#1: Stuck in the Middle With You

[Dai]

2 years and 1 months AE...

Stuck in the Middle With You


Metal and handlebars flew by. Eyes shot over. Dai froze. Smoke lifted from the blaster bolt hole in his head. Blood did too. He lay fallen on the sail barge. Diktat Daclif Gallamby was shot. Dai had watched him get hit. He saw the swooper slash pass. He recalled the blaster being pulled from his holster. He stared as the assassin turned at the coming trees, splashing swamp water, glaring back at him. And he gapped while his heartbeat skipped and the killer pulled his trigger finger back. Dai knew the fault was his own, at least partly. Whether he liked it or not, Dai was an accomplice in the crime. Petrified, he could have moved to defend, or even jump in the way. That was his job. Adorn with the standard beige and red CorSec uniform, and a carbine, he could do damage. He could’ve done something.

Bystanders and spectators yelled and screeched. Women cried. Men hugged and protected, snarling at the track. Dust, mire and smog trailed behind the swoops as they sped pass. Officers shoved Dai aside.

“Medics! Medics!! We need a medic! ASAP!” Dai could faintly hear the Captain. His heartbeat was too loud. Terrified, he gulped. Dai knew what he needed to do. He knew what he had to do.

Pushing a chair out the way, he dashed through the barge. Wary, his eyes darted with the racers. A gnarl fastened itself on his lips. After a deep breath, a blink, and a spit, he heaved himself overboard. The former actor fell, pouncing as he was taught on Eshan by the Echani. An unexpected racer went flying, splashing into the bog. Dai’s foot pressed the pedal. No speed was lost.

Behind him there was the resound of the crowd. Cheers, roars and complaints spilled over into his ears, growing distant as his gloves tighten over the handlebars control. Warped and blurred trees surrounded him as he flashed by. For a second, just a millisecond, he wondered how he had gotten himself into such a mess.

He was moving fast.

He was moving uncertain.

Corellia was his homeworld. Coronet was his birthplace. Agrilat Swamp Circuit was just around the bin to him. Anytime he could get away as a child, he was on a swoop, racing. Nothing else could be easier. So, why was he sweating? Beads of it trickled down his face like TIE Fighters. The knot in his stomach hadn’t unwound. Even his heartbeat had managed to speed up. Eyes wide, he saw trees. Rubbish zipped overhead.

He ducked.

He jerked.

An old tree watched him fly on. Sprays of slush gushed from underneath. Dai tucked himself closer, his eyes diverting. Closing in was another raging engine. To be lapped in a race he had no stake in winning meant nothing. However, to be lapped in a race he needed to catch up with some far up ahead was a reminder. The speedometer read 550 km/hr – he was riding too slowly – he had to speed up.


…Foosh!!

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Nubia City, Nubia


Throngs of wild grins and slimy, scum bustled in the parking lot by their swoops. All the gals had on the boy’s jackets. They were the Fallen Gundark swoop gang, and every weekend they gathered at the bar & grill for laughs. Some were stuffed inside this night, watching the circuit. One of the fresh faces to the gang was 17 year old orphan named Scott Hydian. Everybody called him “Hyperroute” because his temper. Brown hair, peach-fuzz, he was the calmest out of the posse.

“Hyper! Did you check out Kimmi’s new paint job? Gonzo, man…gonzo.” One of the other rookies, “Grease”, had a thing for Kimmi Chyler (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Kimmi_Chyler). Ever since he and Scott had met, the two had been inseparable. They roomed together at the orphanage, where Grease put up posters of the famous swooper everywhere. Somehow, because Grease was a bit of a techie, he had reimaged the posters and strips some clothes off.

“You know you aren’t looking at her paint job.”

The two laughed. Grease leaned over the bar, sliding between a Toydarian. “Can I get a Fizz, please?”

Scott looked up at the flat screen. Holocams circled the Corellian swamps. Each acceleration caused another zoom, flash, or change in perspective. No part of the race was lost, there were no blind spots. The visual were so crisp, Hyper almost swore a few times he was there, and so did everyone else in the cantina.

That’s why folks started ducking when a black and “Breaking News” was all there could be seen on the screen. Cans & glasses went flying. All momentarily, because when Atris Ordo came on the screen a few admiring whistles could be heard. Kimmi Chryler was an acquired taste. Rough around the edges, while Artis was one of those taste Scott had no want to get out of his mouth. Not that he’d ever taken a nibble, but he fantasized.

“This just in.” she began gravely. “You are looking at—obviously--a very disturbing live shot there. That is the Diktat, and we have unconfirmed reports this morning that someone has attempted an assassination on the Corellian ruler. HNN center right now has just beginning to work on this story. Obviously, calling all our sources and trying to find out what exactly what happened – but clearly, something, relatively devastating happening this afternoon there, on south end of Corellian in Agrilat Swamps. That is – once again – a picture of the Diktat after the attempt...”

Atris seemed stressed.

Scott did not. Watching, he sipped his ruby bliel. Others were wide eyed, gawking at the screen.

“I can’t believe this…”

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Moridebo District, Metellos

“I can’t believe this!!”

The shack rumbled with life. A middle age man with gray specks blotched throughout his head of hair gawped at the screen. Eyebrows up, wide eyed and stupefied, he stood on the top of his couch decked in a robe that smelled like the takeout dropped all over the floor. Next to him was a wife who had just walked in. Bags were in her arm as he stared with shame and astonishment at her over excited spouse. Thoughts circled in her mind about the forewarnings from her mother, but she hadn’t heeded them. In a groggy voice, she finally did: “What is wrong with you Archie?”

He said nothing. All he did was smack his lips, still in disbelief. Pointed at the screen, fizzing in and out from bad reception, he squinted his eyes. Shaking his head, he tried to pry his mind of the vision. It was all to no avail. With a perturbed leap, he scurried over to the feed, and smacked the screen two good times along the side. Somehow that did the job, because the reception came out clear. With a spark of intrigue from her wild, bizarre husband, the woman placed the bag down and took a seat in front of the TV on the couch. Bugs crawled under her feet, hurrying for the door.

“Do you see this Edith, do you see it?” Incredulous splendor opened his eyes as he craned his head back at his wife. “That kid, he just jumped over the barge – the idiot jumped over the barge!”

A kid, who looked no older than 16 years of age, waltzed in from the kitchen. He was fuzzy, skinny and dirty with a crowbar in his hand. Oil stained his hands and blotted rag dangled from his coverall pocket. A quizzical look was plastered to his face.

