Raider Jon Silvon vs. Lontra Boglach

The Godless Matron is home to many, resembling a micro-society for those who wish to live outside the typical rule of the galaxy. The Lucrehulk-class battleship's massive hangers have been converted into dwellings as a result. Chute Town is the most notable of these makeshift towns. Many shops and storefronts have been constructed to take advantage of the higher volume of foot traffic. In addition, many ships and crews arrive into Chute Town to sell their "well-earned" commodities, weapons, or artifacts. It is commonplace to find the best and the worst gear the galaxy has to offer — it’s only a matter of how big your pocketbook is. The streets are patrolled regularly by the crew of the Matron itself, leaving would-be miscreants to be more wary, lest they find themselves on the receiving end of a pirate's sense of justice.

It is built mostly out of spare durasteel panels from derelict ships, dismantled machinery, or any other source or material the pirates could scavenge. It spans the length of the massive portside hangar of the Matron, reaching from its heavily protected reactor — hidden behind triple-reinforced blast doors and a guard retinue — all the way to the hangar entrance where the many incoming ships unload their cargo. It is more than a mile long, over five hundred feet wide and up to three stories tall, covering most of the floor. Chute Town's streets are a miniature maze, weaving in between buildings on several levels. Verticality is key for the masses of shops and bars to operate without interfering with one another. The main street is nicknamed Murder Alley, mostly because all the weapon shops are prominently opened there.

Illumination banks are staggered along the walkways and buildings to provide enough light for the society to function. Still, the streets are left dim with a low hanging fog built up from the collective humidity of so many people in one space. For those calling it their home, there is no such thing as off hours. A large crowd bustles along at all hours, an exotic assortment of individuals from countless planets and the warring gangs that divvy up the territory within. It's the perfect place for those looking to disappear in the crowd.

Jon missed the Matron. With all the chaos back in Kiast, he hadn’t had the opportunity to walk her corridors and breathe in the atmosphere. So, when Asani had asked for volunteers to go looking in search of new ‘business opportunities’ he hadn’t hesitated.

House Sunrider needed credits, after all, if they were going to build that shiny new exploratory fleet. If getting those credits meant cleaning house at every gambling den and casino that a lucrehulk could fit, well, that was a duty he would just have to fulfill.

He was in the process of raking in the latest batch of credit-chips, his astromech Artemis beeping in a way that signified laughter, when he felt a heavy, gauntleted hand on his shoulder, and sighed.

‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘The boss wants to see me?’

It wasn’t the first time today he had won a few too many credits too fast, and the proprietor sent his muscle to rough Jon up over it.

‘Not exactly,’ an older, gruff voice said, with the kind of clipped professionalism he wouldn’t have expected from a bouncer. Jon sat up straighter and looked over his shoulder.

‘Jon Silvon,’ said an older looking man in what was quite recognizably Jedi armor, but this man wasn’t from the Praxeum; Jon’s eyes quickly scanned the figure, and fell on a familiar sigil hanging from his belt.

Vizsla. Karabast.

Artemis let out a discomforted whining noise, but the man seemed to ignore her, and Jon put a hand to stop her from doing anything just yet.

‘There’s a bounty on your head. Someone by the name of Zakfein is willing to pay a lot of credits to see you brought in on charges of suspected terrorism, espionage, and high treason.’

Double Karabast. Zakfein, the kriffing old spider.

‘That,’ Jon began, raising his hands from the table placatingly, ‘Is all one huge misunderstanding. An identity mix up, actually.’

‘Fascinating,’ the man said, pressing down hard when Jon tried to rise from his seat. ‘You can tell the judge all about it. After I bring you to him. Now, are we doing this the easy way, or…?’

He let the implication hang in the air. Jon sighed. He had been having such a nice afternoon as well.

‘Alright, alright, Mr. Law Man, you got me,’ Jon said calmly. ‘I’ll go, nice and quiet.’

