Sir Lucien d’Valrois vs. Research Director Titius Osseus

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.

Nar Shaddaa did not sleep.

It festered.

The Refugee Sector breathed like a dying beast—wet, uneven, choked with rot. The air carried the sharp sting of chemical runoff mixed with the sweeter, more insidious scent of glitterstim. Somewhere nearby, a man screamed. No one answered. No one ever did.

From the shadows above the street, Lucien watched.

Perched along a fractured durasteel support beam jutting from a decaying tower, he remained utterly still—cloak blending into the gloom, presence folded tightly within the Force. Below, life crawled. Refugees bartered scraps. A patrol harassed a vendor. Credits changed hands. Fear followed.

And through it all… his target moved.

Lucien’s gaze tracked him without hurry.

Blasters. Predictable.

There was a rhythm to men who relied on distance. A subtle overconfidence in the way they walked, the slight widening of space they demanded around them. They believed in reaction time. In triggers. In the illusion that speed belonged to them.

Lucien knew better.

He exhaled slowly, letting the noise of the sector dissolve into something distant and irrelevant. The Force did not roar here—it whispered, threading between heartbeats, slipping through the cracks of attention. It curled around his target like a tightening noose.

A flicker of movement.

The opponent paused—just for a fraction.

Enough.

Lucien moved.

No warning. No dramatic flourish.

He dropped from the beam like a falling shadow, boots landing silently behind a line of ramshackle stalls. A merchant flinched, too slow to comprehend what had passed him. Lucien did not look at him. His focus never wavered.

The Sith sword slid free with a low, predatory hiss.

Not ignited light—but something older. Heavier. Intent made steel.

He advanced—not rushing, not reckless—but inevitable.

A presence pressed forward now, no longer hidden. Not loud… but suffocating. The kind that made instincts scream before the mind understood why.

Run.

Lucien wanted him to feel that.

To choose it.

He stepped into the open at the edge of the alleyway, just within sight—just enough to be seen.

Pale eyes locked onto his opponent.

Unblinking.

Unhurried.

Certain.

The chaos of Nar Shaddaa seemed to dim around him, as though even the city understood what was about to unfold.

Lucien tilted his head slightly, voice low when it came—calm, controlled, carrying effortlessly through the noise.

“You won’t draw fast enough.”

And then—

He stepped forward to close the distance.