Montegue: Origins - Acts

After much altering of thread titles to intentionally confuse you all, here is the third, fourth or eighth installment of Montegue: Origins, depending on your perspective and how anal-retentive you are.

Coromon Headhunter - 3 Months AE

Vittore was on a mission. That was probably wise, given the time of year. Over the past two decades Hugo had learned to show very little emotion, especially to his two boys. It was an important, integral part of the job; no way they'd buck up and follow orders if he spent his time moping and emoting. 'sides: Cambrio did enough of that on his own for the whole family. But today was one of those days where things became difficult for him; one of those days where the painful reminders became a little too potent to ignore.

Twenty-two years ago to the day, Hugo had taken his sons and fled Coruscant, never to return. He'd shot and - he thought - killed the only woman he'd ever loved. Then somehow, she'd managed to disappear without trace, only to manifest lightyears away and weeks later on Cularin. That was the day when Hugo's sister-in-law had given her life to save what was left of their family.

I didn't do a very good job of taking care of them, did I, Cambria?

Times had been tough since then; made worse by his lust for revenge against the universe in general. What had transpired with his belovéd Emaryn had been impossible to explain, so he had declared war against every like-minded mystery in the 'verse: shapeshifters; mindreaders; things with psychic abilities; things with fangs and teeth and claws; things that went bump in the night. Anything that to his mind posessed unnatural or unholy powers was fair game. From time to time he'd make a credit or two on the side as well; in recent years, he'd gained such a reputation that people sought him out. Most of it was pretty standard fair - great monsterous beasts tormenting settlements on Outer Rim worlds where the Empire didn't give enough of a damn to take care, mostly - but they paid for food and fuel; they kept him going; kept him fighting.

He'd tried to keep the boys out of it. They'd grown up the first few years on Junction, living a normal life, but when the bug had sunk its teeth into Hugo, he'd up sticks and moved them all onto an old Space Dragon freighter; turned the ship into a home for them all. It had worked, to start with. Vittore would take care of baby Cammy, while Hugo and his brother Victor went out to kill what needed to be killed. But then the boys had grown up, and the problems had begun. Vittore viewed their lifestyle with an awe and amazement, as if they were living the lives of some of the characters he idolised so much on the holonet. Cambrio meanwhile rattled around their cage of a ship in frustration. Hugo felt sorry that his son was forced to live a life he didn't choose, but damn it they needed him. Needed every hand they could get.

He winced, fighting back that resurgant flood of the age old argument that had plagued his relationship with Cambrio ever since the kid had been old enough to fire a blaster without needing both hands. Their conflict had driven a wedge between them, and in the end it had driven Cambrio away.

That's where he was going; that's why he was here. "I promised myself I'd never come back here," he muttered, settling his eyes on the sickening network of permacrete valleys and durasteel mountains, and the rivers of airspeeders and pedestrians that meandered between them. Coruscant; or Imperial Center; whatever it was they were meant to be calling it these days. Things had been a little rough lately, what with the Emperor getting himself vapourised off at Endor. There were places out on the rim that didn't believe it; some even that hadn't heard it yet. On the core though, there had been celebrations in the street; riots even; and then the inevitable crushing blow from the Imperials that quashed them all back to the dust.

No; Coruscant wasn't a safe place to be. Not now. Not ever. Cambrio was an idiot to have set foot there, let alone having done so voluntarily. But with a little luck, and a little meddling from his father, he'd be the alive kind of idiot, and that was better than nothing.

Coruscant

The politicians wanted them to call it Imperial Center these days. Not that it made a difference to anyone, save perhaps for the poor sap technicians who'd had to make their painful way through every piece of documentation and code in computer systems from here to the Outer Rim to change it. Probably drove the guys crazy; Hugo had half a mind to seek one of them out, and see what reaction would occur if he "accidentally" used the wrong name in conversation. In his mind, there would be violence: glorious, hillarious violence.

Occupying his mind with stupid trivia kept it focussed away from the things he didn't want to be thinking about; namely why he was here, and why he would much rather have been anywhere else in the galaxy, given the choice. He knew how important it was that he remain committed to his mission, and not allow his focus to wander. He needed a clear head. Needed his emotions in check. Needed to ensure that all those carefully errected barriers were at full strength, so that he could resist the urge to literally beat sense into his child, and drag him kicking and screaming back to the ship.

He'd hate you for that, the quiet voice of reason whispered in his mind.

Hugo fought against the urge to accept it; he'd never been the kind of parent to bow in the face of better judgement, even if it did incur the wrath of his offspring. Maybe Cambrio was too young to understand it now - maybe he'd come to, once he was older - but everything he had ever done had been in his best interests. The weapons training; the strict rules; the military discipline; Hugo and his family had seen the dangers that were out there in the galaxy, first hand; he had no intention of allowing his sons to be caught unawares.

But the voice persisted. He already hates you enough. Rely on your instincts this time, and he'll just leave again.

He sighed, mopping a palm across his face. The specifics of the explosive argument that had ended his last encounter with Cambrio had been lost amidst the swarm of similar confrontations that had grown even more frequent over recent years. He couldn't remember what had sparked the debate, but like always, it shifted in the same familiar direction. It isn't fair that you did this to us, Dad. Why couldn't you leave us to have a normal life. This isn't what mom would have wanted.

That last jab twisted his insides even now. He hadn't revealed to them the specifics of what had happened to their mother; didn't want to taint whatever happy memories of her the boys retained. In truth though, Hugo couldn't be sure what Emaryn would have wanted for their boys anymore; when he had last seen her, she had attempted to do something to Cambrio. What it was, he couldn't be sure; but something had changed her: twisted her into an evil, hateful creature. Whatever her hopes were for the boys, Hugo knew he needed to follow a completely different path.

Instead, he had settled on the only experience he had, and had raised them as soldiers. Vittore relished in it; Cambrio hated it. Maybe the younger son just wasn't cut out for the lifestyle; maybe he was one of the recruits that would have washed out of training under any other circumstances. Maybe this escape, this running away, was his way of washing out. Or maybe it's my fault.

Though he didn't remember the words that they had exchanged, he did remember the last words that had issued from his mouth: they burned into his memory like a scar. You want a normal life, Cambrio? Fine. Go and live it. We don't need you here. We don't want you.

Hugo's jaw clenched; hands curling into fists. Ever since he'd uttered those words, his heart had begged him to take it back; but something had stood in the way; pride, maybe, or his self-imposed role as the infallable commander that couldn't admit to being wrong, lest the boys lose faith in him.

Well, not this time. If that's what it took - admitting he was wrong; buying into the heart games of his over-emotional son; saying he was sorry - to repair the damage he had wrought, then so be it.

Dodging the last pedestrian, he ducked into the side street that housed the address his contacts had managed to source for Cambrio. His eyes swept around him, searching for escape routes, and cover; though he wasn't sure whether he was preparing himself for danger, or simply plotting his path to flee when this inevitably exploded in his face, he couldn't be sure.

Drawing in a breath, he mustered up what confidence he could and then, focusing every ounce of effort to quiet his mind and prevent him from talking himself out of it, he reached out and jabbed a finger into the comlink beside the door chime. "Cambrio," he said, surprised at how thin and weak his voice sounded; the wind's fault, he decided. He swallowed hard, and rummaged around for a little extra volume. "Its me; its your father. We -" He frowned; grimaced. "- we need to talk."

Nar Shaddaa

The bounty hunter crunched his neck from side to side, muscles that had bunched tight during his last long voyage reluctantly unfurling under the pressure of the heel of his palm. The heavily treated bantha leather of his gloves creaked a little under the motion of his fingers; the black fabric was relatively new, and had not yet endured the punishment of use that would soften it into a second skin.

Starlines snapped into coherant points as the old Firespray slowed from the blinding velocities of faster-than-light travel. He manipulated the controls with practiced ease, guiding the craft gracefully through the starfield and into orbit of Nar Shaddaa. Within moments, indicators began to light up on the viewscreens before him: sensor telemetry from orbital tracking, notifying him of the positions of any navigational dangers and large vessels in the system; readouts from his own enhanced scanners that filled in the blanks that Orbital thought were too trivial to be worth mentioning; beacons littered around the system marking out the vectors for the most common Hyperspace routes; flags from communications monitoring equipment that had identified potentially interesting military communiques, or comms traffic between the other craft in orbit.

One particular warning light caught his attention, however. Automatically, a subroutine built into the ship's computer had sent a wave to a communications unit at the private hanger on the planet below that the bounty hunter called home. It was programmed to do so every time the ship reverted from real space, usually accessing the holonet to contact the unit remotely. On this instance however, the minimal distance from ship to source prompted a particularly swift notification; a series of messages scrolled across the screen. One in particular stood out; glancing only briefly away from the starfield to spear a gloved finger into the relevant controls, he fired up the communications array, and configured for the secure frequency that the message had indicated.

"Kira," he spoke, an effort that had become almost subconscious over the years draining the emotion from his voice. "This is Chir'daki. You have a job for me."

There was a pause before a reply came; the bounty hunter casually considered the time in the region of Nar Shaddaa that Kira occupied, and supposed his contact may well have been sleeping. No matter though; Kira was usually never far from a comlink, and was - as the bounty hunter had discovered during numerous attempts to covertly infiltrate the man's accomodations - a particularly light sleeper.

"Its 'bout time you got back to me, Romo," a muttered reply came, but Chir'daki couldn't help but notice the slight note of mirth as Kira uttered his birth name - one he'd left behind him quite some time ago; and yet, Kira had somehow uncovered it, and delighted in using it at every possible opportunity.

Despite the knot of frustration that twisted in his stomach at having his secret identity so casually brushed aside, Chir'daki resolved not to allow any indication of that to creep into his tone, thus robbing Kira of some shred of his satisfaction. "You have a job for me," he repeated, simply.

Apparently, the late hour and Kira's presumably recently awoken state combined to prevent any unnecessary banter in their exchange; a pleasant change for Chir'daki, who found his unfortunately necessary encounters with the man to be tiresome at best: deeply irritating at worst. "Indeed I do," he stated, equally simple. "And its a big one; private contractor, lots of credits. Told them I'd put my best man on it."

Chir'daki rolled his eyes; Kira was no doubt trying to worm every last credit he possibly could out of his finders fee. It was insufferable, but Chir'daki chose not to be frustrated by it. Provided his own share of the payment was sufficient to compensate him for the time and resources he expended, he cared little what he was paid. His career was a calling; a life choice; not a career. Money mattered little, in the grand scheme.

"Tell me the basics," he instructed, words clipped and formal. "Transmit the rest."

There was a reluctant pause before Kira spoke again. "There is one slight complication, before I reveal more." Another pause; longer this time. "The target; he is a bounty hunter." A beat. "Will that be a problem?"

"No." Chir'daki's response barely required consideration. There were rules; codes; regulations from the old Bounty Hunters' Guild that many of his collegues still clung to, but Chir'daki had no such qualms. A target was a target; a kill was a kill; a job was a job. "Not for me."

Kira seemed relieved, if a little unsurprised. "The man's name is Montegue," he stated, pressing on with compliance with Chir'daki's orders. "Hugo Montegue."

Coruscant

It was dark. It was dim. But hell: Hugo had lived in worse places. For Coruscant, it was practically homely; or at least as close to it as you could get, when you dropped more than a few levels down. He glanced up; scrutinised the split between the buildings above, and guessed at how deep he was. The fact that he was able to completely cover the sky just by extending an arm above his head didn't bode well for the value of his son's real estate.

