Adept DarkHawk Sadow vs. Creon Neverse

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.

Y’Toub System
Raider II Corvette Gravewing

The Raider II corvette Gravewing dropped from hyperspace in a flash of blue-white light, settling into silent orbit above the polluted glow of Nar Shaddaa. From space, the Smuggler’s Moon looked almost beautiful. Towers of neon and durasteel rising through thick clouds of industrial haze. Up close, however, the truth revealed itself. Nar Shaddaa was a graveyard of the desperate. Refugees, criminals, addicts and mercenaries…all clawing for survival in the shadow of the Hutts.

Lives disappeared here without so much as a ripple. Which made it the perfect place for a thief to hide.

Inside the Gravewing’s hangar bay, the Tarõn, Ty’s modified Decimator was at the ready, engines purring. It lifted from its cradle and descended toward the endless cityscape below. Towers drifted past the viewport like rusted monoliths as the craft slid toward the Refugee Sector. Ty’s voice crackled calmly over the intercom. “Touchdown in ten seconds, gentlemen. Try not to start a war before I finish my tea.”

The Decimator hovered over a weathered rooftop before the cargo ramp dropped with a metallic thud. Wind whipped through the cargo hold carrying the stench of chemicals, garbage and stale spice. DarkHawk stepped off the ramp first, boots striking duracrete as his cloak shifted in the wind. Creon followed close behind, his rifle resting easily in his hands as his eyes swept the skyline. Far below, Nar Shaddaa roared with life. DarkHawk activated his datapad while his Viper Probot, VP rose from behind him and hovered over his shoulder, its photoreceptor glowing faintly as it peered curiously at the display.

DarkHawk tilted his head slightly. “Personal space, buddy.” The probot chirped once but didn’t move. DarkHawk skimmed the sparse intel again before addressing Creon. “We’re looking for a human male. Goes by the name Kaisius. Distinguishing feature, one large facial scar running across the face.” He lowered the datapad. “Self proclaimed professional thief. Apparently good enough to steal something very important. Or he fell into something that is going to get him killed.”

Creon exhaled slowly as he scanned the sprawling slums below. “A needle in a stack of needles.”

“Exactly.”

Creon rested his forearms on the edge of the rooftop, watching the movement in the streets far below. Market stalls packed shoulder to shoulder, refugees weaving through filth-covered duracrete while cartel patrols pushed through the crowds armed with blasters and vibroswords.

“There’s a lot happening down there,” he said. “Where do we even start?”

DarkHawk clipped the datapad to his belt. “Three blocks east. A cantina.”

Creon raised an eyebrow. “Please tell me this is the good kind of cantina lead.”

DarkHawk gave a faint smirk. “The proprietor and I are… old acquaintances.”

“That sounds reassuring.”

“It shouldn’t.”

DarkHawk’s helm locked into place with a sharp hiss as the seals engaged. His Multi-Frequency Target Acquisition System flared to life across his HUD, overlaying the city in a lattice of targeting data and movement tracking. “There are enough guns-for-hire in this sector to field a small army,” DarkHawk continued. “Cartel agents too. Making a spectacle of ourselves would be… unhealthy.”

VP chirped and launched skyward, disappearing into the maze of towers. “He’ll start sweeping the sector,” DarkHawk said. “He’s tied into our comms. If he finds anything, we’ll know.”

Creon leaned back from the edge. “And this acquaintance of yours?”

DarkHawk paused. “Nax Vul. Devaronian.”

Creon grimaced slightly. “That explains a lot already.”

“Former gunrunner. Smuggler. Typical seedy dirt merchant type. Now he runs the cantina we’re heading to.” DarkHawk flexed his gloved hand as if remembering something unpleasant. “He also happens to know every rumor worth hearing within five kilometers.”

Creon tilted his head. “So he has his hands in everything around here?”

DarkHawk chuckled quietly. “Most of it.” He paused briefly. “His one hand.” DarkHawk gestured vaguely with one finger. “Unfortunate lightsaber incident.”

