ground.

Then came the voice - cold, amplified, ringing through the alley:

“This polecat dies in sixty seconds… unless someone trades me something better.”

A pause. Not for drama. For bait.

The armor groaned as he inhaled. He shifted his stance - chestplate forward, right arm taut, muscle flexing under tactical weave. With his left, he hoisted Bubbles effortlessly.

The servo in his collar hissed as he twisted his neck, just enough.

Let them see it. Let them see what power looks like when it’s not even trying.

Then movement.

A flicker to the left - someone fast, lunging out from the crowd, vibroblade drawn.

Forty-One pivoted.

The blaster barked once. Crack.

The attacker dropped mid-air - spine slammed into duracrete, blade skittering away. They groaned once before going still.

Forty-One didn’t even break stride.

Cartel muscle. Dumb move. Probably hired eyes to test me. But the thief? He’ll panic now.

He turned his head slowly - scanning refugees, vendors, addicts. Then he saw it.

There. Pupil constriction. Twitch in the fingers. Male. Blue robes. Second row. Watching the Rodian.

A faint curl tugged at the corner of his mouth, hidden by the helmet.

Got you, sleemo.

He raised the blaster - not toward the thief. Not yet.

Just toward the sky.

“Clock’s ticking.”

The warning of the Zabrak barely made it from his lips before a hiss of pressured air erupted in the street.

Immediately, Lontra could feel all eyes fall on him as he stood defiantly in the middle of the street with his vambrace pointed at the Zabrak. From the inside wrist of the vambrace, a grappling cable had shot out and embedded itself in the boot of Forty-One and a firm tug brought the bastard horizontal while his hostage was tossed into the air.

The entire alley seemed to slow as a stupor hit Lontra deep in his chest. His heart felt a weight placed on it with every painful squeak that rose from the injured polecat as it tumbled through the air. Without much awareness of what was going on around him, Lontra quickly found himself rushing up to the whimpering creature. A firm grasp held the creature to his chest as Lontra rolled into a landing, tumbling across the filthy street and coming to rest against another flimsy stall. Clearing the counter of any debris, Lontra set to help his friend.

A tender hand lifted the creature from the counter and another hand was placed on the creature’s head. A warmth grew in the Jedi’s hand as he focused on the creature’s pain, Bubbles cries slowed as the energy moved from Lontra’s hand and into the creature. Sweat leaked from the Jedi’s temples as he righted what he could in the creature’s body but for the time being his best was just to ease Bubbles’ suffering.

“Is he dead?” The strained voice came over Lontra’s shoulders.

“No…” Lontra sighed in relief. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye before he turned and realized that the young Rodian had been checking on them. “He’s asleep for right now, but he needs to get somewhere safe.”

“I can help with that!” The Rodian couldn’t contain his excitement. “Follow me!”

“Unfortunately, I can’t.” Lontra felt his brow deepen as he watched Forty-One scramble towards a fleeing crowd. A man in blue robes broke away from the group and now fled with the Zabrak in hot pursuit, the pair leaping over a guard rail and disappearing from view. “I need to find out where that maniac is going and help whoever he’s chasing now. If he’s the one that stole from the cartel -”

“He’s not.” The deep, slow voice of the Ithorian had a new firmness to it. “And we know that psycho isn’t a member of the cartel either.”

A look of concern was all Lontra could muster as a response.

“The cartel doesn’t deal in such reckless violence, it’s bad for business.” The Ithorian continued while he gestured for Lontra to follow him and the Rodian. “Your counterpart is going on an adventure while we want to know why you are here and working with him, Jedi.”

Forty-One hit the duracrete hard.

The cable had snapped his footing mid-stride - a cheap trick, but effective. He twisted mid-fall to protect his side, letting the impact slam through his armor, jarring every servo and joint in his right flank.

The pistol clattered away across the alley.

Bubbles-!

The polecat’s squeal tore through his mind. Not pain. Not anger. Failure.

He turned just in time to see Lontra cradling the wounded creature, rolling through filth like a damn holodrama hero. Compassion in motion.

It made his stomach churn.

But then came the movement.

A flicker in the crowd - the man in blue robes, bolting for the edge of the platform.

The real target.

Forty-One’s body moved before thought could catch up. His legs were already under him, his boots digging into grime, launching him forward in a scramble - one hand snatching his blaster from the ground as he sprinted.

You can have the pet, Jedi.

I want the one who runs.

He pushed past startled refugees, traders, addicts. A Rodian shouted something. An Ithorian droned in calm condemnation. None of it mattered.

He vaulted a fallen crate, slid beneath a low rail, then leapt onto the chase path - the blue-robed thief ducking and weaving just ahead.