Hugo stepped through the foyer of the appartment building, and stalked along the corridors, counting off the numbered doorways as he passed. His combat boots drummed dully against what had probably at one point been carpet, now stamped down by footfalls and tramped-in sludge from Coruscant's streets into a slick and sticky non-descript black pulp. He rounded a corner. Counted off more doors - 1177; 1179; 1181...

He drew to a halt. Drew a breath. 1183.

His eyes searched for the vidphone; some way to signal to his son, and inform him of his arrival. There was none: bare circuits hung where the device had been. Vandal kids, no doubt; bastards would steal anything. He frowned, peering briefly up and down the corridor before dropping down to his knees, haulling out the bundle of cables and wrenching free the relevant wires. He crossed two; a vain and futile hope. The door opened. His frown deepened. Not locked. Cammy... his mind growled, concern rising.

As he returned to his feet, movements slow and fluid, he reached towards the small of his back and pulled out the blaster pistol stowed there; clicked off the safety, and the setting to stun. Cautiously he stepped over the threshold, eyes sweeping the walls of the narrow entry corridor from floor to ceiling, searching for signs of trip-wires; laser devices; anything. None of the things he'd drilled into his son's head for the last fifteen years. He scowled, disappointed, but bit the emotions down.

Advancing slowly, he reached a doorway; he tapped the door control, locking it. No use dealing with mystery sealed rooms until you were sure there was nothing lurking in the open ones. He advanced further, reached another door. Locked it. Turned. Sidestep. Checked the next. Open doorway this time. Room inside; sofas; cabinets; ornaments. Lounge, then. Or living room. He stepped forward cautiously; swept from side to side. Something on a shelf beside him caught his eye. A photograph; Cambrio, and some girl. He looked happy. He hadn't seen him that way, since --

"Her name is Marlee."

Hugo span, caught off guard by the appearence of another figure. The kitchen leads off the lounge. Damn. At least the figure belonged to his son; Hugo's aim dipped slightly - but only slightly; he'd encountered enough shapeshifters in his time to be a little more wary than that, especially given the busted lock and all. He scrutinised Cambrio's features, searching for what information he could. The expression didn't match the holostill he'd just seen; it wasn't even the same angst face he'd grown used to over the years. His eyes were bloodshot; lids swolen and red. Matt streaks chased down his cheeks where tears had been cried, and dried. The gun wavered a little lower. "What's wrong, son?"

A half-stifled sob escaped, cracking through his voice and blasting the air from his lungs. He drew it back in with a long, shaking breath. "She tried to kill me, dad."

His arms turned to lead, dropping the weapon completely to his sides. He felt his brows tugging down in sympathy, his heart aching to soothe his son's pain. It was a pain that he knew; a pain that they shared. Granted, this Marlee - whoever she was - was hardly a wife of three years, but that didn't matter. Both Montegues had opened their hearts to a woman; and both women had pulled out a knife and tried to stab them through it.

He set the blaster down on the shelf beside him; stepped across the room. A hand rested gently on Cambrio's shoulder - his arm angled up much more steeply than it had needed to in the past - gentle pressure applied in assurance. "Tell me what happened, son."

* * *

Hugo stepped out into the cold. It was dark now, too; not that you ever noticed it on Coruscant, what with all the signs and street lights flooding photons down into the depths of every canyon boulevard. He didn't notice though; his mind was elsewhere. Focus.

Hugo jogged into the headwind that shifting air pressure had sent gusting down the valley of buildings in which Cambrio's appartment nestled. The walkway was open and exposed; barriers at the perimeter would brace him if he was propelled towards the edge, unless he managed to pick up enough height on the way over to skip them entirely. Citizens on Coruscant thought it was an urban myth. The old Senate Commando knew better.

He ducked into the vidphone booth, cursing whatever insolent youth had smashed out the transpari-panels that would otherwise have shielded him. The words Rezno wz iire scrawled with a knife-blade across the vidscreen suggested both the name of a suspect, and identified him as mentally retarded. He grunted, slipping a cred-chit into the device. "Directory Enquiries," he spoke, in response to the synthesised voice of the operator droid that collected his call. "I need a Holonet Connect to a Coruscant resident; I know he still lives here, but I don't have a current address."

"I will require an ident code and surname for this individual, please."

The artificial voice was thin, reedy, and impersonal. Hugo flinched a little in discomfort and iritation; had to force himself to plant an arm against a vertical support beam to prevent it from landing a fist atop the comm device. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Its fourty-two, dash eighty-nine. Name is Rockwell."

"Thank you, sir or madam. And your name?"

Hugo hesitated, reluctance preventing his tongue from pushing the words out from behind his teeth. He battled against his reluctance; fought the urge to contrive some alias. Rockwell was an old friend, but he'd need to know who he was speaking to, else he'd never take the call.

"Tell him that Hugo Montegue is calling."

Rutian, in Hyperspace

Floating in the swirling tangle of Hyperspace, the Rutian sped towards its target. Inside, Chir'daki sat in a state of half-consciousness, mind turned introvert and meditative. He could not slumber before a hunt; while not a fan of the traditions of the Guild, there were others instilled in his mind from the past that he could not shake. Sleep before a hunt was a sign of weakness. He would need to wits sharp, and his focus keen. Wherever his target went, Chir'daki would go. Whenever he ran, Chir'daki would pursue. Whenever he slept -

A smile curled at the corners of Chir'daki's mouth. If his prey was foolish enough to indulge in that, the hunter would be forced to demonstrate the error of his ways by purging his target of life.

The smile subsided. Unfortunately, this mission came with a no-kill order. His client - whoever that was - wanted him alive. Chir'daki didn't care for such missions, but at least this Bounty Hunter - if he lived up to his reputation - would make the hunt worth it.

He opened his eyes, focus returning to the computer displays before him. Every ounce of personal information that he could muster about this Hugo Montegue was displayed before him: service records; relatives; known associates; common aliases; anything he could get his hands on. It pleased him how little material this Hugo left lying around the galaxy about himself. It suggested a paranoia that almost rivalled Chir'daki's own. He was disappointed that the man hadn't gone to the lengths of abandoning his true name, however: that gave him a small strip of flesh into which to sink his claws.

Montegue had been a Senate Commando, or so his file said. Served until shortly after the Clone Wars, at which point he'd retired for no explained reason, and left Imperial Center. He'd next shown up weeks later on Fairie Junction, and had gone on to serve as a mechanic working for a haullage company: one owned by the family of a former Commando collegue. A few years later, and he'd dropped off the grid entirely; no registered address, and scant few confirmed sightings.

The same was true of his family and friends. He was confirmed as having two sons - a Vittore and a Cambrio - who had registered addresses on Junction, up until Hugo disappeared. Neither the sons however, nor Montegue's file, listed the name of their mother. That kind of mystery intregued Chir'daki, but unfortunately uncovering its answer would not serve him on this particular hunt. Perhaps, if the question still plagued him once it was complete, he would try to extract the information from the target directly, with minimal invasive means, to appease his employers.

There was a brother - a Victor Montegue. Sector Ranger. The same story with him, it seemed; registered addresses right up until twenty years ago, and not a trace. In fact, there was only one man with any connection to Hugo Montegue that seemed to have remained in the same place for any protracted period of time.

Hyperspace retreated, revealing starfield once again. Ahead of the ship hung the orb of Fairie Junction, freighters and transports swarming to and from its surface in a steady flow. Chir'daki reached out, and cycled the display on the right monitor. Though much younger, and dressed in the uniform of a Senate Commando, the man was still easily recognisable as Elroy Kripke. A smile curled the Bounty Hunter's features. The hunt could begin.

* * *

Fairie Junction

Nora Nichol recognised him from the second he entered. Bastard probably forgot he was barred. Again. Frustration coiled up inside her as she ran the cloth around the inside rim of the glass, and set it back on the shelf below the counter alongside the others. With a flick, she hooked the towel casually over her shoulder, waiting as the scraggy-faced new arrival sidled slowly up to the bar.

Bounty Hunters came through here a heck of a lot. She knew what went on. Didn't really care. What people did was what people did; their business, not hers. And usually, their business was benificial to her business, what with all the drinkin' and yammerin' and celebratin' that went on in a place like this when a bunch of hot-head, laser-brained morons sat down together and started braggin' about their collective exploits.

She shook her head and sighed. Bounty Hunters were like idiot kids with airslug rifles, popping off shots at rats in the street. 'cept they had blasters, instead of airslugs. And it was people instead of rats. Well, sometimes, they was rats and they was people. Not that these guys gave a flying frak one way or another, 'course. A job was a job; they'd shoot whatever the yell y'paid them for, and they'd probably damned well enjoy it.

Except for Montegue, of course. Damn hunter had standards. Picked and choosed the jobs he wanted, even if it was low key Outer Rim stuff, cleaning up the trash that the locals and authorities couldn't manage to do themselves. Were it anyone else, it would probably have seemed downright noble. But Nora knew better. She knew why the guy hounded those damned freak creatures so much. He had something to prove. Something to make up for.

He thinks he killed my Joe, she moved, turning the scathing look that was almost permenantly painted across her face to aim in his direction. I don't give a damn one way or t'other. But don't you dare use his name to justify your kriffing crusade, Montegue.

The words didn't come aloud. They'd been said too many times before, and had fallen on deaf ears on every occasion. She didn't dignify him with a gratitude, or platitude, or verbal aknowledgement of any kind. She just grabbed the glass, poured the beer, and shoved it in his general direction. He said thanks; like he always did. She ignored him; like always did.

Hugo slouched down into the bar stool. It was a ritual, every time he set foot on this rock. The bar that Nora had bought was poised on the route between the main starport and Elroy's main storage lock-up; or at least, the long, meandering route that Hugo wound up taking. Used to be that Hugo could land right outside the place. Then he'd sold the landing pad - which someone had built a block of appartments on; go figure - and forced Hugo to land at the main 'port for the area. Now he had to traverse the industrial district east of the Starport and, well, if you were gonna have to trapse through that cesspool, you might as well stop on the way for a drink.

It was a ritual, every time he set foot in this bar. He'd see her, and she'd ignore him. He wouldn't push it. Wouldn't try to spark a conversation. He'd just wait. Wait until he saw it in her eyes. Forgiveness was what he wanted. What he needed. He'd keep coming back; keep looking. Keep hoping that word of his exploits got back to her. Hoped she'd be happy to hear that he was ridding the galaxy of the kind of things that had killed her husband; left her and her child alone in the world.

It never worked.

He sighed, downing the ale as swiftly as he could manage. Turned out it was the cheap stuff again. Guess that made sense; she'd probably learned by now that he didn't carry enough creds on him to pay for any more than that, and that his cred cards were invariably fakes or frauds or scams; on principle, she wouldn't take them. He sighed, swallowing another mouthful. Ridding the galaxy of the things that went bump in the night didn't exactly pay well.

He pulled a chit from his pocket, and downed the last of the glass. With a deft motion, he flicked it, sending it skitting across the bar. "Thanks for the drink," he muttered, wiping at the foam that had collected in his stubble. Then, without another world, he trudged towards the door and left.

He sighed. Maybe next time.

Hugo ducked through the staff door that separated the sales office from the main store. He sidestepped, deftly negotiating the filing cabinet that was positioned in the perfect awkward location in the center of the corridor. Elroy had positioned it there pending the redecoration of the sales office; there it had remained for the last seven years. Perhaps it was now considered some sort of security measure. The unlocked door certainly didn't qualify.

What the hell was with all these unsealed doors? Had the galaxy gone crazy while he was in Hyperspace?