Creon blinked, then shook his head slowly. “I’m beginning to like this place already.”

DarkHawk stepped toward the adjacent rooftop where two rusted antenna structures leaned dangerously close together. "We can jump to that far orange prefab structure,” he said pointing. “From there we descend on foot and into the alleys to the cantina.” Below them a distant scream echoed through the streets before being abruptly cut off. Creon rolled his shoulders and adjusted his rifle.

“Rules of engagement?”

DarkHawk’s helm turned slightly toward him. “Be mindful. The rooftops will have armed sentries posted. Give no quarter.” A brief silence passed before he spoke again, his voice flat and cold. “Once were on the ground, its open season. Anyone who gets in our way…take them down. Fast. Welcome to the Refugee Sector. ”

Creon gave a short nod. “REDCON-1, Consul.”

DarkHawk stepped to the ledge, gazing out over the decaying city. Somewhere down there, a thief named Kaisius thought he had disappeared into the chaos of Nar Shaddaa.

“Then let the hunt begin.”

Darkhawk moved first with a single step into open air. A question that came to Creon's mind caused him to hesitate slightly before being pulled to focus from Dawkhawk's initiative.

He cleared a rooftop with but a single arc. His boots struck the far platform without a sound save for the rusted metal that slightly flexed beneath his weight.

Creon moved a heartbeat later, but instead used his jetpack. He felt capable in following the Consul's methods, but was carrying heavier gear and would be comparatively less graceful.

Darkhawk didn't look back.

The next stretch wasn't a jump, but moreso a crawl through decay. A narrow maintenance bridge stretched between two buildings with the streaks of light from screaming speeders that traversed through the smog below. Creon had glanced down below for a moment to take in the environment and immediately regretted it.

A pair of sentry droids paced along the bridge platform, blaster rifles held low at the ready as their metallic silhouettes cut through the neon haze.

Creon cut off his jetpack and used the vambraces' fibercord grappler launcher to whip a hook around the bridge railing and swing silently under the patrol. His timing had been just before one of the droids had decided to look outward. Creon tried to slow his swing and be still. For a moment, it had felt like the entire sector was holding its breath.

The patrol moved on. Darkhawk rose from the shadows eclipsing a corner of the bridge near where the patrol entered and continued without a word. Next he vaulted a ventilation unit, using it as a pivot for clearing the next gap. Creon had taken the same route, but misjudged the angle slightly causing a skid of his boots across the curved metal. He caught himself just before falling and winced at the clang that echoed louder than he had liked.

Darkhawk didn't turn, only paused.

"Adjust your weight," he said through the comms, and then pressed forward. He vaulted the final barrier and dropped down onto an orange prefab, landing in a low crouch before slowly rising to his feet.

Creon followed, landing beside him.

The city had now seemed to close in on them with similar shoulder to shoulder market buildings Creon had earlier overlooked from the Decimator.

"This is where it gets crowded," Darkhawk said calmly.

"Master, before we descend there's something I want to ask you."

Master?

The word was puzzling to hear. Though he was not sentimental enough to reward it as flattery, Darkhawk also wasn't impulsive enough to reject it outright. He turned in acknowledgement to the trooper.

"I am grateful to be at your side, for there is much for me to learn. Only now do I feel I'm beginning to truly understand the Dark Side of the Force. Surely this could be handled by someone else? We have well-trained assassins and Inquisitors at your command to handle petty thieves."

Darkhawk gave a slight chuckle, then turned back his gaze to the endless sprawl below.

"You misunderstand," his tone was flat like durasteel, "Assassins complete tasks. Inquisitors enforce our will. Yet neither learns anything worth keeping. Nor will soldiers find power in grand battles, Creon."

A heartbeat of pause.

"It is found in the details everyone else overlooks," he says with his eyes slowly honing in on the targeted cantina.