“Gramps, whatcha uhh….going on, huh?”

“Shh—Shut the frack up kid, and sit down.”

“You don’t gotta talk to Jay like that – he’s just here for help.”

“Edith. You shut your mouth too.” Archie dragged himself back to the couch, plopping down. Jay followed suite, sitting on the arm. They watched as an unnamed CorSec officer flew over board. The replay went over it twice. Jay closed his eyes and shook his head, “Betcha he’s getting a big raise.”

“Boy, that’s a hero.”

Jay had to nod at that. The news reporter did too. Somehow one of the journalist had gotten aboard the sail barge quickly enough to give the Breaking News. Jay was sure he had a butt crack in the middle of his chin, but the young mechanic wasn’t all too sure. Such a thing wasn’t out of the ordinary in a vast, diverse planet like Corellia, however few aliens got into positions of broadcasting – so he was sure the man was just plain funny looking.

“We are interrupting the Special Broadcast of the Diktat’s assassination with further information. I want to make you aware another breaking news coverage out of Agrilat Swamps of Corellia. Former child star, Dia Voo Juñ has jumped ov—“


…Foosh!!

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The two headed Triog announcer stared astounded from his box on the Sail Barge. Stuffed in the small quarters, holofeeds from the many cams popped around him. Alarming buzzes singed behind the two. Brothers attached by genetics, their cutting eyes watched as history unfolded. Speakless, for once, the English translator, going the name of Leed, perked in first after the momentary silence.


"Now that..." He paused, gulping. "That is what...What I call crowd participation."


His other head followed suite, translating in Huttese and the local languages with an equally grave tone.

[Dai]

Winds wisped, whistling gear head tunes of rambling engines and buzzing power cells. Tree branches bobbed back and forth under the sudden gust. Lady curves and brown, tied hair hugged the Flare-S tightly. Kimmi almost looked to be a part of the swoop. Focus gnarled her face and gritted her teeth. As leaves slapped in the breeze, she bent and ducked. Turns were used to her advantage. She accelerated with accuracy. At the key point, her toes coiled, her back foot pushed, and her back arched. Like a raven she soared through traffic of would-be victors, letting her trail and engine cackle on her behalf. Holocams struggled to keep up. Experience allowed her to taunt her competitors with slow starts. Darting out the gates, the lulled in the middle and were left to finish last. It was psychological. Kimmi knew many tricks, and she had plenty up her jacket sleeve. Enough to have beat Han Solo and Dengar in their hay, and anyone who else who dare test her track circuit record.

Even fresh face rookies who hopped in the race mid-stride.

She darted her head over as she sped pass. An eyebrow lifted. Her keen mind quizzed him. His stance on the bike was perfect and low. However, she noted his distraction. When behind, she had watched his acrobatic display to the original rider’s dismay, but was unfazed. On Lok she had seen worse from the fans. Old Mos Espa Arena Circuit was no better. Already he had nearly crash. His shrewdness and quick reflexes were all that save him.

Kimmi sucked her teeth.

She’d have to be wary of him.

Foot on the pedal, she pushed, her hands revving the engine. A haze of obstruction swept about her. Alongside trailed the barge-jumper, she could smell him. The turn had done him good, and his quick change in speed catapulted him up ahead. Clearly, he hadn’t recognized the danger inherited by close proximities in swoop racing. And obviously, she did. In a sweep, she bashed into his line of sight. A screech echoed behind her. Her tail caught a snag as his spikes jammed into the swoop. Sparks flew.

“Get the frell back,” she snapped back with disgust.

“..And miss the view?” He smiled.

What a pain in the…
-----
Nice ass.

Dai’s smirk was wily, as usual. Distractions weren’t always bad. Especially when stuck in the misty swamps. Fog rolled in as they got deeper in the forestry. Animals to the left and right struck curious poses. The vroom of engines was a peculiar sound, but Dai was use to it. Since he was young he had a taste for speed. On Coronet avenues, courts, boulevards and main streets he would leap on hover sleds with the other juvenile delinquents and see how much trouble he could rile up. Every day he riled up enough to have a hardy sleep. Strangely, though, he hadn’t slept for weeks, and at that moment he finally realized how much he was missing out.

“Ain’tcha getting tired of this?” He yelled.

“Yeah. I’m tired of bugs getting on my ride.” Kimmi revved her engine.

“Wasn’t talking about that,” he rolled his eyes, pushing forward, entangling their parts some more. “I’m not trying to win this thing, but there is a guy up there – up ahead, and that’s who I don’t want to win. So, tell you what, I’ll help you out, because I’m such a big, big fan.”

Feigning a plead with his hands clasped, he teased, but he was a little bit of an admirer. Since Dengar had crashed on his last run there weren’t many faces to root for beside Ms. Chyler. And she had a good face. That face didn’t show any emotion or mirth. More bratty annoyance than anything. After a bit more explaining though, Dai forced dull "yes" out of here. She wasn't excited about cohercing, but with her swoop tail in a bind there wasn't much else that could be done.

Twisting the handles, Dai fell back and fell in line at her side.

“You liked my jump, didn’t’cha? I know you were watching...”

“Oh brother…” She sighed. They shot off out the fog, and into the glare of Holocams. Kim lead. Dai trailed, not by far though.

Nice ass

"And stop looking at my butt, kid, or you'll be chewing bantha poo-doo for the next century in some remote planet in the Unknown." Foot on the gas, she blasted, going into a blur of metal. All he could do was laugh, and follow suite.



…Foosh!!

"Yes ma'am."

[Dai]

1 year and 11 months AE…

“Yes ma’am.”

Farced snobbery reeked in Dai’s tone. Also, the stench was in his stance. Oddly standing stout with his nose high enough to sniff a ronto’s butt, he cupped his hand affront and tried to restrain a mischievous snicker. The dimmed office hid the twitch in his lips. Although the blinds were open, only stars gleamed in the night’s sky. Indistinct chatter echoed from the streets. One sole janitorial droid could be heard clattering and cleaning on the floor below. All was at rest, beside Dai and his newly pressed CorSec uniform.