Not risking anything this time, he held his blaster ready as he entered the store room, pacing from aisle to aisle in search of anything unorthadox. The chamber was chaotic, nothing positioned in any kind of sembland order; a stark contrast to the meticulously organised armoury that Hugo boasted back on the Coromon. He skimmed the shelves, peering between them, searching for movement. Was that a Magna Caster-100 over --

Elroy. Prone, in the center of the next aisle. That was bad. Bad bad bad.

Dropping low and using the shelves for cover, he jogged over as swiftly as he could muster, to check on his old friend's vitals. A shriek sounded through the air before he'd closed to within a few meters, a streak of scarlet tearing up fragments of duracrete from in front of them, and spraying them in his direction. He recoiled, hurling himself behind the cover of a nearby crate. He peered. Elroy was just visible, but out of sight. Too far to reach, especially with the apparent sniper in play. Why the hell was there a sniper in Elroy's warehouse?

He didn't have to wait long to know more. "Its about time you showed up, Mister Montegue," a voice rang out, echoing around the chamber to provide scant little information about its origin. "Mister Kripke and I have been waiting for quite some time."

"What do you want?" Hugo shouted back, eyes sweeping the far end of the warehouse for any sign of movement.

There was none. "First of all, I'd like you to throw the blaster away." The voice hesitated for a moment. "Then I was planning on apprehending you, and collecting the bounty on your head."

Bounty? Hugo's mind raced, wondering who he might have crossed or offended sufficiently to provoke this kind of wrath. He was hardly the most popular individual among the Bounty Hunter community, but he struggled to find more than a handful of names; and most of them were dead already. The sniper had cited that apprehension was his goal: someone wanted him alive. Hugo wasn't sure if that narrowed or broadened the pool of candidates.

Still, now was hardly the time to speculate on that. He wasn't close enough to perform any kind of detailed analysis, but the charred and blackened fabric that framed a hole in Elroy's gut, accented in angry crimson, seemed to offer a likely explanation for his friend's current state. "Elroy?" he hissed, trying to keep his voice low enough to avoid it carrying to the sniper, but harsh enough to stir the man into consciousness. He leaned out an inch or two further, notching up a few decibels. "Elroy?"

Another hail of debris saw Hugo diving back behind cover again. He fired out a curse under his breath in an obscure spacer language he'd picked up back with the Senate Commandos on Coruscant. He was pinned, and unless something happened fast, someone was going to wind up dead. I'm probably not getting out of here, Hugo mused, But the more I stall, the more likely it is that Elroy won't, either.

Wiith a reluctant grunt, he tossed the blaster aside, out into plain view. It clattered against the ground; a lance of scarlet from the sniper ensured that it wouldn't be used again. "You got a name?" Hugo called out, hoping at the very least to talk down the gunman enough to let him offer a little first aid to Elroy; get him stable enough to survive until help could come for him.

"You carrying any more weapons, Mister Montegue?"

It came more as a statement than a question. Hugo's shoulders slumped in submission, and retrieved the extra hold-out blaster from his pocket; the vibroknife from the side of his boot. Both were tossed aside. Both were dispatched by the sniper, just as his first blaster had been. "You happy now?" he shouted, in the vague direction from which the gunfire had come.

"Step out from behind the crate," the hunter replied, his voice the epitomy of icy calm. "Slowly."

Hugo complied, inching his way from the ground to standing, arms held vaguely aloft, in as unthreatening a posture as he could be bothered to muster. A step at a time, he moved into the centre of the aisle, eyes sweeping for anything on the shelves that could possibly be of use. Mostly comm gear and speeder parts. Damn. Way to go, Elroy, his mind hissed in frustration. Next time you get shot, have the good sense to do it where there's a gun within reach.

His eyes turned to the high ground, trying to work out where the sniper might have positioned himself. There were a few likely candidates: a few points along the raised catwalk that circumnavigated the warehouse a few stories up. Hugo picked the one that he personally would have chosen, and turned his eyes in that direction. "Elroy needs medical attention," he stated, wondering if the hunter had any sort of compassion that he could appeal to.

"He is stable," the sniper replied. "The wound is superficial, and the bleeding has been stopped. His current condition is -" He hestitated, searching around for a metaphor that he liked the sound of. "- merely an adverse reaction to a stun blast."

Hugo took solace at that, but felt a grim chill creep through him at the mention of a stun weapon. While granted, many weapons had the option to fire an energy blast that would subdue a target rather than killing them, the fact that the sniper watching him was in posession of such a device made the situation seem all the more grave. Any leverage he might have been able to squeeze out of the hunter's employers wanting him alive was gone; the sniper could stun him in an instant, just as surely as he could kill him. Then why am I still conscious? he wondered, fighting to keep the frown of his face. Probably doesn't want to carry me to his ship, if he can help it.

"So what happens now?" One of the problems with Hugo's particular type of work was his total inexperience with these sorts of situations in recent years: when you went after the sorts of things that Hugo hunted, people rarely wanted the thing to be anything other than dead. Sure, as a Senate Commando, he'd been on missions that involved apprehending a target, but since the Clone Wars had started, the Republic - and later Empire - had been increasingly less interested in that approach; having a hand tempered by a need for target survival was little more than a distant memory for him.

Much as he would have liked to recieve it, Hugo never got his answer. A hiss lanced through the air, like the sound of a speederbike racing past in the distance, maybe, without the whine of its engines in the background. A synthetic beep counted down three seconds, and then an explosion roared, blossoming outwards to consume part of the wall and raised catwalk. The detonation was low-yield - it barely scorched the permacrete, and rattled the walkway - but it was enough of a distraction for Hugo's needs.

Not even hesitating to ask questions, Hugo leapt, throwing his shoulder into the shelving behind him, battering the contents through to the other side to clear himself a hole large enough to take refuge. Reaching out, he haulled Elroy's unconscious body in after him; elbowed aside a few more containers of supplies to give himself room to work. He studied Elroy's injury; as the sniper had claimed, basic first aid had been applied, though Elroy would need a bacta patch slapping on there before too long. He glanced around him, but nothing remotely medical lept out from the labelled crates around him.

Stun weapons overloaded the nervous system. In some cases they merely caused paralysis, but in the injured they could push the body over the edge, and cause unconsciousness. Often, the stun effects would wear off before the target awoke. The hunter had claimed he had been waiting for some time. Hopefully that meant -

Hugo's hand pressed down on Elroy's wound. The old man's eyes snapped open, a howl of pain blossoming from his throat. Hugo placed a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him from attempting to leap to his feet; not only compromising their cover and doing damage to himself in the process, but likely colliding heavily with the shelf above and sending himself back into an unconscious state. After a moment or two, Elroy seemed to relax. "You've been shot," Hugo stated, simply. "Are you okay?"

Elroy blinked in the face of such an apparently stupid question. "I've been shot."

"Its pretty minor," Hugo reassured. "There's no bleeding, and you were hit by a pretty sharp shooter: I'd wager he aimed to miss any of your vitals. It'll just hurt like hell until we can get some proper meds in you." His hand retreated, and Hugo risked a glance out into the aisle, only now allowing himself to wonder where the hell that extra shot had come from. "Can you walk?"

"I've been shot."

Hugo rolled his eyes, turning his gaze back towards Elroy. "You're going to milk that for a while, aren't you?"

Though clearly in pain, Elroy managed to muster a smile. "Damn right I am."

Flashing one back for an instant, Hugo's expression quickly turned grave. "We have a sniper on us. Someone managed to get a shot off at him and gave us a little distraction, but I doubt they did any real damage to him; and we're probably the slowest moving target he's got to aim at." Hugo hesitated for an instant, running through options in his head. "We're unarmed; where's the nearest weapons cache?"

Elroy paused, glancing at the crates they were lying amongst to get his bearings. He pointed through the shelves they'd sought refuge in, away from where they'd just been. "Combat rifles are two aisles over; should be something there you can use to hit this guy, if you can work out where the hell he's perched."

Hugo nodded, eyes turning in the direction indicated, sizing up the containers around them. Nothing large enough to topple over, or use for cover. He frowned, eyes slipping closed as he allowed his other senses to reach out; listened for the sound of weapons fire. Everything was calm, eerily silent, until -

"Stay here," Hugo instructed; he barely hesitated an instant before he lept forward, shoulder slamming into the lightest and most movable of the containers standing in his way. Pain blossomed at the point of contact, but even with almost no run-up he managed to spur the box into motion, its fortunately lightweight contents rattling around as it slid. Something clattered against the duracrete behind him; a grunt of appreciation escaped him as he realised that Elroy was dislodging containers into the other aisle as well; a rudimentary distraction, but he'd take anything he could get.

Not wating to take his bearings, he hurled himself out into the open, rising to his full height to saccrifice concealment for speed - like it'd make a difference to a guy with a kriffing sniper rifle anyway - and sprinted across to the far side. A few meters to his left lay an open void in the storage, one shelf up; he leapt and, hand vaulting against the edge of the shelf, threw himself in.

Heart thundering, he rose into a crouch, and at a crawl managed to rotate himself within the space. Peering along the cluttered shelves in the direction that would take him away from the sniper, he did his best to fight his way through the supplies and surplus, making his way to the relative safety of the aisle's end. Something smashed as one of the boxes toppled off the edge of the shelf; his hand prepared to shove another container in the same direction, until his eyes settled on the artwork. Frohad Galactic Firearms? A slight smile crept onto his lips as he regarded the Magna Caster-100 he'd spotted earlier. Hardly a deadly weapon - a cheap and less-effective knock-off of a Wookie Bowcaster, really - it was designed primarily for accuracy and stealth. It wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but at least it was a damn sight better than running around unarmed.

Crawling the rest of the way to the end of the aisle, Hugo burst free, and dropped down into a crouch, eyes sweeping his surroundings for anyone armed, and dangerous. His eyes settled on a figure one aisle over. His Magna Caster snapped up, a quarrel primed and ready in the tube; his eyes widened with surprise as his gaze settled on a young, blonde human girl - Cambrio's age, if not younger. Whats more, recognition sparked in Hugo's memory. The waitress, from Nora's Cantina? Her blaster snapped in his direction; a quick visual sweep spotted the handheld grenade launcher slung over her shoulder, and the bandoleer with the kinds of explosive shells that had taken out the walkway earlier. He relaxed his aim a little. Whoever the hell she was, anyone who shot at the sniper qualified as a friend at this point.

Her blaster lowered too, but the gaze she cast in his direction suggested that she certainly didn't feel she'd need it if she decided to turn on him. "Where is Elroy?" she asked, words as cutting as her gaze.

"Safe," Hugo answered, feeling that the situation didn't call for superfluous adjectives. "He's stable, and under cover. Next set of shelves over."

She considered his words; sized him up. "You're Hugo Montegue, right?"

Hugo nodded. "I am."

Her hand went to her shoulder; unhooked the launcher, and slid it across the floor towards him. Hugo set the Caster aside, and caught the bandoleer that she tossed in the launcher's wake. "Then I guess you know how to use that. Cover me."

Hugo barely had the time to ready another shell before she set off at a run; cursing under his breath, he fired an explosive round in the walkway's direction, hopefully buying her enough time to cross from her aisle to his. Before she could pass him and continue on to where Elroy was hidden however, his hand lanced out and snagged her arm. She squirmed against him, and tried to writhe free, but Hugo silenced and stilled her with a look. Satisfied that she would stay put - for now - Hugo hung the bandoleer over his shoulder, and prepped another shell.