"This thief who survives here isn't petty," he continued, "he is connected... and protected."

The edge of his cowl turned slightly, and Darkhawk pointed at the Cantina below. Creon's helmet turned slightly, mentally marking the same target.

"Ambition is expected of you, but do not confuse proximity with progression. If this were beneath you, I wouldn't have brought you. You are exactly where you are supposed to be."

Darkhawk angled toward a vertical access shaft built into the the side of the prefab building. A ladder hung there, with half the rungs either bent or missing. He grabbed it without hesitation and began his descent.

Creon followed, the metal creaked under their weights as they dropped level by level into the structure's shadow. The air thickened the lower they went saturated with the stench of exhaust and decay. Yet once they had reached the third level, everything had changed. Neon bled through the gaps casting warped colors across the walls. Voices began to echo from shouting to laughter layered over the hum of machinery.

Darkhawk released from the ladder and dropped a few final meters into a narrow service corridor between buildings. Creon shortly landed beside him.

Through the steam that vented through broken pipes that hissed in the alleyway were silhouettes shifting through the streets, disappearing almost as quickly as they appeared.

Darkhawk paused. His helmet tilted slightly, as if aligning to something beneath all the noise. Then he moved. "Stay close," he said calmly.

Past the alley overhead cables and scrap metal bridged the gap between buildings, all of which hosted businesses of vice.

A pair of Sullustan refugees shuffled past them without making eye contact, quickening their pace instinctively. Farther ahead were a group of men loitering near a flickering light. They were too still, too watchful for Creon's comfort. Darkhawk didn't break stride. He dove head first into a city that swallowed them whole.

As DarkHawk closed the distance, one of the loiterers shifted, stepping into the weak beam of the flickering light. The movement exposed the unmistakable grip of a blaster at his hip. A fatal mistake.

“The four at the light…armed. Get ready,” DarkHawk surged forward. The first man never saw it coming. A brutal strike snapped across his jaw, the impact turning his world into a burst of white before everything went slack. His body crumpled into the wet alley with a dull splash.

Arms suddenly clamped around DarkHawk from behind, trying to drag him off balance. He dropped his weight instantly. Hook. Turn. Roll. DarkHawk executed a smooth Wayne’s Roll. Flipping the larger man over his shoulder and slamming him hard into the filth-streaked alleyway.

THUD! The sound echoed. Before the man could even process the impact, DarkHawk flowed with a predatory motion. Pivoting over him and driving a savage elbow down into his face. Bone cracked. The man went limp. DarkHawk’s hand flashed to his belt. The blade was suddenly there. In one cold, efficient motion, steel plunged deep into the man’s throat.

Silence.

Creon was already on the move. His Mandalorian assault rifle already shouldered, steady and inevitable. The scope filled with the silhouette of the next target. Sharp bursts shattered the alley. Each round struck with precision. Punching through cloth, flesh and bone. The impact drove the goon backward into the wall before he collapsed lifeless to the ground.

The last goon broke from cover in a reckless charge. DarkHawk didn’t step to meet him. He simply raised a hand. The Force answered without pause. It struck like a perfectly thrown right cross. A wave of invisible telekinetic energy struck with full-body violence. The man was sent flying before slamming into the wall with a bone-rattling impact.

He rebounded midair, helpless and exposed. A single shot cracked off. Clean. Final. The body dropped beside a dented dumpster like discarded cargo.

“Nice shot,” DarkHawk complimented.

They entered the cantina without hesitation, heads on a swivel, movements controlled. They didn’t have to wait long for things to pop off inside. Two more goons surged in from either side. Creon dropped instantly, rolling forward into motion. He came out of it on one knee, rifle already aligned.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Three fatal shots. The goon slammed backward into a table, collapsing in a heap. Creon began to sweep the room for additional threats. As he did, Creon watched as DarkHawk reached out to the Force, then extended a arm abruptly. Lightning immediately answered. It didn’t arc wildly like weather, it locked on. As the goon launched itself towards its prey, a focused, searing blast struck him center mass. His body convulsed violently, every muscle seizing as its tendrils tore through him. For a split second, his skeleton burned through his skin in a blinding silhouette. Then it stopped. The man dropped immediately, smoke curling from his body as he hit the floor.