‘Smart move,’ the Vizsla Jedi said, though Jon noticed he neither loosened his grip, nor did he take his hand off the discomfortingly large blaster pistol hanging at his side.

He let Jon stand, slowly, hands out and palms open, and started leading him out the door. By now, most of the patrons had made themselves scarce, and whatever actual muscle patrolled this den wasn’t dense enough to get in the middle of whatever this was.

Jon kept one eye on the door and the other on the dirty, cracked mirror that showed Artemis still sitting in the corner, one eye glowing red as she slowly positioned herself. He waited until the line up was just right before speaking.

‘Can I say one thing, before you haul me off and shove me in carbonite?’ Jon asked. The Jedi sighed.

‘Make it fast.’

‘Can do: Suppression Protocol.’

The man frowned in confusion, before his eyes widened.

The funniest thing about precognitives, Jon had learned over the years; they’re shockingly predictable if you know what you’re doing.

So when Artemis’s torso opened up to reveal a trio of long barrels pointing out, the Jedi’s Force-honed survival reflexives took over, and he acted before he thought.

He spun around, lightsaber igniting to deflect the incoming slug. Mistake. As soon as the burning orange plasma made contact with the projectile, it exploded outwards into a dozen rubber pellets, more than one of which pelted him in the face while the others ricocheted off every available surface.

Jon took off at a run while the Jedi was distracted.

The first thing you notice about Chute Town isn’t the noise…it’s the heat.

It pressed in from every direction, thick and surprisingly damp, clinging to your skin and clothes like the insides of a tauntaun. You’d think it smelled bad on the outside but then you get past the triple-reinforced blast doors into the thick of it and wish you never experienced it at all. That’s how Lontra entered this situation, already wishing he wasn't there, then he took a bucket of rubber pellets to the face from a black, trashcan-looking droid.

Only a master Jedi could maintain his patience in this environment…and Lontra hadn’t earned that distinction yet.

At the time of the attack, Lontra had been standing across the bar away from the droid. By the time he was done shouting in pain from the burns to his face, Lontra had closed the distance to the BT-1 Assassin droid to within two table lengths. Unfortunately, the Jedi was versed in droidspeak and this just made it easier to make out everything the bastard said.

How’d that serving taste, bruiser? The droid squawked in mockery. Did you get notes of burnt tire with a side of pure regret?

As a former CorSec officer, Lontra had endured plenty of indignities throughout his life. He’d been treated inferior by diplomats, swindled by smugglers, and once broke bread with a slaver whose idea of truce resulted in Lontra being caged, naked, with a shock collar on. He had met all of it with a patient, calculating cool.

This was the first time he felt that his resilience cracked…to the delightful squeals of the droid in between pumps of his trio of explosive launchers.

The first salvo had rattled the gambling den, a chorus of patrons had dove for safety beneath tables and chairs while knocking over drinks and chips. Everyone or thing was now ducking for cover. The second round had sent peeking eyes back beneath cover while Lontra had recovered his senses enough to join them. By the third salvo, the Jedi’s jaw had tightened so hard his teeth hurt and he bore a snarl behind the bright yellow bracer shield he presented for protection.

For force’s sake, Lontra scolded himself as he felt the stopping power of the droid’s arsenal against the shield. This was supposed to be easy money. Walk in, look intimidating…maybe even wanting a fight, and then seize the target before heading home. Now you are sparring with a can-opener.

Artemis chirped another set of taunts at the man but he was no longer listening. The gleeful, electronic cackle already sounded far too pleased with itself. When Lontra was able to sidestep the next assault through a careful reliance of the Force, he was finally within striking distance of the droid and was about to make it count.

The little mech now looked like it was cowering in the corner with its dome swiveling in panic. Lontra wrenched one of the gun barrels loose from the mech’s grasp and quickly pointed the end back into the opening. With the kohlen crystal shield firmly sandwiched between the droid and the man, a single trigger pull ended the threat.