Aiming carefully, he turned back into the aisle he had just sprinted across, and flipped up the crude iron sights on the launcher. Counting himself down from three, he fired; the launcher spat out the explosive round only a short distance, the sticky projectile attatching itself to the permacrete just short of the shelving, a good twenty meters ahead of the hole Hugo had made in the storage containers. The explosion hurled out superheated gas, the blastwave crumpling the support strut on the next shelving unit along. It buckled and collapsed, hundreds of kilograms of durasteel and assorted ex-military merchandise toppling groundwards. An artificial barrier formed across the aisle where they landed. The girl and Hugo exchanged looks; the former rolled her eyes and, with Hugo offering no resistance, set off at a run towards Elroy. With a sigh, Hugo followed at a more leisurely - and more observant of his surroundings - pace.

"Uncle Elroy," the girl was saying in earnest as Hugo arrived behind her, another shot prepared in the launcher, the weapon aimed to give them cover. "Are you okay? Can you move?"

Elroy grunted, refusing most of the help that the girl offered as he clambered free of the crates and containers, although to his frustration not able to refuse it all. "Damn it, Jo - I'd be greatful of the sympathy if this wasn't how you treated me all the frakking time." He glanced around him, saw the artificial barricade; his eyes settled on the weapon Hugo was carrying. "I hope you're gonna pay for that," he muttered.

"Come on," Hugo interjected, head swimming with questions but well aware that he didn't have time to indulge any of them now. "We need to get out of here. Nearest speeder?"

"Mine is parked out-front," the girl - Jo - revealed. "We'd better move fast; if we're lucky, we can make it out of here before he climbs down from that twisted piece of metal we've been shooting at."

Elroy didn't seem in the mood to linger either. Letting the girl drape his arm around her shoulders - no doubt feeling somewhat safer knowing that it was Hugo, rather than her, who was the only one left with hands free to hold a gun - he grunted. "You heard the lady, Hue - let get the hell out of here."

The speeder sped between the industrial buildings; Hugo didn't bother asking where they were going. The decision had its benefits: namely in allowing him to avoid speaking to the strange waitress-come-gunfighter that had apparently rescued them. It seemed an odd combination of skills and lifestyles; was Nora's cantina really so rough a place that her staff needed to be expert marksmen as well as good at mixing drinks?

Seemingly psychic as always, Elroy accurately surmised the thoughts running through Hugo's mind. "That's Jo Nichol," he revealed, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder towards their driver. "Nora is her mother -"

"- and Jorran is her father," Hugo interrupted, correctly. Elroy didn't bother providing an answer to that. Hugo would have felt the gut-wrenching guilt regardless. When this had all begun - this life of hunting, and killing - there had been three events that had caused it all. It had begun when Emaryn had turned against him, and revealled herself as one of those Force sensitive Jedi witches. Hugo had fled, and had run to hide beneath the hospitality and protection of family; Emaryn's sister, Cambria, had died because of that choice. And then, two years later, his curiosity had drawn him to Ord Anor, and there another innocent bystander - Jorran - had died.

Emaryn had fallen at the hands of the Force. Cambria had fallen at the hands of Emaryn. And Jorran had fallen at the hands of one of the other supernatural freaks of the galaxy. Hugo had vowed to exterminate them all, so that no one else would be hurt. No amount of killing would ever undo the deaths that his actions had wrought; and if what had happened recently to Cambrio was any indication, he wasn't doing nearly a good enough job; but it was something. Some penance. He had dedicated his life to making a better world. A galaxy full of better worlds.

His gut chenched again as he looked at Elroy once more. He seemed stable, but once again his actions had placed someone he cared about in the line of fire. He turned his attention to their driver, and rose his voice. "Elroy needs medical attention; more than I can give him in the back of a landspeeder. But you need to ditch me first: the longer I'm with you, the greater the risk that this bounty hunter will track us down."

Jo shook her head. Even that was somehow annoying. Probably due to the aura of passive-aggressive arrogance that radiated from her. "Even if he didn't manage to get eyes on the speeder before we left, a little cash - or blaster fire - in the right hands will get him access to the traffic cameras. And if I take Uncle Elroy to a registered med facility, he'll be able to ID me. That'll lead him back to my mother, and -"

She hesitated, and almost sounded as if she was going to reveal a capacity for more than one emotion, but managed to stomp on it before it fully formed. "Right now, I'm anonymous. I need to stay that way. We'll head to your ship, and head offworld. If the stories I've heard about what you get up to are true, then you're bound to have everything that we'll need to patch up something trivial like a blaster bolt." She glanced over her shoulder, adding a little more of that icy glare to give extra weight to her case. "Once we've led him a few hyperspace jumps away from Junction, Uncle Elroy and I can head back on our own; but only when there's no danger of him using either of us as leverage against you."

Hugo squirmed a little in discomfort at hearing someone who could - agewise at least - be one of his children speaking to him with such apparent contempt, and a total lack of respect for his authority. It was like having Cambrio back again, only in this instance he didn't know what buttons to push to shut the kid up.

Worse than that, she had a point. The chances were high that the sniper had only caught Jo's weapons fire, rather than catching sight of her face. Things needed to stay that way, at least until this hunter situation had been resolved. Bounty hunters weren't exactly known for their posession of boundaries, and this one seemed particularly lax in terms of morals.

Eventually, Hugo sighed. "Fine," he muttered. "But if you're going to come with me, then you follow my lead. You do nothing unless I tell you. Understood?"

"But -" she began to protest.

Elroy interrupted her before Hugo had the chance to. "Damn it, Jo!" he snapped, his tone much harsher than Hugo ever remembered hearing it; this side of basic training, at least. "Do as the man says, or so help me I will shoot you myself."

Whatever hold Elroy had over the girl, it seemed to work. "Fine," she muttered reluctantly, and locked her gaze steadfast on the road ahead.

* * *

A growl escaped from the lungs of Chir'daki as he clambered over the wreckage, sparks flashing intermittantly where the flesh on his arm had torn and exposed the circuitry beneath. The girl had done little more than shake up his aim with her pot-shots, though admittedly the distraction she caused had been enough to facilitate the escape of his target. Responsibility for that could mostly be landed on Hugo himself, however: the solitary shot that the bounty hunter had unleashed when he'd got his hands on the launcher had been close enough to actually catch Chir'daki on the edge of the blast wave.

The damage was minor - a few scuffs, bruises and burns. It would have been much worse if the detonation had occurred on the opposite side of his body, but fortunately all Hugo's efforts had done was damage the synthetic polymer that covered his bionic arm, and the polymetallic alloy that had been used to rebuild parts of his skull. Cosmetic damage at worst. But frustrating.

They would be gone by now; if Hugo didn't have a speeder himself, then one of the other two could surely lead him to one. He considered trying to procure security footage - identify their escape speeder, and track it down to some relative or other; try for a little more emotional leverage. Assuming it wasn't simply stolen, of course. It wouldn't be worth it either way: such threats were useless without a means of establishing contact with Montegue, and even if by fluke someone else on this planet posessed such a means, Hugo would no doubt ignore it.

No: for now, his best option was pursuit. A slight smile curled on his lips. There were those who called him paranoid for the number of contingencies he put in place, but on this occasion at least he felt vindicated. In the time since Hugo had arrived on the planet, while Chir'daki himself had been busy establishing the ambush in the warehouse, one of his droids had been deployed to conceal a tracking device on the hull of Montegue's ship.

He delved into his pocket and pulled out a datapad; flicking it on, an indicator appeared on the screen to inform him that the device was transmitting. The ship was still on the surface of Junction for now, but Chir'daki knew that it would have departed long before he arrived at the starport. He would take his time then; trail his quarry from world to world until it felt safe enough to linger in one place. Then he would strike; and succeed this time.

And then? He glanced down at his arm, as another staccato of sparks manifested. His contract was very specific about Hugo Montegue being alive when he was apprehended. However, at no point did it specify undamaged.

Coromon Headhunter, in Hyperspace

The autopilot was engaged; a few hours remained until they reached the next of their dummy destinations. Though she was sturdy, the Coromon was hardly blessed with speed, and Hugo didn't doubt that their pursuer would reach any destination they were clearly headed towards long before they did.

Instead, confusion was their best defense. To begin, Hugo had filed a false flight plan with orbital control, but had departed the system on that heading, only to drop out of Hyperspace and alter course after a matter of minutes. Hugo had chosen another populated system in the vacinity for their second appearence, and had remained long enough for planetary sensors to register their identification before leaving again, with a similar course change after an hour or so in Hyperspace.

It was a crude method, but with any luck, a few easy false leads would be enough to buy them a head start: give them enough time for Elroy to recover a little more, and then get them to a populated planet where his passengers could lose themselves. Hugo would make it nice and easy for the hunter to follow him for the next few jumps, and then would lure him into some sort of brilliantly-concieved trap that Hugo was still working on.

For now though, all he could do was sleep. Wiping a hand over his tired features, he descended the short stairway from the bridge, feet clanking against the deckplates as he reached the corridor that ran through the vertibrae of the ship's neck, and gave access to the crew cabins. Access to his bunk was blocked however, by the presence of Jo Nichol standing before him. Her face was twisted with an emotion that Hugo couldn't quite place; based on his prior exposure to her, he decided that it was out of character, and that something was wrong.

Of course, Hugo wasn't stupid enough to blunder into that conversational deathtrap. "How is Elroy?" he asked instead, deciding to deflect whatever it was she was thinking about with what seemed to be a more pressing matter.

"He's resting," she replied, brows knit into a frown as she stared at the deck plates. "I made him up a bed in the guest quarters - figured he wouldn't be able to cope with the ladders into the crew ones." She reached out, waving a hand vaguely at the hatch beside her.

Hugo nodded. "Good idea." Unfortunately, that conversation train seemed to have stalled; rather than fight to keep it in motion, Hugo instead leapt on his opportunity to escape. "I'm going to get some sleep. You should probably -"

"Is this where he died?"

That question hit Hugo in the chest with more force than a Geonosian sonic blaster. Memories that he'd trampled deep into his subconscious so that they wouldn't bubble to the surface every time he laid eyes on this corridor came rushing back, flooding his mind with the sight of Jorran Nichol, lying dead on the deck; of the Clawdite that had killed him, standing in almost the exact same spot that Jo was occupying now. He'd never forgotten what had happened. Never forgiven. But there were times when he could stop himself from seeing; or at least cloud up the images in his mind so that the details were vague.

"Yeah," he answered, his eyes falling deckward too. His memory and vision overlayed; his eyes conjured a vision of the deck plates beneath them stained red with blood. He closed his eyes, willed the image aside. As they opened again, he forced them to focus on Jo; the one thing that his memories definately didn't contain. It was a mistake. It forced him to see the pain in his own soul reflected in her eyes.

He searched for something to say. There were no words for sitations like this, but he tried anyway. "Do you -" His voice hesitated. He swallowed, saliva fighting against the dryness in his throat. "We never used his quarters. Never changed anything. Do you want to -?"

His voice trailed off again, but this time it was clear what he meant to say. Jo managed to muster enough strength of will to conjure a reply. "Please," was all she managed to say aloud, but through her eyes she said so much more.

Without another word, Hugo stepped across; halted beside the hatch that led to Jo Nichol's old quarters. He reached for the controls, but his fingers hesitated. He turned towards her, confliction on his face. "I don't expect forgiveness," he said, voice rough as his throat tried to constrict around his words. "But for what its worth, I am sorry."

To his surprise, somehow Jo managed to muster a smile. She with a little hesitation, she even placed a hand on his arm. "You didn't kill my father: a Clawdite criminal did. Then you killed him; and you've spent the rest of your life making sure that children like me aren't forced to grow up never knowing their fathers." A tear glimmered in her eye, but she held it at bay. "My mother may not understand it, but I do. So thank you."