“This is not a joke.” Olivia’s sternness could be heard as she glowed from the holopad. Although she was across the galaxy, she still rattled him. Fresh in his memories was the battered beating, and torture. They would never leave his mind. “The Imperial Liaison is the only reason we’re able to go in covert in the CorSec. The importance of this mission is bigger than you or me. Over the last month I’ve gone over again, and ag—“

“I know, I know. I got it. I handle the assassin, get the data, and retrieve the device from the Diktat’s office. I got it. I get it. Can you get o—“

“If you got it then why have you not kept a low profile? More than once I’ve been told of your off-duty antics. Is mid-night binges at the casinos, boys night outs that end in throwing up at tattoo parlors, brothel visits, fights at Fel Swoop and living in the Blue Sector keeping a low-profile? Is that how a Good Samaritan lives?”

All he could offer for a reply was a blasé shrug and cheerful smile. Insubordination could’ve been his middle name if CorSec cared. Most of the Majors were out there with him half the time. Just the Imperial Liaison, who seemed to have something lodge in his rear, had a problem with his behavior. Each day he reported to him with another scornful banter to hear. Then he’d walk impishly out the liaison’s office; deride him with the coworkers and go on to the same thing next happy hour. Corellians didn’t care either. Albeit most of his file of service was manufactured, or exaggerated (i.e age, height, weight, etc.), by the Empire for his special case, he actually earned the Corellian Bloodstripe on his pants.

How?

Few knew. Much of the stories were shrouded in rumors. Dai only answered the question when he was drunk. Even then though, all anybody could make out between his drunken mumbling was that the back-story involved a movie. Either way, he garnered a semblance of respect with Coronet’s citizens. If it wasn’t his celebrity or his storied, rewarded past, there was the fact he was keeping the good people safe. So, Dai had a hard time understanding why the minority of stiffs found the need to jump down his throat.

“Is that all, ma’am?”

“Cut with the attitude.”

“What attitude?”

She shook her head. Frustration, anxiety, aggression were good words to describe the images circling in Olivia’s thought bubble. Long ago she had her doubts. The character analysis of Dai did no detail any heroic qualities. He was an anomaly; there was star quality to him. Her superiors saw promise in his past. Over the career that spanned from his childhood to teen years he had captured a following that amass the target. In a way, he was the perfect market ploy. However, all things could lose their value when they began to over-estimate their purpose.

Olivia began thinking of ways of eliminating him; her eyes close head down, frowning.

“Ok, ok,” he began. “I’ll cut it out. Just know I’ve got this under control.”

“Do not forget the other parts to this operation either…”

“Yeah,” he said somberly.

His head lowered. Dai had pressures. Beside the strict micro-managing, there was the reality of the puppet strings she on him. Friendships were in the balances. Lives were in the hour glass, and the time was ticking. Back on his homeworld, there were plenty of reminders of how alone he was without his espoused family, the band. Not once had he been offered a sighting of them through the holoconference. They could be mining in Kessel for all he knew. Or worse, there was no telling.

All he had was faith to work with. Dai had a lot of that. Most of his career worked on that steam. Yet, the thoughts drained him. The only family he had been caged somewhere, waiting on him to do something. Anything. And he’d do it.

“Over and out,” he grumbled dully. Heavy hands slapped the holopad. Shut off, the visuals crinkled away in a static. A sigh slipped out of his deep lungs. He cleared his throat, looking around. An imaginary load fell on his shoulders, and his awkward mock of a militant stand hunkered into a barbaric slump. Plopped against the desk, he crossed his arms and leaned. Searchingly, his eyes swayed off to the ceiling.
For a moment, he just stared, wondering.

Kon-Kon!!
Kon-Kon!!

Dai’s attention shifted, as he did, uncomfortably. Through the door’s window he spotted the source of the sound. The janitor droid wanted to come in. One last pitiful sigh was let out, and he sportingly hopped back a stand, shook off the tension and waltz to the door confidently. Swinging it open, he casually gesture for the droid to come in.

“Sir, I am here for the maintenance. It will only take a minute.” Dai didn’t like the deep timbre of the droid’s voice. It unnerved him, forcing a momentary grimace on his face. Then, quickly he nodded with a fake smile.

“I was heading out anyway.” And so he was. Grabbing up his jacket, he swept through the desks and to the lift. With a click, he sprawled out on the rail and waited as he went down. Surely the night wasn’t too young. There was plenty to be done, and undone in the name of fun. Especially when the calm sentiments of jizz-wail was musing from the speakers on the way down to the first floor; all sorts of amusing ideas came to mind. In between the cords and drums, and Dai bobbing his head to the beat, he counted down the floors.


3…


2…



1…






..Ding!!


“Greetings, e chu ta!”

“Gimme a break…”

[Dai]

2 Years and 1 Months A.E...

Barges sprinkled throughout the track. Fans were everywhere. Screams, yells and insults rumbled along with the racers engines, but they could not be distracted. Switching attention could mean a lost. Not only on the circuit, but in life; the races were dangerous. Already one racer was splashing in the swamps from his swoop being hijacked. Sadly, he would be alone in turmoil. More would fall in the chase. A cunning Rodian swept between the brushes. Leaves and debris circled behind. Atop the trees hunched onlookers. Menacing, dark eyed stares were shrouded in mismatched armor and guises, as whispers trailed behind.

Through the darkness of the trees arose blasters. Sunlight reached the branches and unveiled the insignias.

Shots flew. The Rodian moved swiftly. He had to move quickly, up ahead trailed Dai and Kimmi. From the scanners, he was only fifth in the race. One quick move would earn him a prize. Jolting to the side, the hull of his swoop felt the brunt of the blast. Rattling from the shot, he decelerated for balance. It was to no avail. More blast came. Explosions roared around him as grenades trumped the distance he created. For whatever reason, they had targeted him.

------

“Seems the Aa'kuan don’t have a thing for swoops.” Leed Annodue chirped in. The Troig’s other head translated before they trailed into laughter. Up in the announcer box on the barge, they watched like others, from the holofeeds.

------

Thoughts began to run through the young racer’s mind. The most prominent were the claims of the Human League in the Coronet streets.

Contracts had been put out on many of the alien racers. Xenophobia was rampant on the planet. All the great Corellian were human. Kimmi was human. Solo was human. Bel Ibis was human. The planet never praised their brethren, raised and bred in the same struggles, if not more. That was why he wanted to win, but they’d deny him that for their simple spite.

His snot shot up in despise, while he turned about. Hot on his tail was another: a dug with an appetite for spices. Before the race the Rodian had seen him inhaling spices. Said it was for enhancing his performance. The Rodian loathed such dishonorable behavior, but he said nothing. Instead he preferred to solve the trouble on the track. Yet, he had to focus more on his safety.

