The Bounty Board flickered like it always did—half-dead pixels, lagging refresh cycles, and the faint hum of outdated circuitry. I leaned back in my chair, boots propped on the edge of the terminal, one horn idly scraping the durasteel wall behind me. Time had slowed to a crawl. No good contracts. No real challenges. Just petty smugglers, runaway droids, and the occasional debtor who thought vanishing into the Outer Rim made them invisible.
It didn’t.
Still, I wasn’t in the mood for scraps.
I scrolled lazily, red and amber listings bleeding past my eyes. Names, faces, sums. Too small. Too risky. Too boring.
Then it appeared.
No name—just a designation: “Target Aurek-17.”
I frowned. No name meant either high-level discretion or something shady enough that even the issuer didn’t want to commit it to record. That alone wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the number attached.
I leaned forward.
That kind of money didn’t get posted for small prey.
Curiosity replaced boredom in an instant. I tapped the listing open, ignoring the way the terminal sputtered in protest.
Sparse details. Last known location: a mining outpost on the edge of the Mid Rim. No species listed. No known affiliations. No visible criminal record. Just a single line under “Notes”:
“Target must be confirmed. No disintegrations.”
I snorted. That old line again. Clients liked to pretend they had standards.
Still… something about it stuck.
No name. No history. Massive payout.
Either someone very important wanted this target found… or someone very afraid wanted them erased.
I cracked my knuckles, the joints clicking beneath scarred skin. “Alright,” I muttered. “You’ve got my attention.”
—
The outpost was exactly what I expected: forgotten, half-functional, and clinging to existence out of sheer stubbornness. Dust storms rolled across the barren landscape, sand hissing against my armor as I approached. The docking platform groaned under my ship’s weight, like it resented visitors.
Inside, the air smelled stale—metal, sweat, and something faintly chemical.
Miners looked up as I entered. Most quickly looked away.
Smart.
I approached the nearest terminal and jacked in my datapad, cross-referencing the bounty details with local records. Aurek-17. No hits. No transit logs. No employment files.
Nothing.
That didn’t sit right.
I turned to the bartender, a grizzled human with more scars than patience. “I’m looking for someone,” I said, sliding a credit chip across the counter.
He glanced at it, then at me. His eyes lingered on my horns, my tattoos. Measuring.
“Everyone’s looking for someone,” he muttered.
“Not like this.”
I described the listing. Sparse as it was.
His expression didn’t change—but his hand stopped moving.
That was enough.
“You’ve heard of it.”
He sighed, pocketing the credit chip. “People come through asking about that designation. Never lasts long.”
“Meaning?”
“They leave. Or they stop asking.”
I felt a grin tug at the corner of my mouth. “I don’t scare that easy.”
“Wasn’t talking about you,” he said quietly.
—
I spent two days digging.
Questioning miners. Slicing into outdated logs. Even bribing a foreman who smelled like he bathed in engine grease. Every lead dissolved the same way—into static, corrupted files, or dead ends that didn’t make sense.
It was like chasing a shadow.
No—worse.
It was like chasing something that didn’t want to exist.
On the third day, I found something.
A maintenance worker. Twi’lek. Nervous.
He claimed he’d seen Aurek-17.
“Not a name,” he whispered. “A code. They used it over comms.”
“They?” I pressed.
He shook his head. “Didn’t see them. Just heard. Late cycle. Restricted channels.”
“Where?”
He hesitated.
I leaned closer, letting him see the edge beneath my calm. “You’re already involved.”
He swallowed. “Sublevel nine. Old excavation tunnels.”
Finally.
—
Sublevel nine was abandoned. The lifts barely worked, and the deeper I went, the quieter it got. No machinery. No voices. Just the hum of failing power grids and the echo of my own footsteps.
I activated my helmet optics. Shadows sharpened. Heat signatures flickered.
Nothing.
I followed the tunnels anyway, guided by instinct more than logic. The air grew colder. Thinner.
Then I saw it.
A door.
Sealed. Unmarked. Out of place.
I approached cautiously, hand resting near my blaster. The panel beside it blinked faintly, as if waiting.
“For Aurek-17,” I muttered.
The panel lit up.
The door slid open.
Inside—
Nothing.
An empty room. Bare walls. No equipment. No signs of life.
I stepped in, senses on edge. “This isn’t funny,” I said aloud, though I wasn’t sure who I was addressing.
The door hissed shut behind me.
Then the terminal in the center of the room flickered on.
Text appeared.
“Target confirmed.”
My muscles tensed. “Who’s there?”
No answer.
Another line appeared.
“Bounty fulfilled.”
A chill crept up my spine.
“That’s not how this works,” I growled.
The terminal beeped softly.
Then my datapad pinged.
I pulled it up.
Transfer received.
The full amount.
Every credit.
I stared at the screen, confusion twisting into something darker.
“No,” I said slowly. “No, no—”
The realization hit like a vibroblade to the gut.
No name.
No history.
No trace.
A target that couldn’t be found—because it wasn’t meant to be.
This was never a hunt.
It was a test.
Or worse.
A selection.
I turned sharply, scanning the room again. Still empty. Still silent.
But I no longer felt alone.
Somewhere, someone had been watching. Waiting.
And now—
They had what they wanted.
I holstered my blaster, unease settling deep in my bones. Credits were credits. I’d been paid.
But as I left that empty room, one thought refused to fade:
I hadn’t found Aurek-17.
Aurek-17 had found me.