Even if Hugo had wanted to reply, his mouth wouldn't let him. His lips contracted into a tight line, expression locked firmly in place lest it betray any emotion, and shatter his carefully-cultivated fascade. He turned back to the controls, and thumbed in the code for the lock. The indicator switched from red to green. "Good night," he said simply, not allowing himself to look at her as he retreated back to the hatch of his own bunk.

Hugo hesitated before clambering down into his cabin, but behind him Jo didn't wait. He risked a glance in her direction; watched as she descended almost fearfully towards her father's quarters. Hugo didn't know if it was a good idea, letting her in there. It probably wasn't. But he'd preserved that room for a reason. It was a monument, or a testement, or something like that; a reminder not only of yet another life that had been lost along the road that Hugo had chosen to walk, but also of a man who had given his life to protect Hugo's sons.

Speaking of sons; Hugo stepped onto the first rung of the ladder, the hatch swinging open under the weight of his feet. Stepping downwards, he made his way into his private sanctum; the one space in the universe that was exclusively his. That almost every space had been dedicated to the storage of weapons and gear was likely a sad indication of what his life had become, but he didn't regret that; not today, at any rate.

He stepped over to the console mounted into the wall, and thumbed it into life, a file already pending and ready to play on the screen. While they'd been in port on Junction, the ship had recieved the transmission, but until now Hugo hadn't had the opportunity to review it. He typed in the neccessary commands, and the video began to stream. "I did some digging, like you asked," the face of John Rockwell - another veteran of the Senate Commando squad in which Hugo and Elroy had served - revealed. "Looks like this girl of yours gets around a fair bit; managed to tie her to a couple of fake idents going back a decade or so. She's been pretty static the last few years, but I picked up a flag on one of the old ones; registered on a civilian transport to Naboo. I've transmitted what documentation I can along with this wave."

Naboo, Hugo mused, rubbing a hand across his thickly stubbled jaw. It was a little out of their way, but knowing that they'd need to show up on a heavily populated world eventually, Hugo had been aiming them vaguely in the direction of the Mid Rim. Their next jump would drop them into Contruum. If their false jump plan was working, maybe they could send their hunter on a wild gundark chase up the Perlemian Trade Route, and then jump their way around to Naboo. Traffic in and out of Palpatine's homeworld was fairly steady; shouldn't take much to get Elroy and Jo on a transport back towards the Core, and then from there it was just a short hop on the Hydian Way back out to Junction.

Hugo's features shifted into the closest approximation of a smile that he could muster at this time of night, and in this type of situation. And besides, he mused. I happen to have 'friends' on Naboo.

Great Grass Plains, Naboo

The Stardragon-class of Freighter to which the Coromon Headhunter belonged was a heavy-set craft, designed with economics and logistics in mind, rather than aerodynamics and agility. As such, the great lumbering beast - held aloft only by virtue of its repulsorlift drives - looked as if it would fall from the sky like a stone without more than a moment's notice. Entry into the atmosphere had been executed belly-first by necessity, but even now, a few hundred meters or so from the ground, her huge girth protruded far below her, like some great pot-bellied Gamorrean soaring above.

In defiance of logic however, her pilot somehow managed to witness the ground, and after the great barrel engine pods - currently operating as air breathing jets, a great plume of flame spat out behind by the after burners - rotated to belch burned fuel towards the eponymous greenery of the Great Grass Plains, and the craft made her way unsteadily towards the ground, settling atop a quartet of seemingly inadequate paws. Like some great roosting bird, after the fires had quelled her engines returned to their original pose, the pylons that held them extended tucking beneath her body like wings.

From a safe distance, the pair of electrobinoculars that had watched her descent peeled away from watchful eyes, the strap that bound them allowing them to hang suspended against the chest plate of war-worn Mandalorian armour. The occupant scratched casually at the base of his neck, irritating a patch of skin where one of Naboo's countless blood-sucking insectoid parasites had left its mark upon him. He recognised the craft; his technological optics had located the identifying marks he'd needed to confirm his suspicions of who the occupant was. It had been years since Hugo Montegue had crossed his path; strange then that one of the few men in the galaxy who knew him as Amaros - not Amos - should arrive here so unexpected and unannounced.

He reached for the DC-15A rifle that usually hung above his door - almost as tired and neglected as his armour was, since his lifestyle had changed - and peeled himself away from the grassy rise he had adopted for cover. The rifle nestling into a familiar nook in his shoulder, he advanced carefully, blaster held ready lest anything unexpected emerge from Montegue's ship.

* * *

It was hardly the most concealed landing site that Hugo had ever utilised - indeed, 'the middle of a large, grassy field' truely stretched the definition of the term 'concealed'. However, for their purposes, it was perfect. Once they'd descended from orbit, the authorities on Naboo had simply shrugged and left them to their own devices. There would be records of their arrival in the planet, granted, but no messy and easily-accessible logs at local starports to narrow their location more specifically, and even with the information on their last known bearing retrieved from Orbital, Naboo was abundant in such large, grassy fields. In the event that their pusuer did track them to this planet specifically - and hopefully they would be gone by such time that his arrival occurred - the odds of him divining their destination were slim to none.

It had taken considerable convincing of his passengers that this was a good plan, of course; or rather, one passenger in particular, with notable anatomical differences from anyone else aboard. Eventually Jo had conceeded however, and was now greedily eyeing the landspeeder that was being lowered by some mechanism from the eaves of the Coromon's cavernous cargo bay. The speeder, an ex-military vehicle that Elroy had procured - which his sons referred to as Jenny, for a reason that had never been adequately explained to him - was crude, but effective. It was hardly a Saber Tank, but it got the family where they needed to go, with relative haste.

That speed capability was evident from the monsterous repulsorlift coils slung underneath the craft; so of course, Miss Gung-Ho Enthusiasm was determined to drive it. Hugo let out a sigh. From what he'd seen so far, Jo was even worse than Vittore had been at that age; although less effeminate than Cambrio had been at the same.

Jenny settled on the deck, and the loading mechanism retracted; Hugo threw a gesture in Jo's direction to encourage her in helping Elroy aboard - hardly an easy task, given his injury, and the resultant inability to bend properly. Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, he clambered up into the pilot's seat, and gunned the drive systems into life. A satisfying rumble reverberated through the worn padding beneath him, and conjured a faint lick of a smile.

"All aboard?" he asked, ignoring the disgruntled groan issued from beside him by Elroy, and the disappointed scowl that graced Jo's features as she climbed relutantly into the rear. Fingers tapping away at a control panel mounted just behind the gear controls, Hugo punched in the commands that would make the Coromon's cargo ramp descend automatically. It did so, with a reluctant mechanical whine.

Delving into his jacket, Hugo pulled out a set of the tinted lenses that spacers used to use in the olden days to cut down on the glare from close proximity stars - back before science had found a cheap and effective way of producing photoreactive transparisteel. Settling them in place over his eyes, he took the time to glance over his shoulder at Jo. "You might want to buckle up," he quipped, quirking an eyebrow in her direction. "And a set of goggles wouldn't be a bad idea. The speeds we'll be going at, a stray speck of dust in the eye could do a lot of damage -"

Hugo's advice was cut off mid-flow by the sound of Elroy clearing his throat. Frowning, Hugo turned, attention met by the sight of a man standing half-way up the cargo ramp, an angry-looking blaster rifle held ready to fire. "If I told you to 'get off my land'," a familiar voice queried from the butt end of the blaster, "Would that be too cliché?"

"Its okay," Hugo assured, a grin already forming on his face. "He's a friend."

Vaulting down from the speeder, Hugo advanced across the bay towards Amaros; the rifle quickly fell away to facilitate a bear hug between the two men. Hugo's hand clapped heartily against the back of the Mandalorian's armour. "Lady and gentleman," he explained, turning back towards the others. "This is Ama-"

"Amos Iakona," the other man interjected, shooting Hugo the briefest of scathing looks. His tone failed to back up the harshness of the expression, however. "I haven't been Amaros Koine for a very long time."

Hugo folded his arms across his chest, fighting down a smile. "Yeah; wouldn't want your old Mando buddies to find out you ran away to play farmer, would we?"

Amos grunted. "And bumming around the galaxy in a broken-down ship, killing critters that aren't exactly smart enough to fight back is your idea of a noble warrior lifestyle?"

"Hey," Hugo countered with a shrug. "After my ex-wife, the occasional rancor and krayt dragon from time to time makes for a refreshing change."

Amos grinned. "The kids would probably be better looking too," he fired back, with a chuckle. A frown graced his brow as he peered at the contents of the speeder. "Unless Cambrio went and turned into a woman like we always feared," he mused, "Your boys aren't here. What brings you to my neighbourhood, Hugo?"

Hugo's expression sobered. "Come on," he muttered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the speeder. "She'll run with four. Lets get back to that farmstead of yours, so we can discuss things over drinks like civilized people."

The smile flashed back on Amos' face. "Hugo Montegue: how I've missed your special brand of civilization."

Iakona Farmstead, Naboo

"Let me get this straight."

Hours had passed, and darkness had fallen outside; creatures that hid within the swamps by day ventured out onto the Grass Plains under cover of darkness, their strange orchestra of cries distinctly alien to the ears of Jo Nichol, who had grown up in the urban sprawl of Fairie Junction.

Beside the fire, Hugo and Amos sat, contemplating the universe and swapping war stories while they indulged in the finest of what Naboo claimed was whiskey. Jo meanwhile perched, indignant, a short distance away, trying to unwravel the revelations into the men's respective backgrounds in her mind. "You were a Mandalorian, but you worked for the Republic?"

Amos shrugged, allowing another mouthful of whiskey to trickle down the back of his throat. "You've heard of Boba Fett, right?" He didn't bother waiting for an aknowledgement on that front. Amos had spend most of his life in seclusion on Naboo, and even he knew who the infamous pseudo-Mandalorian bounty hunter was. "His father was the genetic prototype for the Clone Troopers that fought in the war for the Republic. But just having Mandalorian genes wasn't enough for those long-necks on Kamino. They recruited seventy-five of us other Mandalorians - people who wanted to escape from their lives for some reason or other, mostly - and had us training their Clone Commandos for 'em. Worked out pretty well for me, until the contract ran out; dumped me back into life with a bank account full of credits, but nothing to go back to."

"So you came here? To Naboo?" Jo's expression remained skeptical, and perhaps a little put-out at not having been offered a drink to match that of Hugo and Amos. "Going from Mandalorian warrior to Naboo farmer seems like a bit of a big step."

Chuckling, Amos drained a little more of his drink. "It was more of a series of medium-sized steps," he explained, gesturing vaguely with his glass. "Started out living comfy in a town house in Keren; but pretty soon I got bored. The militia around these parts is voluntary, so I signed up. Then I went and got stupid: met a woman, got married, and started a family." He took another sip, tone growing slightly somber. "She grew tired of me eventually. By the time the divorce came through, it took all the credits I had left to buy this place. The turnover keeps me fed; I guess you can't really ask for any more than that."

"I guess not." Jo's brow didn't unwravel however, still tightly knit with contemplation. "Why leave Mandalore - or whatever your home planet is called - in the first place, though? Was the money they offered really that good?"

The glass was emptied in one final slug. "My sister died." Instantly, Jo regretted her question, but her efforts to withdraw it and undo the damage she might have wrought went unheard, or perhaps ignored. "Aya Koine. She was about your age; some illness that bacta couldn't treat. We were already orphaned by the Mandalorian lifestyle - both parents killed on some crusade or other. After she died, there was nothing left for me there. The man I was, and the life I had, no longer existed. Cuy'val Dar was the obvious choice for me."