Turning his head back around, he leaned into his swoop. Eruptions still roared about as the Aa'kuan shot from the safety of their trees. Sniper blast banked off his left-side shields. He maneuvered to the right, inclining for a sharp turn. The Dug followed suite, cutting the distance, pushing on the accelerator.

Their feet pressed the accelerator at the same time, their back engines rippling with fire. Torching through the fen, drenched in the splattering slough, the Rodian racer desperately evaded the flying grenades. His bulbous eyes were all the wider, wary of any of their attempts. Above him were more branches, cloaked in darkness. Pinch shots trickled down, missing. He danced between the tries.

The engine screeched as his eyes widen. A C-22 fragmentation grenade dropped slowly from the heavens in front of him.

“Frack…”


...BOOM!!!


------


“There goes Wicked Wald. At least he went out in a bang…?”


The crowd laughed. Violence was apart of the sport. Nobody was cheering for the Rodian anyway. Everybody rather the Dug pass him up. Some even whispered he was the cousin to the fame Sebulba. More than likely a lie to generate interest by his P.R team, but some of the fans bought into it.


“And there goes Nelrix, catching up to the pack!”


------


“Rot.”


Dai scowled at the blast over his shoulder. Roars of the explosion ricocheted through the track. Forced winds burst down the trail, throwing debris every which way. Shying away, he turned his head back to Kim. She was concentrated. Her attention hadn’t deviated a bit. Winning was her only priority. Everything else promised was just to her benefit, which was admirable. If the race was a game of pazaak, Dai would have a hard time pulling her card. He grinned.


“Hit those controls, boy, you’re lagging,” she ordered.


“Hmph!”


The former holovid star twisted the handle bars, redistributing the energy cells. In a hushed, burst, the cooled engine heated with resurged power, jolting him ahead. Tugging the swoop to the side, he curved the corner at Kim’s side. She glanced. A smirk rolled on his lips, but his focus stayed ahead. Even though he bet his lost, there was still a competitive edge in his spirit.


“Look out, dummy.”


A camp watched them. Swoop gangs were common throughout Corellia. When CorSec wasn’t looking, they were policing and taxing. Their power stretched throughout the Core. Wherever there was a swoop, there was a gang and a slew of flunkies ready to make a quick buck. Blasters holstered, they glowered from the comfy seats of their bikes.


They were waiting to make a name for themselves.


Dai was swift. Kim was mellow. She swept pass casually. Too close to the camp, he pulled a wheelie stunt. Hand on the clutch, he disengaged and open the throttle to let the engine race. In a powerful thrust, he re-engaged and abruptly gassed ahead. Smog pushed behind him.
So did the swoop gang, in hot pursuit.


“I’d like to see you do that again!” There engines purred.


--------


Grunts from the alien language echoed throughout the crowds with cheers and hoots. The other head of the Triog bobbed his head back and forth to his brethren’s singsong tone.


They smiled, hugging each other, rocking back and forth in a cheer.


“There goes our hero! And he’s gunna die! Woohooo!!”

[Dai]

1 Year and 11 Months AE…

“C’mon ma—“

Silence grabbed Dai by the throat. A fear filled gulp rolled down his neck. Beyond the blaster pointed dead in his face was a monster he had met before. A demon manifested in the hardy flesh and husk of a Houk. Farghul watched on, lined outside the elevator. His hands slowly rose in surrender. Heavy, hot breathes pushed in and out of the Houk as he met Dai’s gaze with an icy stare. The sweet serenade of the elevator music became chilling and disturbing. Surrounded in white, and the ceiling lights gleam, all the terror in his eyes could be seen. The panic did not spread to the rest of his face. Dai didn’t want to die looking like he was about to pee his face. Thus, he closed his eyes slowly and reached for a piece of solace or peace within.

Nothing…

His eyes opened. It wasn’t a dream. This was real. Without mirth, the head hunters glared back at him, confirming that fact. Each one of their eyes a different, dark shade, welcoming him to a cold end – at least it looked that way. Dai wasn’t ready to leave. He wasn't ready to die. To die conceding, with his hands up, like a loser, didn’t sit well with him. Pleading was a possibility though.

“Man, please, dontcha—“

Deep down, he could feel the surge. Alarm, fear, adrenaline – whatever it was – traveled through him from the depths of his gut. As the Houk’s impatient finger pulled back at the trigger, Dai juke moved to the side. Two months back he had watched and exercised for hours at the CorSec Academy after one of the Major's drills on how to counter a would-be attacker. In the field, all Dai did was shoot things: people, cans, bottles, animals, buildings, and etc. Close hand-to-hand combat wasn’t necessary when there is a squad or partner for support. So, for once, he was forced to remember something of use.

His hand swept up, grabbed the barrel and pushed it aside. The blast let off, booming inside the lift. Abruptly he twisted the blaster about, stepping into the Houk. Good footwork was the key. The Farghuls weren’t dozing off, though. They raised their blasters and pulled. Quickly thinking, Dai clicked the Houk’s wrist band and engaged the deflector shield. Using him for defense, he watched as the blaster ricocheted off. Toeing the elevator controls, he fell down under the Houk’s weight as the doors closed.

“I told you gimme a damn break!” Dai struggled against the Houk’s strength, trying to pry his grip.

The Houk said nothing. Unanticipated blasters shot through the lift every which way. Luckily, never in the former child star’s face. Rather, Dai gave the Houk a shot. A strong, balled, quick jab to his hard jaw shook him. Another pushed him back. One more threw him off him. Dai didn’t get the blaster out of his hand, but the doors opened. Hopping up, he hobbled out the lift, building a stride.
Down on the floor, the Houk shot more. The blaster’s slide jolted back and forth; as red beams ran clean pass him. Still rattled by the punches, Dai had somehow managed an upper hand. Getting into a pace, he sped through the 2nd floor of the building, bolting through the desk. The CorSec officer ducked and hid behind the tables. The bounty hunter kept firing.

There was no getting way.

