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.