He eased himself to standing, and stretched out the muscles across his shoulders. Eyes drifting back towards Jo, he flashed her a smile that he hoped would dispell the look of sympathy and pity that seemed to have taken up residence in her eyes. "That's where the new name came from - Aya Koine. Iakona. A little piece of that past life lives on; but the rest is dead and buried, where it belongs."

He turned to Hugo, throwing him a curt nod. "Stamp the embers and kill the lights when you're done," he instructed simply, feet propelling him towards the door that led out into the maze of corridors that wove through the farmstead like a warren. "Night," he added, shooting a look in Jo's direction.

"Good night," she echoed, but the sentiment felt empty. Her eyes strayed to Hugo briefly, and she could see in his eyes that he was busy contemplating his own emotional loss. It seemed like they all had someone close to them that had been ripped away; and that loss had made them the people they were today.

Her vision lingered on Hugo for a few moments longer, as she weighed up just what she knew about him. From what she'd pieced together between her mother's muttered insults, and what little Elroy had revealed, she knew that Hugo had once been married; that he had two kids, though she'd never seen them; and that something had happened to turn him into the lone wolf hunter that came into their bar for a solitary ale every time he set foot on Junction. Beyond that - and his apparent proficiency with grenade launchers - she knew nothing, and yet she had allowed herself to be whisked away to the opposite side of the galaxy by him. Her mother's reservations aside, why did she trust him so implicitly, especially after what his actions had inadvertantly done to her father?

"Hugo," she began, a little surprised at how awkard the name sounded being issued in her voice, and at how uncomfortable she felt in addressing him so casually. She almost considered retreating into "Mr Montegue", but damn it: she was an adult now. And besides; it had sounded creepy as hell when that bounty hunter had used it. There was no apparent change in Hugo's poise, so she assumed that he hadn't taken offense; and if he had, pressing on was hardly going to do any more damage, anyway. "Any idea why this bounty hunter guy was doing in Elroy's warehouse?"

The man took a nonchallant sip from his wiskey. "He went after Elroy as a way to get to me."

Despite the lack of helpfulness in Hugo's words, Jo pressed on anyway. "And why is he after you?"

"Absolutely no idea."

Confusion twisted a frown back onto Jo's features. "Surely you must have some ideas. Have you made any enemies? Got on the wrong side of people? Or maybe -"

"Listen," Hugo interrupted, the edge in his voice firm, but not harsh. "I make my business trawling the galaxy, killing stuff that would otherwise be killing harmless, innocent people. Yeah, I piss people off. Occasionally, those people manage to get away before I've been able to kill them. But we're talking low-level thugs, here. The odd murderous shapeshifter, or psychotic Force user. If it was them, they'd come after me in person. So no." He fixed Jo with a level gaze. "I have no idea of who this might be. And that they've hired a bounty hunter that's willing to go after what few remnants of a family I have left? Frankly, that scares me a little."

Somber silence fell over Jo for a few moments as she absorbed that information. "But what about -" She almost stopped herself from asking, lest she inadvertantly touch upon a nerve. But Hugo had seemed jovial enough about it during his discussions with Amos earlier on. "What about your ex-wife?"

Jo couldn't read anything on his expression: Hugo's features suddenly set in stone. He hesitated with his glass in front of his face, regarding it as if it had taken on a new bitter flavour. In spite of it, he downed the last anyway, and with a brief wince settled the glass back down on the table. "She died," he stated, simply. "Twenty years ago. I'm pretty sure it wasn't her."

As Hugo rose to his feet, Jo could sense that their conversation was over, but did nothing to stop it. It was clear from his eyes that there was more - much more - that Hugo was unwilling to reveal, but she knew that simply pushing would never unlock that information by merely pushing on what was clearly an unhealed wound. "Good night," she said simply, as Hugo passed her, disappearing towards the exit from the room. Hugo didn't bother with a reply.

The morning was still infant when Hugo ventured from the bunk where he'd spent the night. The accomodations that Amaros had been able to make for his visitors were restricted, so in deference to her gender's need for unisex privacy, Hugo had spent the night trapped within the surprisingly accoustic confines of a room he shared with Elroy. Under normal circumstances, the way that sound resonated around the room might perhaps have been considered beautiful, but when the base audio came from the rattling snored breaths of Elroy Kripke, it somewhat dampened the artistic viability in Hugo's mind.

He wasn't the first one awake though, apparently. In the kitchen, Amaros was already well on the way through whatever chores it was that farmers did in the morning. From the smell of things, it had something to do with that herd of fat, back-heavy Shaak creatures that Hugo had seen romping around the plains when they'd landed. From the ruffled look of the old Mandalorian, Hugo was willing to guess that part of the process involved being trampled by the entire herd, though what purpose such an activity could serve, he didn't know.

The two men exchanged grunts of aknowledgement; Amaros clearly knew that the sun was still far too low on the horizon for Hugo to be engaged in meaningful conversation, without at least a dose of caf first. Wordlessly, he gestured towards the stove, where a pot of slick, thick, military-grade caf was stewing away in preparation. Now that he thought about it, Hugo realised that the smell had permeated the air around him; one just had to sniff past the scent of shaak in order to find it. Drawn to it like an mynock to a thermal exhaust port, Hugo ambled over with a stiffled yawn, and part-filled a proffered mug, leaving enough distance from the rim to accomodate his unstable, tired gait.

Amaros waited a good five minutes before confronting Hugo with words; by then the caffeine had begun to attack the foginess clouding the neurons of his brain, hacking away furiously like a Jedi on Geonosis. A few stray blaster bolts were deflected towards his eyes; he blinked a few times, clearing away the speckles from his sight. "So, why are you here?" Amaros asked during one of these eye-fluttering efforts at vision repair.

Still blinking, Hugo flipped his gaze towards the Mandalorian, and summoned a frown. "Like I said last night -"

A hand rose, stopping Hugo's speach. "You're being chased by a Bounty Hunter, and you needed somewhere to go to ground. Yeah, I know." A frown of his own forming, accented above his stern gaze, Amaros folded his arms loosely across his chest. "But there are at least a dozen worlds between here and Junction that would have been just as easy to lose yourself on. Easier, even, given what security has been like around here since that riot after Palpatine died." His eyes narrowed, piercing into Hugo's tired mind. "Why are you here?"

Hugo tried his hardest, but his defenses couldn't hold against that glare. A hint of a smile cracked at the corner of his mouth. "I need your help."

A theatrical sigh replied, but the Mandalorian couldn't manage to hide his own amusement. He scrubbed his fingers at his jaw, nails catching against the stubble that he hadn't yet attended to that morning. "I'm assuming the matter in question isn't agricultural."

"I'm afraid not," Hugo replied, a glimmer in his eye.

Amaros grabbed a stool, and planted it firmly beneath himself, refolded arms resting against the counter top. "Talk fast and clear," he instructed.

"Cambrio found himself a girl," he stated, simply. A hand rose to forstall any jokes from the Mandalorian; Hugo assumed some reference to lesbianism was in store, but now was hardly the time. "Turns out she wasn't exactly what she claimed to be."

A set of eyebrows rose in realisation. "One of your special type of targets?"

Hugo nodded. "A Yeenaaldlooshii. They're Skinwalkers. Shapeshifters. A hell of a lot meaner than the ones I'm used to dealing with, though."

"You need to call in the big guns," Amaros mused, correctly.

A wince of reluctance graced Hugo's features. "Normally, I wouldn't ask, but -"

"But its Cambrio," Amaros interrupted. A flash of an understanding smile crossed his features. "Don't worry, Hugo. I'll help you protect your son."

Those words sparked a memory in Hugo's mind; something he'd intended to ask the night before, but hadn't found the appropriate opportunity. "Speaking of sons," he said with a frown. "Any chance of roping that boy of yours in? I'd call in Vittore, but he's on a job of his own right now; and we could use all the gun hands we can get."

The shift in the Mandalorian's features made Hugo instantly regret his question, but he answered anyway. "I haven't seen Amos in nearly seven years," he said in a grim tone, frowning eyes focussed on Hugo's now-empty caf cup. A bittersweet smile of irony tugged at his lips. "He hasn't spoken to me in twelve." Amaros heaved a sigh, shoulders slumping a little more than his military poise usually allowed. "He stayed with his mother after the divorce; between that and working for the NSF, he didn't have much time for his old man."

"He followed in your footsteps though," Hugo observed: a small consolation.

A breath of laughter escaped from Amaros. "Unfortunately, the Empire decided to meddle. He was among the conscripts from Naboo who were 'reassigned for Imperial training'. I kept an eye on him through the official channels, via my contacts, but -" He shrugged. "He managed to get out of the service somehow, but as far as I know he hasn't been back to Naboo."

"I can do some digging," Hugo offered, trying to quell his paternal sympathy. He knew all too well what it was like to lose a son in such a way, and once again felt reinforced in his resolve to ammend things with Cambrio.

Amaros shook his head. "When he wishes to be found, I'm sure I'll find out." A glimmer of pride crossed his expression. "He may not know he's descended from Mandalorian stock, but he certainly has a stubborn streak worthy of it."

"Unfortunately for the both of us," Hugo muttered, a hint of mirth and sarcasm in his words. "Stubbornness is a genetic characteristic that we've apparently passed on to our sons."

The Mandalorian grinned. "There's worse we could have passed on," he countered. "Your boys could have inherited your looks."

"Looked in a mirror lately?" the hunter retorted, mock venom in his words. "Smells like the only women that find you attractive lately are those cows you farm."

A shrug. "Beats cracking off in your bunk for twenty years," he shot back with a sly smile. The expression faltered slightly as his gaze fell on Hugo's fingers. "You're still wearing your wedding band?"

Hugo winced. "I don't know she's dead," he explained, a hint of a shrug on his shoulders. "Sanctity of marriage, and all that."

"I would have thought that attempted murder was grounds for separation."

"Yeah, well..." A sigh slumped Hugo's frame, but with a force of will he squared his shoulders, and dragged himself to his feet. "That's why thinking is my speciality," he quipped, trying to offer a reassuring smile. "Come on; lets get Elroy and the girl to the starport, so we can find an excuse to make use of yours."

Amaros' expression brightened. "I'll fetch my guns."

Vertical City, Nar Shaddaa

"I really have to hand it to you," Amaros muttered, as the duo stepped out of the Coromon's main hatch, and onto the landing pad. "Your source is a genius. Who'd have thought we'd find a fugitive criminal on Nar Sha-fucking-dar?"

Hugo shot back a glare, but said nothing. His skepticism was hardly unjustified, and while the name of a planet did narrow down the proverbial haystack in which they were searching for their needle, it still remained astranomically large. There was every chance that, even during the few days spent in transit between Naboo and here, their target may have headed off-world. But Hugo trusted his source, and more specifically his source's contacts within Imperial Intelligence, and the Crime Syndicates. It had taken her four separate recorded aliases to get there, but she had come to Nar Shaddaa. And, if their intel was to be believed, one of those aliases had registered to rent an appartment somewhere in Vertical City.

About to make a witty comeback, or a scathing insult, Hugo's words were interrupted by the arrival of a rotund and slightly aggitated Rodian. Words streamed out of his mouth in a chattering language that Hugo couldn't even begin to comprehend. It sounded like some of the random unintelligable noises that Cambrio had made as a child, and for a moment Hugo considered the possibility that his son might have in fact been some kind of child linguistic prodigy. Then his ears snagged a few words that he vaguely recognised. "I don't speak Hutt," he stated, plainly. His head jerked towards Amaros. "He speaks blaster."

The Rodian's big, creepy, jet-black eyes widened. "A thousand apologies!" he almost shrieked; Hugo wondered if indecipherable Hutt was the lesser of the two auditory evils in this case. "And as many greetings to you both. I am Zuri; and pleased I am to accomodate your vessel in my place of starship storage."