Behind the bar, Nax Vul had seen enough. And still he made the wrong choice. His hand darted for the blaster beneath the counter. Raising the weapon up to get a bead on DarkHawk, Creon snapped “Blaster!” DarkHawk reacted instinctively. A throwing knife left his hand in a blur, streaking toward Nax’s weapon. A glass mug interfered with the blade's trajectory sending it off course. Just enough to allow Nax to jerk back, avoiding the strike and consequently, throwing off his aim.

BOOM!

Creon had fired. The shot tore through Nax’s hand. The blaster he held clattered to the floor, slick with thick black blood. Nax screamed, clutching the ruin of his only remaining hand. DarkHawk glanced at Creon. Creon gave a casual shrug. Then, in a blur of motion, DarkHawk vaulted the bar and seized the Devaronian, hauling him forward by what remained of his hand.

“Hello, Nax, ol' pal,” DarkHawk growled. “Not really impressed with your hospitality.”

“You shot my hand!” Nax snarled through clenched teeth.

“I did no such thing,” DarkHawk replied evenly. “I threw the knife. And I missed...I never miss!”

His datapad floated up between them, hovering inches from Nax’s face.

“I need this guy...Kaisius.”

DarkHawk’s grip tightened. “I know you know where he is.” Pain hit instantly. Nax’s body seized as DarkHawk squeezed the mangled stump. A raw, animal scream tore from his throat. “If it’s the last thing I do…I’m going to kill you!”

DarkHawk’s grip tightened. “Relax, would ya...just because you can't start a round of applause, it's not the end of the world.” DarkHawk’s next words were quiet and controlled. “Tell me what I want to know… and this ends.” Another squeeze. Nax finally broke. “He...he was just here!” he gasped. “He’s headed for the spaceport…sector six!”

DarkHawk studied him for a moment, then his HUD flickered. VP. A live feed snapped into place tracking a moving figure through the crowded streets.

“DarkHawk, VP’s got a hit!” Creon called out.

DarkHawk’s gaze sharpened behind the helm. Kaisius briefly looked over his shoulder, VP’s sensors locked in on him. Pasting a grid of connecting reference lines across his face. Data began to cascade along the edges of the display: SUBJECT MATCH: IN PROGRESS…BIOMETRIC ALIGNMENT: 72%… 86%… 94%…

The crowd blurred out as the system isolated the target. A final tone sounded very low, very decisive. POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION CONFIRMED…TARGET: KAISIUS…THREAT PRIORITY: HIGH

“Stay on him, VP. DO NOT lose him.” The Viper probot chirped in acknowledgment as it continued its pursuit.

“Coordinates locked,” Creon said. “Half a klick east.”

DarkHawk released Nax without any formalities, hurling him across the room with a casual telekinetic shove. “I would say thank you,” DarkHawk muttered, “but I’m not in the thanking mood.”

He turned toward the exit. “Creon, take point..”

The cantina announced itself just as they arrived. Bass-heavy music thumped through the alley walls. Loud laughter was cut through the hum of generators. The flicker of neon bled out across the grime-streaked corridor in sickly reds and purples. A stylized Devaronian skull glowed above the entrance. Inside, the air was thick with death stick smoke and desperation. Patrons filled the cramped interior shoulder to shoulder.

Creon slightly tightened the grip of his rifle as his visor swept the room. Too many angles. Too many hands near weapons. The conversations didn't stop, but all looked to be aware of the two newcomers. Behind the bar stood Nax Vul. He had one horn chipped, one arm missing below the elbow that had been replaced with a crude mechanical prosthetic. His yellow eyes locked onto DarkHawk instantly and, for a brief moment, a face of recognition turned into concern.