With his backed pushed up against a receptionist desk, sweat trickling, Dai gushed and huffed, wheezed even, trying to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. “Frell…and I gotta take a piss…What the--” Another blast cut him off as he restrained a laugh. Ducking further, he swept his eyes across the room. At first glance, there was nothing. Tables, seats, this was a place where paper pushers buzzed during the days, dying very slow deaths in a life too mundane for Dai to imagine. Young, impatient, brash, he needed the field if he was going to do this covert operation. It was a catch 22, but Dai knowingly, stupidly, as well as secretly, loved getting himself in awkward situations. In those moments, whether good or bad, he had to improvise.

This was no different a time.

After an off-beat thud from a slammed foot, he sped about desk and tables, evading shots, pausing ever so often. Wildly flailing about, he twisted around and under shots, turning his body into a strange acrobatic display. Then, surprisingly, gracefully, he trapeze over a shot, and flew through the window. Glass broke, just like it did in the movies, and he fell down into night baring fresh cuts.

“AAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!”

[Dai]

2 Years and 1 Months A.E...
“AAAAAAAAHHHHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!”

The gang’s swoops dragged, tilting the riders sideways. In a burst, they gained speed, trailing within reach of Dai’s push. Beyond, in the distance, there was the silhouette of Kimmi shooting for the finish line. Blast poured through the air in hot pursuit. Dust clouds formed behind them. Sprawls of holocams kept up, capturing the feed from many angles. The gang leader’s burly grimace boomed onto the screens throughout the galaxy. Vile terrors widen his eyes as he honed in on Dai’s tail. More shots were fired, but the CorSec officer ducked and weaved. When the shots didn’t miss, they dissipated into the swoops shields or hull, leaving only a pesky dent. Dai quickly regained speed.

Dai toed the line. Between the green brush, thick swamps and shrouding trees, he cut cleanly along side, doing his best to avoid the gang’s tailing. His mind was racing too. He searched for the best way to shake their pursuit as he yanked the handles, jumping over a fallen tree. Vines dangled from above. They were diving deeper into the wilderness.

Over the time of watching from the sidelines, he had become familiar with the track.

Head down, he catapulted ahead. He could still hear their cackles. Untamed and barbaric, they stormed behind him, only a fault away. Dai wouldn’t give them the chance. Jolting from the side of the trail, he slipped in between their blast. With the engine rolling, and his feet hovering over the brake pedals he allowed the swoop to drag. They tried to follow, but his spin kept them off guard. Four of the six pack group was tossed into the vines, hanging while their swoops went on without them into an explosive end.

The cackling was replaced with fearful yells for help.

Soon, they were lost in distance as Dai pressed ahead. With a huff of frustration, he glanced back at the remaining two. The lead was still there, gnarling from their setback.

Luckily, Dai wasn’t waivered. He had been chased before. It was part of the fugitive life. Eyes turned ahead, he focused on Kimmi. If he was going to have any chance of finishing the mission, he had to move fast. Under his chin read the dial on his speedometer, and the scanners on his engine & fuel. All the jolting, bolting, and speed changes were damaging the swoop.

Shaking his head, he frowned faintly.

“Guess I gotta do it…”

His hands reached down to his side. Two blasters dangled at his waist. Kicking his feet up, he pushed on the brakes, taking his hands off the handlebars. Abruptly screeching to a halt, he closed his eyes and yanked his blasters free from their holsters. The two thugs divided, shocked by the stop. Their eyes only widen more as they watched his arms lift to reveal the real threat. Before another blink could savor the image of a man, upright, on top a swoop bike, arms stretched out, clenching blaster pistols, or any other flash of their life, they were snapped off their swoops with a red bolt and tumbling limply along the ground, banking against rocks and debris.

A sigh escaped Dai.

The barrel singed, smoke floating out as his eyes slowly opened. He was far behind. Behind him hummed an engine. Ahead was Kim. Calmly, he leaned back down, huffed again and sped off ahead.


…Foosh!!

[Dai]

1 Year and 11 Months AE…

Shards of glass fell. The moon watched. A battered man and shattered glass floated above. So far, the night had been entertained. Below voices boomed from the traffic. They were angry voices, followed by obnoxious laughs from people unaware. Packed in their durasteel highways and metal speeders, they couldn’t hear the man’s yell. They couldn’t see the dread warping his face and throwing his arm into a thrash. They couldn’t feel the terror that shook him. They did not smell death as eminently as he did, in all its scorching, painful intricacies. They could not spot him as they leaned out the side of their windows, howling at one another. If they could, they would’ve known. Corellian’s would have spotted his Bloodstripe and familiar looks. Dai was free falling. And afterwards there was going to be somebody there screaming “cut” or applause.

The wind zipped through his hair. Flaps from his clothes echoed in his ears. The metallic specks hovering below became wall for a crash as he got ever closer. Dai quieted his yell to a grunt. Deep in his gut wrenched a compelling feeling. Overcome by urgency, he winged his arms out instinctively. Cutting to the earth at rapid speed, he crunched back into a fetal, readying himself. With closed eyes, he could hear the ripping shred of metal underneath his feet but could not feel it.

Opening his eyes, crouched on top of the hood, he looked down at the large dent and twisted metal. The Devaroian taxi driver was wary. The driver had leapt out in time, and watched as logic was bent before his eyes. Others were too drawn in their bouts over traffic to pay any mind. Their attention only deviated when they heard the familiar sound of blaster bolts tearing through the sky. Dai’s attention did too.
Surprised, he craned his head over his shoulder as the Houk stood at the shattered window.

“Frell, frell, frell!” Dai hopped off the speeder. The driver was still in awe. “Gotta move it.”

Dai’s eyes shot each direction, searching for a quick way out. He could hear the footsteps coming over his shoulder. The pursuit was on. The Farghuls hadn’t given up either. They busted out the CorSec building doors firing.

With a huff, Dai ducked and growled. They were closing in.

Peaking over the side of the high way, then back at the coming hunters, he knew what had to do. One choice was left. The sector was filled with traffic. People wanted to have a good time. Festivities were heard in the distance. Crowds were forming down the way. He knew where he needed to go.

Shaking his head, he trapeze into the flow of an air lane, cars dodging his falling body. Children gawked from the backseats at the show. Wives blinked in wonder, while their husband grumbled about their job, oblivious. Behind him, he could hear the frightening drone of engines following suite. They swooped down into the lane, carelessly. Beeps and horns trailed. Drivers screeched to a halt fearfully.

Dai reached out.

Swaying through the lanes in his free fall, he ping-ponged between speeders. Thumps echoed through the hull of the unsuspecting drivers. By the time they looked over, they would have to look down to find the source. He just kept falling.