Hugo offered the best smile he could muster, given the circumstances. "I transmitted my account details to your secretary on our approach. I trust everything is in order?"

Zuri nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes - the payment contract is already in place. With the passing of each planetary rotation, the agreed sum of Republic credits will be subtracted from your account, Mister Aldrete."

Amaros' eyes shot to Hugo, an eyebrow threatening to rise in confusion. Hugo offered an almost imperceptable shake of his head; an unspoken 'ask later' instruction. His attention returned to the Rodian, who seemed oblivious of the implications of their non-vocal exchange. Zuri mouthparts twisted into what Hugo hoped was his approximation of a reassuring smile. "So there is no problem then," Hugo stated slowly, urging for an explanation of the Rodian's continued presence. Even if their quarry had appeared to have settled, time was still of the essence.

"No problem," Zuri replied, continuing with his creepy smile attempt. "I am merely -" He glanced away, apparently searching for the appropriate term in Basic. "Meeting and greeting."

It took a tremendous force of will for Hugo to bite down any sort of incensed knee-jerk response to that. Instead, he pressed an exaggerated smile onto his features. "We are pleased to make your aquaintance as well." Hugo glanced at Amaros; offered him an elbow nudge in the ribs to encourage him. The Mandalorian's efforts at a smile were somewhat less, but at least it was enough to take the edge off his usual grimace. Satisfied, he turned back to Zuri. "I am afraid however that my associate and I have an urgent business arrangement, and we are in danger of being late."

"Of course," Zuri offered, happily. "Please be enjoying your stay on Nar Shaddaa!"

Hugo didn't wait to offer further pleasantries, in case his reflexes decided that his fist was better qualified than his mouth at delivering such a message. His brain was already threatening an ache in response to the seemingly random undulation of the Rodian's sing-song tone, and the blunders of grammar made it almost as nerve-wracking an experience as when Hugo had been ordered to report directly to Jedi Master Yoda. Almost, because he was fairly certain that Zuri's ability to tear him asunder with a mere thought was somewhat less than Yoda's.

Leading the way swiftly but calmly along the spine that connected the circular landing pad, Hugo watched as a cluster of Verpine technicians swarmed out of a nearby building, no doubt preparing to manually transfer the Coromon from the landing platform to the sealed hangar that had made Zuri's such an attractive choice of landing location. It was perhaps paranoia, but the last time he had visited Nar Shaddaa, he had been involved in a speeder chase. Somewhat more skilled at piloting than his target had been, he had watched as the individual in question ploughed into a landing platform very much like this one, causing thousands of credits of damage, and completely obliterating the landed craft. It might cost more, and come with an annoying concierge, but at least he could rest assured that his precious Coromon would be safe in Zuri's charge.

As they cleared earshot, the question almost exploded out of Amaros. "Mister Aldrete?"

Hugo shrugged, not allowing his pace to falter. "Agrippa Aldrete - the Senator for Alderaan who preceeded Bail Antilles."

Completely disatisfied by that answer, Amaros blinked. "Why does the Rodian think you are Agrippa Aldrete."

"He doesn't." He paused for a beat. "The Corellian Banking Corporation does."

It took a moment for that to process, and then realisation flashed on Amaros' face. "Ah, right."

The cantina was crowded. Amaros wasn't even sure why they were there. Hugo had said something about meeting a contact, but given their performance so far, that hardly filled the Mandalorian with confidence. From what he could understand - admittedly because he had asked insufficient questions, rather than because of a lack of intelligence - Hugo and he had travelled to Nar Shaddaa based on information that may or may not have been accurate, because someone Hugo knew said that someone they knew might know where the person they were looking for was. Maybe. Hopefully, there were a few more duracrete facts in there somewhere; but Amaros was determined not to worry. This was the first time he'd been off Naboo in years, and the first time in almost as long that he'd been permitted to discharge his blaster in the direction of something that might possibly fire back. As far as he was concerned, this was the best vacation ever.

Hugo had insisted that he do the talking. By unspoken assumption, Amaros decided that he was thus relegated to the role of being silently threatening, which was a role that he felt himself born for. As Hugo led them on a meandering course through the crowded cantina, Amaros selected patrons at random, and fired threatening looks in their directions. Some bristled. Some glared back. Some glanced or shied away. One actually made a small noise. Amaros decided that one was his favourite. He made a note of the individual's position and appearence, just in case Hugo provided the opportunity for them to wander over in that direction, and threaten him further. I miss my old job, he mused, remembering back to the days when he'd volunteered as a law enforcement officer on Naboo, and had spent most of his days looming ominously in the direction of youths to discourage them from doing anything illicit or illegal.

His guide stopped, and Amaros decided it was best to start paying attention to the contents of the booth they had arrived at. Smoke lingered in the air; he took note of which thugs were responsible for its creation, as their deminished lung capacity would provide a potential advantage should this meeting become any more physical. He also scanned casually for weapons. The fact that they were displayed in such plain sight not only gave clues to the apparent confidence of these men, but also implied that they were merely the tip of the iceberg: any thug worth his salt wore a nice, big, obvious weapon to distract attention away from the various others concealed about his person. Why pay attention to where other weapons might be, when there were already several in plain sight, right? It was an old trick, probably concieved before 'the book' was even written. You'd be surprised how many of the unsavoury types that drifted through Naboo relied upon it, though. Thwarting such individuals was another part of his old job that Amaros had a certain longing for. The last time he'd discovered a concealed item, it had been an unexpected pregnant shaak, and he'd wound up with a new calf.

Amaros identified the leader amongst the group before he even spoke. It wasn't hard to tell which one was in charge: the strange decision to wear tinted lenses in a dimly lit bar was the first implication of a person posessing a little too much arrogance; the air of smug superiority was another. Further reinforcing his poor choice in facial wear, the man had to peer over the top in order to get a good look at the arriving duo. "Hugo Montegue," he said, in an accent that Amaros couldn't quite place; though he tried hard to conceal it, his efforts couldn't stop Amaros from spotting his slight surprise at Hugo's presence. The Mandalorian wondered what the significance of that might be.

"Atton Kira," Hugo replied simply, offering a nod of greeting towards the speaker. He threw a casual gesture towards Amaros. "My associate; his name is Amos Iakona."

A frown formed across Kira's features. He leaned closer, regarding Amaros with intregue and, unless the Mandalorian was very much mistaken, perhaps a glimpse of recognition. That unnerved him slightly, but Kira did nothing to expand upon whatever that glimmer might have represented. "Is he now?" was all he asked, his gaze lingering for a few moments longer before he retreated into his seat, and shunted the lenses back up the bridge of his nose.

Yeah, Amaros thought to himself, a slight reluctant hint of grudging respect forming in his mind. This guy's arrogance routine is pretty well polished.

"You know why we're here," Hugo stated. That he'd cut the superfluous pleasantries and lept directly to the heart of the matter pleased Amaros no end. They weren't called superfluous pleasantries for no reason. There was in fact a very good reason. Namely their superfluous nature. Which made the nomenclature particularly apt. Fortunately, Hugo continued speaking before Amaros' mind was permitted to continue trundling down that particular train of thought. "My sources inform me that you have the address I'm looking for."

Kira drew in a breath, an irritating expression of mock puzzlement forming on his features. The respect that had been threatening to form exploded with annoyance, and were it not for a timely and subtle arm pressed casually across his middle, Amaros might have surrendered to his urges to unleash violence in Kira's general direction. The reminder that they were here for a reason - namely to exact revenge on behalf of that floppy-haired, girly-looking kid of Hugo's stayed the hand that was itching to reach for his blaster. He settled instead for a repeat of his earlier threat-scowl, this time aimed squarely at Kira.

The information broker merely smiled in response. That was annoying. And also impressive. And slightly cool. Damn him and his enviable air of untouchability. Amaros cound understand what had won over the gun hands seated around him. Hell, even he was feeling attracted to the possibility of being in this guy's employ. Hopefully Hugo would do something badass soon, or better yet, let him shoot someone and thus balance things out.

"I have your information," Kira said eventually. Smugness tugged his lips into a smile. "But it's gonna cost ya."

In a motion that was so fast it was barely perceptible, two pistols apperated into Hugo's hands, snapping off stereo shots, one into each of Kira's hired thugs. Though the blasters were clearly set to stun, the weapons had been aimed direct at their unshielded faces, and thus sent a direct dose of incapacitating energy to their brains, sapping their consciousness so they didn't have to suffer the unenviable sensation of paralysis that a shot to the extremities might have caused. Their bodies slumped in various directions. Calmly, Hugo holstered his weapons, and settled himself down on a vacant stool. "Excellent," he said with a flash of smile. "Lets negotiate."

Amaros' smile was more of a grin. Yeah. There we go.

"This is as far away from where we landed as its possible to get without losing the ability to breathe."

Hugo's facial muscles surrendered, his expression falling into tired neutrality. "Yes, I know."

"Seriously." Amaros held up a fist, and gestured at various parts of it. "This is where we landed. This is where we're going. Its the other kriffing side."

His jaw clamped shut, but words still managed to filter through. "I know that too."

"It took us three hours on a sub-orbital shuttle to get here -"

Hugo rounded, a tense edge creeping into his voice. "The Rodian charges by the day, alright? That landing contract is good for another fifteen hours."

"How much did the landing contract cost?" Amaros prompted.

"That doesn't -"

"How about the tickets for the sub-orbital?"

"- that's not -"

"And the mass transit to and from the starport? And lunch? Not to mention the fact that we've only got as many guns as we could carry -"

"Alright!" Hugo snapped, volume rising sharply. "Next time we're hunting someone on Nar Shaddaa, we'll bring the fucking -"

Despite his efforts at self-control, Amaros couldn't fight the smirk from his face. Hugo's eyes narrowed, seething internally at having been wound up so effectively. "Shut up, shaak-shyte," he muttered, glaring in the Mandalorian's direction, "Before I blaster that damned grin off your face."

The two continued walking, but Amaros couldn't help a brief, self-satisfied chuckle. Determined not to allow his humiliation to continue, Hugo deflected attention back to the matter at hand. "Lets go over the plan again," he insisted. "First we -"

"Blow the door. Then you go in. Then I go in. I shoot anything that moves, which isn't you." Amaros placed a hand on Hugo's shoulder; even through his gloves, he could feel the knot of tension forming in the other man's muscles. "We've got it covered. Don't worry."

"This bitch tried to kill my son," Hugo countered, muscles in his jaw bunching. "He wouldn't even have been in this mess if it wasn't for me frakking up things between us, and driving him away."

Amaros ground to a halt. "Driving him away?" His eyebrow quirked in disbelief. "We're talking about Cambrio, right? That smug-ass brat kid of yours?"

Hugo's eyes narrowed. "Yes."

"The one who keeps asking irritating questions, is constantly whining, and wouldn't know to shut up if someone had a blaster aimed at his face?"

"Yes..."

"You drove him away? He left of his own accord? You didn't... banish him?" Amaros let out a low whistle. "Hugo, my friend: your patience is the stuff of legend."

Hugo rolled his eyes, and sighed, spurring them back into motion again. "I should probably shoot you for ragging on my kid like that."

Amaros shrugged. "Come on. He is an annoying son of a bitch."

"Fuck you, Amaros," Hugo muttered. "I'm no bitch."

"I meant your ex-wife."

"Ah." Hugo paused. "Touché."