When Lontra stood back, what remained of the droid slumped to the ground of the bar. Sparks sprayed from the debris and kept coming with a stubborn persistence that Lontra figured the droid would have cackled about. Or, more likely, he would have cackled about the fact that Jon was now nowhere in sight; meaning, he had made the sensible choice to run.

Lontra could respect that decision.

Emerging from the gambling den, Lontra took a moment to take in his surroundings. The air tasted metallic, tinged with engine exhaust and something faintly repulsive - the smell that lingers when too many bodies are packed too damn close together. Overhead, the ancient lighting flickered in uneven intervals, washing Chute Town in a tired glow that never quite reached the bottom floor. Shadows pooled in the gaps between buildings with a menacing vibe to them.

As the busy crowd moved around Lontra, he felt his eyes half close as he took in the sensations around him. Filtering through the dozens of bodies, all moving in different rhythms, he hushed the overlapping voices into a constant murmur. Bargaining, laughter, and even the threats being made quieted to something more gentler while Lontra scanned for a sense of panick.

And there is was in the crowd, a being that was scared, running, and looking over his shoulder before leaping to the ground below.

To murder alley they would both go.

Jon ducked under a low-hanging piece of junk before leaping onto another. The damned Jedi was closing in, and fast; he’d hoped the crowd would offer more of a buffer, but Lontra weaved between members of a dozen species like water flowing down hill.

He took stock of what he had; blinding dust, fifteen knives, a shock collar, and six rounds in the chamber of his slugthrower.

It would do.

He didn’t bother hiding, though the refuse that lined the alley gave him plenty of options. Wouldn’t do any good against a Jedi’s senses, and wouldn’t slow this particular Jedi down enough to be worth it. Standing to face him though? That would catch him off guard, if only for a few seconds. Time enough.

Lontra crashed through the rubble and into Murderer’s Alley; his lightsaber wasn’t lit, surprisingly; both it and and a blaster that looked big enough to stop an angry gundark were strapped to his right thigh. One hand hovered over them both, ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

Like Jon suspected, seeing the scoundrel standing in the relative-open seemed to stop Lontra; he stumbled to a halt when he was clearly expecting to keep running after Jon.

He opened his mouth to speak.

“Does th-”

Jon drew, and fired. Two shots from the hip.

Two down, four left, he tallied.

Just like he thought, Lontra’s blade was ignited in a flash. A crackling orange blade spun gracefully through the air, sweeping both slugs aside.

Niman, he noticed idly. Interesting choice. The thought was distant, academic, reflexive background noise that he didn’t pay much real attention to. He had no intention of letting Lontra get close enough for a true duel to break out.

The Jedi’s technique was good, as were his reflexes; he angled the blade just so to deflect the molten slag of the slugs away from his body, something many less-experienced Force-wielders failed to do.

SNAP-CRACK.

He didn’t know about this trick though. The incendiary chemicals that tipped his special rounds were immediately super-heated by contact with the blade and ignited in two gouts of flame inches from Lontra’s face.

They were small bursts, harmless at that distance, but having gas explode right before your face when you weren’t expecting it was still disorienting. Lontra stumbled backwards.

It was the opening Jon needed. With his left hand he drew a trio of throwing daggers from his coat and sent them flying; their arc was haphazard at best, but all of them managed to get close enough to Lontra to keep him off-balance.

Jon ran backward and diagonal, firing off two more slugs as he went.

Three, four.

Lontra learned his lesson this time, slamming himself against a wall to avoid one, but the other clipped his left thigh, bursting into flame as it made contact. Jon watched the man grit his teeth in pain with some satisfaction even as he bolted for the upwards ladder that led to a rickety and rusted fire-escape.

His breath was running out even as he clambered one-handed up the jagged durasteel; hard to climb when one hand is still keeping your firearm focused on the angry Jedi below you.

Jon felt his feet ripped out from under him, and had just a bare second to curse before he was telekinetically pulled down onto the ground.

“Good chase,” Lontra panted, pointing his lightsaber at Jon’s throat. “But you’re coming with me now.”