Coronet wasn’t like the Imperial City, or the cityscape of Nar Shaddaa. Many people lived in the metropolis, but the buildings didn’t kiss the sky, nor did the traffic around them. He’d hit the ground. And he’d hit it running.

Wrapping his hand around a taxi sweeping pass, he grabbed a hold. Quickly, the driver plunged down. The thud jolted him. Yet, the albino Rodian’s senses were intact. Halting at a corner, he bolted out the car. His round, bulging eye peered at the man on his hood, innocently smiling. His snout perked up, cursing as in Rodese as he flailed about, pointing him. All Dai could make of the noise was “credits”.

Shaking his head, he slipped off the hood, and onto the ground. Shrugging theatrically, Dai walked casually away to the Rodian’s curses. The relaxed steps were only momentary, for as soon as he hit the corner, he dashed. The purr of the Farghul’s speeder bikes followed. Sweeping right over the Rodian’s head; the man cowered.

“Chuba!”

------------------------------------

Deep in the dark alley ways stalked a man. Eyes like brimstone bore through the shadows watching the officer flee. Heavy and hot breathes singed from his lungs. He glared as the speeder bikes swept pass. The whine of their engines unnerved him. Quickly he turned about. The flap of his cloak rippled behind him as he crept down the crevice.

A small, cloaked woman sparked from the holopad in his hand.

“Progress?” Her tone was soft.

“Everything is going as planned, my lady.”

Out of the darkness came his voice like molten lava spilling over desert sand. Each word was harsh and raspy. “The tests are going as expected. I have acquired all I need. Soon, the mission will be complete.”

“Do not fail us.”

He closed the feed and slipped into the crowds sweeping over the Blue Sector.


--------------------------------------

Peculiar Balosar, cheated Iktotchi, a quiet Kel Dor, pestering Noghri, chatty Elomins, a watchful Khil and more sprawled throughout Fel Swoop cantina. A few looked over as Dai jumbled in. Most were involved in relations. Men were wooing. Ladies were turning them down. Grumbles stormed the air. Around the bar there was chatter about a Hutt crime lordess being killed in a mishap, rumors surrounding Moff Tarkin, and talk of a resurged Bounty Hunter Guild. Dai didn’t care to join in. He was too busy trying to find a stool.

Each seat was taken. Or so it seemed that way.

Booths were stocked. Swoop gangs were meeting.

No one wavered. No one even looked over. Women ignored him when he walked pass. Intentionally. Cuts, scars, and the smell of speeder oil can get a hold of anyone's senses, making it hard to ignore, but when a CorSec uniform is thrown on top of that intriguing heap, those traits become the most boring subjects of all for any Treasure Row patron. Nobody wanted trouble.

Dancing and booming music echoed through the rooms. Dai slipped through the crowd, finding himself along the back wall of the cantina in a dark booth. He panted out an order, out of breathe, to the droid waitress. Sat snug with his back against the wall, he watched and waited. Between the slow of his anxious heartbeat and intrusive thoughts, he hoped he had lost the trail.

He was sure he hadn’t.

Bounty Hunters didn’t give up so easily. Credits were too important.

[Dai]

Plush ruby red rugs lay under the twin Hutts as they sat in cantina. Cups overflowed with bubbling wine from their Toydorian servant’s pitchers. Pillows kept the gastropods comfortable. The lights were dimmed around them, highlighted on a seductive dancing quartet. Protocol droids whimpered in Huttese next to their masters. Assistants leaned in, listening to their lords demands before barking orders throughout the entourage. Beautiful women fanned the two. Thugs joked and jested around, drinking. Guards lined the stairs to the V.I.P, armed with blasters. The beggars and scoundrel alike wanted a piece of the Hutts, but were denied. Rowdy ones were pistol whipped and kicked away. Above the Hutts watched with disapproval. They weren’t on a vacation. This was a business meeting.

The cloaked figure slithered through the door. The guards parted for him. He stalked up the steps, amid the thugs & gangster, and stood center stage as the section watched impatiently for his words. The protocol droids welcomed the mysterious being.

“The mighty and benevolent twins, Sarba and Zorba would like to offe—“

Under the shadow of his hood, the man’s words clambered out:

“I haven’t the time for that.”

The Hutt interjected with a laugh. “I admire your style! The last performance was exceptional on Nal Hutta, and your talents will be put to service once again. You will be a wealthy man.” One of the servant ladies dropped grapes in her lord’s mouth, his tongue slipping out and sliming it in after swiping a taste of the slave’s hand. She was one of the Hutt’s many trophies. “The Diktat.”

“1,500,000?” He demanded.

The other Hutt twin cackled. Her protocol droid nodded, jerking back. “The beautiful Sarba wonders why we’d pay such a high price.”

Silence was the answer. The eyes burned below the hood, fired at the droid. For moments the entourage and flunkies chattered. The strange stillness disturbed them. Chuckles circled as they joked. They hooted and hollered, the guard looking over their shoulder at the unrest. Zorba banged his protocol droid on the back, pushing him forward. Fishing in his cup of goods, he chomped down a fried womp rat.

Staggering, the silver droid slowed down and perked up.

“The mighty Zorba will pay you 2,500,000. The first half now, the second half after the job is finished.”

The man nodded, bowed and smoothly swept out. Snickers followed him. Few whispers that he wouldn’t be able to do it, but the Hutts didn’t care. Far too many times the Diktat had sanctioned treaties blockading the Corellian way at key points and outpost that the Besadii Clan could no longer tolerate. Credits were being lost, spice trafficking was under pressure, friends were being pinched – the politics were disrupting the flow.
-------------

Furry feet thumped on the ground after hopping off the speeder bikes. The Farghuls swung their blasters back in their holsters. Grimaces marred their lips. Behind them the thud of the Houk’s feet quieted their thoughts. Slime spat out his mouth as he pulled a cigarillo out. Lighting it, he walked calmly to the front of the pack and trekked to the cantina.

Thugs walked passed curiously. Swoopers leaned up against poles set outside the pub. They watched expectantly. Com links lifted to their mouths as the gang of hunters wandered in.

“Trouble coming your way.”

----
“Gotcha.”

The guards turned about, walking up the steps.