* * *

The explosion ripped through the guts of the building, shards of durasteel and duracrete torn from the walls and hurled in every direction. The concussive force sent air rushing in the explosion's wake, the compression conjuring a roar. Noise-cancelling devices jammed into each ear however, Hugo and Amaros heard only blissful silence. "Clear," Amaros' voice intoned calmly, the subvocal microphone strapped to his throat translating the words into a comlink signal, which played back through a vibration speaker pressed against Hugo's jaw. Neither man understood the specifics of the technology, trusting instead in the mere fact that it functioned at all.

Responding to the instruction, Hugo stepped out from his concealed position a few paces around the corner. His eyes drunk in the details of the scene: debris was still tumbling groundward, the force of gravity only just succeeding in countering the acceleration of the explosion; Amaros crouched low, rifle thrust around the corner as a scope-mounted camera fed footage to a video eyepiece. Hugo's footsteps were silent, due to years of training making it second nature, rather than any genuine attempt at stealth in the wake of such a volumous herald to their arrival. A pair of heavy blasters were held ready, hands in an almost Teras Kasi pose as he advanced towards the shattered hole where the doorway had once been. He felt a slight pang of remorse towards the person who would be forced to pay for the repairs; then he remembered that he was about to put a few kilowatts of ionised plasma into her chest, which would likely offset most of her fiscal concerns.

He sensed Amaros moving into step beside him as he approached the entrance they had forged. The Mandalorian's hand rose in silence, and Hugo came to a halt; seconds later the hand returned, the familiar orb of a frag grenade clutched in its fingers. Hugo offered a curt nod, and then glanced away; Amaros tossed the explosive forward and did the same. A moment passed before Hugo felt the heat of the blast on the back of his neck; another before he risked turning back in that direction, and confronting the residual glare. Internal walls were as shattered as the external one had been, but no matter: nothing was going to survive this encounter long enough to care.

Amaros led the way this time, gun camera giving him a slight advantage in the smoke-filled corridor. Hugo followed, mind running through the floor plan they had scrutinised en route. A few more paces brought him to a door; as he had at Cambrio's appartment, he dropped to a knee and, liberating his hands of blasters for a moment, set about engaging the lock and sealing the room, until the duo had swept the open spaces. An indicator on the door turned red; Hugo grabbed his blasters, and rose.

The Mandalorian was a few metres away; Hugo could just make out his silhouette through the haze. He quickened his pace slightly, but found the distance closing more rapidly than he had expected. Amaros was stationary. "Problem?" Hugo asked, subvocals detecting and transmitting the words.

"This door isn't meant to be here." The synthetic sound in Hugo's ear failed to convey all of the emotions that no doubt accompanied that revelation.

"What?"

Amaros turned, fixing Hugo with a knowing look. "On the blueprints. This wasn't here."

Hugo prepared a response, but before it lept from his tongue he saw Amaros tense, rifle snapping around. Hugo peered, but his eyes couldn't pick out whatever the Mandalorian's technologically enhanced vision had detected. He readied his own blasters just in case, but need not have bothered: something came quickly into focus, tumbling through the air. Their communications technology had time to transmit one last sentiment before the grenade exploded.

"Fuck."

Hugo groaned as consciousness returned. His vision swam, and nausia bubbled inside him. Given how sluggish his limbs felt, he surmised the residual effects of a stun grenade before he even remembered having seen one. His head slumped back against the wall. There were pros and cons to this; however, 'being alive' didn't seem sufficient to make up for the sensation just now.

"Welcome back to the land of the conscious, Mister Montegue."

His eyes snapped open at the sound of that voice; the same one that had threatened him at rifle-point back on Junction. He willed energy into his limbs and tried to stand, only to find himself bound. His eyes locked on the speaker, willing blaster bolts to leap from them regardless, or for some latant Force powers to manifest. Some of that telekinesis stuff would be pretty useful about now. Or maybe that lightning stuff that Count Dooku was rumoured to have back in the Clone Wars. His lips curled in preparation for a snarl, but the sound came from beside him. He glanced across to Amaros, already alert and conscious. A wince sparked in his mind at the potential for insult at having been slower to awaken after the blast, but now was hardly the time to worry about that. He sought out his comrade's eyes. "His armour is Mandalorian," Amaros explained.

Hugo looked again, but aside from a few thematic similarities, he couldn't see any kind of comparison to the attire he'd seen Amaros wear before. In fact, it seemed more akin to a blue-toned version of what he'd seen the Emperor's Red Guards wearing back when he'd served the Senate Commandos. A frown formed on his brow; his facial muscles muttered their reluctance. "You sure?"

Amaros nodded. "He's a few thousand years behind the fashion trends, mind. An antique, most likely; he's probably not even a real Mandalorian."

"Very astute, Mister Iakona - or should I say, Amaros Koine?"

That voice was different, but just as familiar. Hugo strained even harder against his restraints. "Kira," he growled, disgusted and frustrated at himself for blundering so blindly into this situation. "You double-crossing son of my ex-wife." In spite of their situation, Amaros managed a slight chuckle at that. Hugo wrapped his mind around that mirth, and used it to buoy his spirits. Anything to cultivate that extra shred of motivation.

Kira's expression was appologetic, but no less smug than usual. "Just business, I'm afraid." He paced about the room, idly waving a weapon in one hand. One of his blasters, Hugo observed. That only stoked his anger further. "Y'know, its kinda funny, when you think about it." Kira's pace faltered, fingers reaching to his eyes, and plucking away the glasses. Hugo caught a wiff of his piercing stare, and decided he preferred it when those eyes were hidden. He matched it with a glare of his own, but Kira didn't allow him the satisfaction of maintaining it. "I acted as the third party that hired Chir'daki here to hunt you down." He smiled, and chuckled lightly. "Imagine my surprise when y'came waltzin' up to my table."

"Imagine your surprise when I run a vibroblade across your throat and repaint my armour with arterial spray," Amaros muttered darkly.

"Now, now," Kira countered, smugly, "We're all grown-ups here. Y'blundered into that trap of mine; its only fair that y'get captured. The ebb and flow of destiny, or the force, or some shyte like that."

Hugo felt his will slipping, wheels spinning as his prospects of escape tumbled down a scree slope in his mind. "Listen - the girl we're after. The woman. She's dangerous. She's not what she appears to be. She's -"

"- a Skinwalker?" Even Amaros was stunned into total silence by that statement. Kira peered at them both, as if surprised that they were surprised. "What, you thought your job was hard? We picked her up as soon as the intel came our way. Gave us a bit of a fright - tried to chew on one of my mercenaries, actually. But we put her down. Well, subdued her. She'll fetch a decent price with the right buyer."

His jaw worked, but Hugo's voice didn't produce any sound. "You can't -"

"I can't what?" Kira stared back incredulously. "Sell her? Of course I can frakkin' sell her. This is Nar Shaddaa: central hub of th' galactic slave trade. The Hutts can find I buyer for anythin', if y'offer them a big enough percentage. Hell -" His lips curled into a sinister smile. "There's even someone in the market t'buy themselves their own personal pet Bounty Hunter, isn't there, Mister Montegue?"

Amaros chose to take up the reins of conversation, while Hugo was left to seethe in silence. "Yeah," he grunted. "Since you seem to think you know so much, how about you tell us who it is that wants Montegue here so much? And how much are they offering? Maybe we can match it."

"I highly doubt that, Mister Koine." He shrugged, his statement purely matter-of-fact. "I doubt either of you have the capital to win in a bidding game against the Galactic Empire."

Hugo's heart sank. At worst, he'd expected a Hutt. Or maybe one of the Crime Syndicates. If they wanted him alive, it was for a reason. Debts they wanted paid, maybe. Revenge they wanted to exact in person. That made for opportunities. That left options. Those sorts of people were willing to let their agendas slip by, if you could apply the right kind of pressure. And hell, Hugo was half-hoping that his family would get it into their heads to mount some sort of daring rescue. But against the Empire? If they wanted him, no amount of credits would get him back. And as well as he'd trained his sons, he doubted they would be a match for the legion Stormtroopers that the Imperials had at their disposal.

Kira turned to Chir'daki, and issued his final instructions. "Stun 'em both," he ordered. "I'll send men to collect 'em within the hour."

"And my fee?" Chir'daki countered.

Kira sighed, slipping the tinted lenses back over his eyes. "Yes," he muttered, scratching at his eyebrow. "They'll bring your money as well." He shook his head, sighed again. "Frakkin' bounty hunters," he mumbled, as he wandered out of the room.

Moving silently, Chir'daki the not-necessarily-Mandalorian advanced towards them, and unholstered a blaster from his hip. Resignation set in, and Hugo let his head loll to one side. "I guess I owe you one," he muttered; his final words to Amaros.

"Yeah," the real Mandalorian replied. "You really do."

Epilogue

The room was white; blindingly so. For the life of him, he couldn't pinpoint the source. It was if the very walls and floors were glowing with internal luminance, yet beneath his bare feet the tiles felt cold and ceramic.

It wasn't just his feet that were bare; they'd stripped him of his clothes early on, right before the onslaught of heat and cold; before they'd used their machines to idly flick on and off every pain receptor in his body. They hadn't even bothered to ask any questions. Information clearly wasn't their aim.

He had no concept of the passage of time. The light didn't wax or wane; he wasn't sure if he'd been here more minutes, or hours. No one had brought food yet, which implied that it was less than days, but frankly he wouldn't be surprised to learn that the rules governing the treatment of prisoners had been abolished along with just about every other freedom and liberty of the Galactic Republic.

An age passed. He thought of his sons. Thought of Elroy. Thought of Amoran. Hell, he even thought of Nora's kid, Jo. Wondered if they were safe. Wondered if they were coping. Vittore would no doubt want to hatch a plan to save him, once he figured out that he was missing. Maybe even drag Victor out of retirement. Amaros would probably try to get the message out, if and when he'd managed to get free of whatever fate Atton Kira had selected for him.

Hope, a voice whispered in his mind. You'll need that. Hang on to it.

The doors hissed, cutting off whatever thoughts were ambling through Hugo's mind at the time: the light and the white made it hard to concentrate, and he forgot what had been in his mind almost the instant it passed. No matter. Chances were he'd have pleanty of time to think everything over again.

A figure appeared in the doorway; clad in black, like a walking shadow. The sudden appearence of something that didn't radiate with solar brightness was almost as blinding as the room itself; his eyes conjured vague shapes that held the doorway's form whenever he glanced away. The figure - a woman, though his eyes had trouble discerning any more than that - stepped forward a few paces. He forced himself not to shy away. Intimidation tactics. That was what she wanted. He peered up instead, steadfast, searching out her eyes. He regretted it almost immediately: the vivid colour of them pierced through his mind, and established a foothold in his subconscious, ready to haunt his dreams whenever he found a way to sleep.

"Who are you?" his voice sounded cracked and broken, tired from lack of use. He'd probably been here longer than he realised, then. "What do you want with me."

He couldn't be sure, vision impared as it was by the light, but it almost looked as if the woman smiled. "No," she said, her voice as chilling as her eyes. "You don't get to know that yet."

Something fell from her hands, tossed casually into his lap. A robe; loose-woven, woolen, and poorly made, but clothing none the less. She retreated, turning smartly and marching away. "Bring him," she commanded; as she departed, more shadows entered the room, tall and strong this time. They seized his arms, and dragged him to his feet. He tried to cling on to the modicome of modesty that the gift of clothes promised, but they tore it from his fingers, and tossed it into a corner of the room, there to await his return.

Something sharp pinched at his neck. A needle. Chemicals. Drugs. The world turned vague, swimming around him. And as his mind faded into nothingness, his mind had time to transmit one last sentiment before unconsciousness consumed him.

Fuck.