There was a brief moment, when Jon vanished over the edge of the platform, that Lontra hesitated. A lifetime of jumping before looking had finally sunk in, so the man gave it a half a heartbeat. But when the Force didn’t scream any kind of warning, Lontra vaulted over the railing to the darkness below.

Given his head start, Jon had been far enough down the platform that he had a minor fall to the ground below. Lontra, on the other hand, was mere steps away from the gambling hall and had a full level to traverse. So when his boots slammed into the narrow, shadow-cloaked corridor that the locals called ‘Murder Alley”, Lontra immediately felt his knees buckle and his weight sent him hard to the dirty durasteel floor.

His feet, knees, and face all hurt from the flop but nothing felt broken as the man peeled himself from the ground. He spat, clearing the taste of rust and blood from his mouth, and took a deep breath before feeling nauseous. The air was both stale and sweet with the smell of rot while a quick glance around revealed a maze of crooked passages that twisted in ways that made every turn look the same.

Even the sound of his hacking cough seemed to echo wrong here.

“For Forcesake…” he muttered to himself under his breath, pivoting slowing while he strained his returning senses. Jon had once again disappeared or this place could swallow people whole.

A faint clatter made Lontra turn and drop a hand to his belt, fumbling for his lightsaber hilt. But a snap of fabric whipping by caused him to turn again before he had a grip.

Another sound caused him to turn his head…too late.

Before it was taken from him, Lontra’s sight caught a glimpse of a grotesque jolly roger peering at him from the gloom. The stark white skull was etched with a grinning smile and hollow eyes that transformed the bearer into something…inhumane.

Crack

The skull had barely twitched, but the strike landed heavy on Lontra’s temple. The butt of a pistol crunched into the side of his head and Lontra’s vision flashed white. His knees buckled once more and the alley spun while the man went to the ground again, but this time he didn’t lay flat.

Momentum carried him away from the assailant as he rolled out of the way of a heavy stomp on the durasteel. When he felt the wall announcing the edge of the corridor, a heavy hand lifted the man to a knee where he braced for his next attack.

A metallic click followed by a hiss of gas announced Lontra’s threat even before he presented the mandalorian vambrace to the teeth of the jolly roger. Lontra could have sworn there was panic in the skull’s eyes, but he shook out the thought and blur from his eyes.

“You wanna roast today?!” Lontra dared as he straightened both his legs, to a stand, and his arm to push the attacker back against the opposite wall of the corridor. The miniature flamethrower continued to slightly hiss as a tiny flame illuminated the familiar attire of Jon beneath the jolly roger helm.

For a moment, neither of them moved as they both took in the gravity of the situation.

“Yeah…end of the line, eh?” Lontra started as he recalled the reports of an explosion caused by a masked assailant. Yet, Lontra was pulled back to the present when Jon mistakenly twitched. A quick trigger of the vambrace created a threatening plume of flame while Lontra yelled through gritted teeth. “Try it, prick! I’ll flambé you for the prosecution.”

Jon was silent.

But he immediately threw both hands up and dropped the sidearm. The weapon clattered to the ground. Lontra never broke his stare with the jolly roger as he stepped forward and swiped the weapon away with his foot, ensuring it wasn’t a threat as he proceeded.

Lontra was firm as he directed the man with his other hand to turn and then place his hands on the wall. To his credit, Jon didn’t resist even when Lontra twisted his wrist to wrench his arm behind his back and place on the first cuff. When the second cuff snapped, Lontra stiffed as experience warned him of a surprise attack at this moment.

Yet, Jon remained professional and silent.

“Target secured.” Lontra said after keying his comm. He looked up to see where he had vaulted from and took a guess at his location. “Send pickup to my position, Murder Alley, south side.”

There was a pause, then static. Finally an acknowledgement came from the Slammin' Salmon. Lontra slowly exhaled before giving his prisoner a sharp shove forward.

The jolly roger grinned on, eerily, as Lontra marched him out of the maze to the south of the Matron.