After a quick gesture, the hired hands escorted the troops out. Flunkies, gangsters, dealers, swindlers, scoundrels, all in the Twin Hutt entourage sprawled out and waltz out with a barrel of merriment. They looked like a parade. Dai sipped his water. Through the gleam of the glass, he saw the Hutt blobs float off on their lifts. Lazy, fat, Dai didn’t see much to adore, but with credits spilling out their accounts woman frolicked and watched with gleaming credits in their eyes. That same gleam could be seen in the gang’s eyes as they walked through the door.

Ducking down, he toed out of the booth. Crawling through the crowded room, he headed for the bar counter. The tousled huntsmen surveyed the sea of people from the door. Swarms of dancers flooded around them, eager for a break. Weary, they gave nothing more than a warding hand. Dai peered from a safe distance, leaned with his back against the counter.

They were blocking the door.

There wasn’t going to be an easy escape out of this one.

“Can I getta Corelliam rum – hold the ice – and gimme some luck too…”

“Huh?” The bartender looked dumb.

“Uh…just some rum, please.”

[Dai]

Pressed against the counter by undisclosed fear, Dai held himself up by his elbows and one foot. The thud of the barkeeps heavy hand and filled glass alerted him. He leaned there lazily. More times than he could count he had struck the pose. Blasé, calm, natural were routine words screamed out by photographers during holovid shoots. He hated those shoots. They were all business. There was nothing casual about a photo shoots environment. Make up, drugs, paparazzi – as a kid those things seem foreign and strange. Over time he became indifferent to the whole scene; he was unconcerned – nonchalant. Eyeballs shifted slowly. The order was up. The bartender caught his eye and offered an affirmative nod. Then off the man went, tending to his other customers. For a second, Dai waited. Nervous and tentative, he tried to move calmly. Water was free in most cantinas because the taste. Anyone who dare take a swig would eventually pay to get the after taste out of their mouth. Corellian rum had a tang. It was bitter. Dai never drank the stuff alone.

“Miranda Tarkin?” The bartender asked curiously.

“Sexy?” one of the customer remarked.

“Definitely,” the barkeep answered, and smiled “Hey. She can be my Moff anyday.”

There was no response, just puzzled silly looks swapped. The bartender continued to wipe the counter, flipping the towel over nicely, and grabbing up bottles ever so often to fill empty glasses. Politics didn’t get a rise out of the crowd. Down the counter Dai switched legs and took a sip. He listened in serene silence. He watched.

By the cantina door bunched the Hutt entourage. The hunters had slipped into the crowd. Cages sprawled throughout the nightclub held women dancers. They tantalized. They swayed. Ladies thumped to the rhythms oozing out the speakers. Sweat trickled and stuck in the frenzy. Wet shirts were everywhere. Foreign smells were far and wide too. Wet fur was a horrible smell. Dai’s nose took his eyes across the crowd. Then it stopped next to him.

A toothy grinning Farghul was making an order.

“Double of Corellian whisky and soda on the rocks…” The Farghul turned his head from the bartender to the right, smirking. “…Please.”

Dai felt an invisible spider crawl up his spine. He didn’t flinch. Attention straight ahead, Dai suffered the stare for only a moment. The rum still swigged in his mouth. Turning his head around, he cocked an auspicious brow and feigned a smile before going back to people watching. The Farghul didn’t let up. Instead, he grew comfortable. As the glass was placed between them, ice dropped in, and drink was poured, the furry huntsman leaned on his elbow getting big eyed.

“Can’t say hi?” The bounty hunter leaned in, smirking, whispering. “…Or are you just the shy type?”

Cuts leaked blood over Dai’s brow. Torn cloth along his sleeve revealed slices, grazes and hacks from the shattered window. He was tired. Exhausted from the running, the jumping, the hiding; it was getting old. Even as his heart pulsated, and he stared off into the crowd, the Farghul close enough that Dai could smell the bantha steak the furball had ate for dinner, he showed no hints of anger. He remained at ease. The other huntsmen were flagged over.

The bartender crept off to the end of the counter. He was trying to watch from a safe distance. Dai duly noted. The Houk and his sidemen struggled to get to the crowd. The Farghul leaned in closer, his voice growing menacing.

“They are getting closer…and closer….”

Frak it!

Dai snapped. In a blink, his bruised, bumpy knuckles popped, gripping the Farghuls skull, smashing it into the counter’s thick wood with an affirmative clunk. The furry critter’s eyes showed only white as blood spilt from his mouth. Slunk over the counter, his limp body slid and drooped onto the ground with a resounding grunt. The shake rattled the whisky and soda, toppling the drink over. Ice bounced along the counter. Customers cut their eyes over. Grumbles and silence rolled around the counter. The huntsmen hurried their way through the crowds. Dai stared at their fallen comrade with a drab look.

“Get off my foot,” Dai grunted, kicking the Farghul’s arm off his leg. “Hut’uu—“

The CorSec officer ducked. A fuzzy arm whipped through the air. Another Farghul had made it. From the side of his eye, Dai spotted more swarming from the horde. Teeth gritted, he rose up. Leaned in, shoulders bold, and hand in a ball, he struck. The fist dove into the mercenary’s ribs. Cracks echoed as spit burst from the Farghul’s mouth. The wind was knocked out of him. How did a former child actor learn to punch like that? Mahrrlee did. The Wookiee also taught him how to drink.

"Fight!' Someone screamed.

Hot rum shot out Dai’s mouth at one of the other Farghul’s eyes. "Ahhh!!' He screamed. The pursuant staggered. Scrambling for balance, the mercenary snatched up his blaster and blindly shot. Bolts beamed through the crowd. High pitch screams swept over the cantina. The tavern jumped, ducked and dashed for the exit. In the chaos fist were thrown. Patrons grabbed bottles and cracked them. Broken shards littered the floor. The Houk hunter was caught in flow. The bartender cringed behind the corner, shaking and gulping down a bottle, whimpering his prayers. More blaster were drawn as the fight sprawled throughout the nightspot. Dai watched, as everything around came to madness. He turned his head back and forth in a ready stance.

The Farghul mercs surrounded him.

“Can we just…" Dai sucked in air. Hand on his knee, catching a breathe. Other hand in the air. "You know…talk this out?”

They smirked. Vibro blades out and blaster pointed, they circled.

[Dai]

Felinoids ogled him. Their tongue wet their lips. Dai got flashes of the breakfast he skipped that morning. He was hungry. He was tired. Bent in a three point stance, he turned. Footsteps whispered all around. Cheers wailed from the gathering crowd. Everyone else was fighting. They were like a swarm of colors on the outskirts of the pit. Still, the Houk was far off in the cloister.