He didn’t look back. Not at Lontra. Not at Bubbles.

But as his boots pounded across the walkway, Forty-One’s mind fumed.

You made me bleed in front of witnesses. You touched my gear. You touched my mission.

You will not walk away from this, Jedi.

But the chase didn’t last.

The blue-robed figure wasn’t fast - just desperate. He stumbled at a corner, and Forty-One was already there.

A single blow slammed the man into a ferrocrete wall - the Zabrak’s armored forearm crushing against his throat.

“Who sent you?” His voice was static-laced steel.

The thief choked, kicking weakly. “I-I don’t know! They said run! Said you’d follow!”

Bait.

His HUD pinged. Location marker. Everything clicked - the grapple, the drama, the chase. It was a distraction.

They didn’t want him listening.

They wanted him gone while the Jedi had a chat.

Forty-One let the thief drop.

No killing blow. Bait wasn't worth the bolt.

You don’t punish the bait. You kill the fisherman.

By the time he returned, the alley had settled.

The haze had thinned. The tension hadn’t.

Lontra was still there - cradling Bubbles like some street-side martyr, his face lined with compassion and defiance.

And beside him?

The Ithorian. Still talking. Still breathing.

“...Your counterpart is going on an adventure while we want to know why you are here and working with him, Jedi.”

The words crawled through the air like rot.

Forty-One didn’t respond. Didn’t slow.

He walked through the alley - straight, steady - past the crowd, past the stares. His blaster was hooked up from the floor before most could blink.

One shot.

A clean bolt screamed through the alley and cored the Ithorian’s skull.

The alien’s head snapped back - a wet burst of mist painting the stall behind him. The body crumpled to the street with a muted thud, limp and silent. Lekku twitched once. Then stillness.

No warning. No declaration.

Just correction.

He holstered the weapon with a casual flick, the barrel still warm.

Then turned - not to the corpse. Not to the Rodian.

To the Jedi.

To him.

“There’s your answer.”

A smack of flesh on cold durasteel accompanied the Ithorian’s fall. Beside what remained of the fallen elder, the young Rodian screamed in joint horror and panic; a call to action if there ever had been. Yet, Lontra froze as he watched the charming elder leave this plain of existence and a cloud of red mist settled on the man’s face and clothing.

The Jedi’s eyes followed the settling mist across his chest and to the polecat that remained cuddled up within his arms. The violence had gone on far enough and an anger crept from the man’s shoulders up his neck and settled its burning sensation into the force-user’s jaw. Some snarking comment from Forty-One fell on deaf ears, instead the Jedi turned to the Rodian and pressed the polecat into the child’s chest.

“Hold him, please.”

The direction was eagerly taken before the Rodian swiftly retreated back from the uneasiness that filled each step Lontra made towards Forty-One. At first, his pacing was a march and Forty-One was quick to drop a hand back to his holster but his grasp eased as Lontra slowed into a swagged step. Frustration rolled off Lontra’s face as he wiped his face with a pulled up sleeve. Finally, the Jedi leaned in close to speak and the Zabrak slightly turned his head to listen.

Instead of words, the swift smack of flesh on plastic sounded through the alley’s stalls as a firm slap clapped Forty-One’s jaw. The Zabrak’s helmet was soundly dislodged from the maniac’s head and danced on the durasteel behind the pair as Lontra followed the assault with stomp on the Zabrak’s heel. A grunt of pain came from Forty-One as his hand tensed on his holster again but Lontra threw himself into the Lieutenant’s body and toppled with him to the ground.

Initially the Zabrak struggled to draw the weapon, but he found it left himself open to the rolling assault of the Jedi who savagely hammered fist upon fist into Forty-One’s exposed face. As the Lieutenant finally brought his hands up to meekly deflect the oncoming blows of Lontra, a few stained words made their way through Lontra’s clenched teeth.

“At no… point was… that necessary.” Each clip of wording accompanied another heavy hand striking the Zabrak’s face until the alien’s hands no longer worked defensively and started to flail to the sides of the Lieutenant’s head.

Finally, when the pain in his hands overwhelmed the anger in the Jedi’s jaw, the strikes stopped. An intense feeling of guilty flooded the man’s head as he compared the blood of his hands to the minced meat that remained on Forty-One’s face but the guilt washed away when a meek voice brought Lontra’s attention back to the Bubbles-clutching Rodian.

“You’re…not working with that man?” The confusion of the Rodian mirrored Lontra’s own from earlier.

“No, it appears not.” The words came from Lontra as a sigh and both Jedi and Rodian shared a look of relief.

“Then come with me home, Jedi, and I’ll return to you what you were looking for.”