“Well,” Nax said, voice rough as broken durasteel, “if it isn’t the man who cost me a hand.”

DarkHawk removed his helm with a soft hiss, resting it against his hip. His expression didn’t change.

“The other still looks fine.”

Nax snorted. “Barely.” His gaze flicked to Creon. “You bring friends now?”

“Apprentices,” DarkHawk replied calmly. “I’m looking for someone.”

Nax leaned forward slightly. “You’re always looking for someone.”

“Kaisius.”

A man near the back stiffened. A woman quietly slipped out a side exit. One of the guards near the corner adjusted his stance.

“You’re late,” Nax said quietly.

DarkHawk tilted his head, “Explain.”

Nax exhaled slowly, then tapped the bar twice with his prosthetic.

“Your guy isn’t hiding,” he said. “He’s making friends.”

“With who?” Creon asked.

Nax gave a humorless grin, “Everyone.”

A sharp crack split the air.

Blaster fire tore through the cantina windows, shattering transparisteel inward as bodies dropped and the room erupted into chaos.

“Negotiations are over!” someone shouted.

Figures surged from the entrances; cartel enforcers, mercenaries, hired guns. Seeing them move looked coordinated, as if rehearsed. Creon moved instantly, rifle snapping up just as two bolts hit hus chestplate and the other his rifle, causing him to drop it. The broken rifle skitted across the ground until it met the wall. A vibrosword-wielding then thug lunged, but didn’t make it after two steps. DarkHawk’s blade ignited in a flash of crimson, cutting through him and the table behind him in a single motion.

Screams filled the room.

Blaster bolts lit the haze like lightning as his blade whirled them back. Creon regained his feet and drew his own blade, spotting a figure slipping toward the rear exit. It was human with a scar across the face. Kaisius?

The Force also drew DarkHawk's attention to the same person, "There,” he said.

Creon pivoted, clearing a path deflecting bolts as DarkHawk advanced as Kaisius ran out the back and into the maze. The alley beyond was worse than the market before the cantina; choked with steam and cables. Kaisius shoved past a group of refugees, knocking one to the ground as he sprinted.

“Help me!” he shouted blindly.

A red blade ignited behind him with a hiss. Kaisius skidded to a halt. The thief’s breathing was ragged of desperation and fear.

“You don’t understand,” Kaisius said quickly, hands half-raised. “That data is bigger than you think. I had buyers, powerful ones! I could make you a deal—”

DarkHawk took a step forward. “No,” he said calmly. “You already did.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Kaisius’ face, then realization... The ambush. The coordination.

“They sold me out…” he whispered, dropping to his knees.

DarkHawk approached but stopped just short of him, “They measured you cheaply.” Silence fell between them, broken only by distant blaster fire and the hum of the city. Kaisius swallowed hard. “You don’t have to kill me. Take the data. I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again—”

DarkHawk extended his hand, “Datapad.”

Kaisius hesitated. Then he slowly reached into his coat and produced it.

DarkHawk took it without a word. His HUD scanned instantly to align verification codes and match encryption signatures.

Kaisius exhaled shakily. “There. You have it. We’re done.”

DarkHawk looked at him for a long moment. A pulse of fear rang through all three of their hearts.

“No!” he screamed.

The blade moved, fast and clean. As Creon watched the headless body fall he looked to the cantina alley exit that was filling with more voices.

“The cartel won’t stop,” Creon commented.

“We're leaving,” DarkHawk replied, clipping the datapad to his belt.

VP’s signal chimed softly in his comms; "Route cleared, extraction ready."

DarkHawk turned and moved back into the chaos from whence they came. Creon followed in his shadow.

Nar Shaddaa had yet again swallowed another life with indifference. Somewhere amidst the endless machinery of crime and power, all assets would eventually change hands again. Anything stolen never stays stolen in this place, only changes ownership.