“So, I’m guessing here…Were not going to talk this out?”


No response; none coherent, at least. One roared. Another pounced. Dai turned his head left. Then he sliced his eyes back right. A hairy shoulder ran into him, throwing him back. Arms flailing, another Farghul dived into his spine. His mouth went wide. Twinges stiffen his body pressed between the two. Released from their slam, he staggered to a knee. Murmured groans and phlegm sputtered from his mouth. He grabbed his ribs. Nothing was broken. Dai’s eyes fluttered. Gathering his composure, he watched them hurry to capitalize.


They wanted blood.


The vibroblade slashed through the air. The thump echoed through Dai’s mind. It tore through his flesh. Blood gushed from the wound on his back. His shoulder blades clapped as he yelled. The pitch tortured the ears. All the Farghuls beamed devilishly. The contractor wanted him alive. Debts needed to be pay. Chunks of his flesh would be the price. Hunched over on the ground, the blade was stuck in his back. Throbs branched through his backside. Wide eyes glazed over with restrained tears. His thin fingers, callous from string playing, clawed into the earth to dull the agony. Pain bit down his molars. Silent sobs massaged his mind, but his tense body grew tired. He was ready to fall.


One of the three remaining hunters gave him a push – with his foot. The big boot smacked against Dai’s exposed ribs. He toppled over to his side. An inaudible shout shook his body. In the middle of the circle, he lay. His eyes were shut tight. Dai could not see the cold looks on their face. The audience that formed simply shook their heads. Everyone else was throwing their own jabs.


The Houk dodged a few wayward punched. Countered any he didn’t. His big, shoeless feet smacked the earth as he walked out the crowd. Those large arms of his shoved his assassins out the way, looking down on his mark. Weak, curled up like a fetus, and gushing of blood, the Houk complimented his team with a crooked and jagged toothed grin. Kneeling down beside the man, he whispered this:


“And you thought you were going to get away. You believed for a second that hopping planets, doing good, would undo those sins of yours. You are a piece of sithspit. That’ll never change.” He brushed the boy’s hair. “My lil’ actor boy…Let me give you my signature.”


Big, strong, hard, he stood up. His foot went up too. Then down; down onto the musician’s wrist. A crackling crunch ripped through his ears. The smile faded as his foot pressed deeper. The Houk pulled his pistol from his holster. He aimed at the bounty’s hand. For a second he bathed in the gore. A pool had formed at their feet. Deep red leaked over the concrete. Three Farghuls stared impatiently. All had culminated as had been planned.


“You won’t be playing those sweet nothing anymo—“


-------------------------


Blue Sector’s open-air shopping mall, Treasure Ship Row, had plenty of nooks and crannies. Slythmongers took advantage. Deals were made in the dark. Unassuming customers walked out and the drug peddlers counted their profits. Thieves also hid in the shadows. Traps were laid out for tourist and fools. Then there were the mysterious men, such as the cloaked figure across the Fel Swoop cantina. In the comfort of his hood he observed. All the hues, pigments, breeds and species tripped out the tavern. Drunkard buffoons howled at the moon and mumbled. Fear was on their faces. Patrons followed suite, sprawling in every direction. From the chaotic sounds emitted, there was a fight breaking out. Bouts and battlers stumbled out swinging. Blasts were fired.


Over the shadowed figures head hovered a holocam. His sharp eyes watched the scene like a hawk. Hand pressed to the side of his ear, he whispered.


“Are you getting this?


“Yes,” answered a strong voice. “Get into position, agent.”


The clunk of a sniper rifle’s barrel ricocheted through the alley. “On my way.”


------------------


Psshwoom!!!


Corellian Security issued CDEF pistols. Dai preferred the DC-15 side arm he used as a kid. It burned just right for a Houk’s foot. Even when handled by one hand. A second wind was gasped in by the artist turned officer. The Houk hopped off, yelping. Dai tumbled away. Bolting up, he elbowed the Houk into the Farghuls. Pushing through the crowd, he ducked. Blasters chased him. They shot blindly. Bodies fell all around them, hit by the stray bolts. The familiar aroma of singed flesh torched the air.

A Whiphid with battle worn armor and Huttese face tattoos lay on the ground by him, holding a broken beer battle and blaster in his limp hands. He was a bodyguard. Dai craned his head back. Surprise enclosed him. The Hutt entourage was astounded. Yet, it only lasted for a second. Blasters were shot back. Dai was caught in the middle. He bobbed, he weaved, and plunged away, trying for the door.

Huffs and puffs were behind him. The Houk struggled on. Wheezing, Dai could hear him edging closer through the crowd. Grunts and groans trailed him in the crowd. Men and women were thrown aside by his sheer force. Dai could only wonder what he’d do if he caught him. Such thoughts were hard to conjure under the soothing groove of the music. Apparently the music schedule called for slow-dancing at this point in the night. A cute, drunk Falleen girl bumped up beside him the mob of people. They exchanged grins.

“Hey, I’m—“ A blast whooshed over their head. “Damn, damn, damn.”

“Nice name. What is it--Mandolorian?” She said snidely. Dai playfully rolled his eyes. More fires zipped pass. The piles of people bunched through and separated them. For a moment, he looked around. No dice.
Dai had to get out of there. And quick.

[Dai]

Body bumps thumped Dai aside. Scowls scrawled through the faces in the crowd. Hands, legs, feet were tangled. Particle beams bounced and boomed. Final yells thudded below the music timbre. Shoves banged the unexpected against the wall. Down to the ground they went and whimpered. Dancers weren’t spared. Wall to wall, sweat, liquor, burns and demise held the air. Wet rears blocked his escape. Tearful faces impeded his flee. Stacked fallen bodies clogged routes. People around Dai were tripping. Arms were tangled in attacks. Heads banged beside him. He was smashed between the mosh pits. A wayward fist smashed against his jaw. Dai fell. But on the back of a swooper in a fight. Thrown off balance, he staggered into a stand with the help of his index and a middle finger, and a lifted leg. Between the pounds of two fat men, he knew he had lost the chance of finding that girl and he couldn’t spot the exit door either. He frowned.

He was moving on sheer faith alone.

So was his hunter. The nameless Houk, branded with broken armor and bleeding from his foot, limped toward the man. “Get off me,” he yelled. His voice died under all the others. The hunter jammed his forearm into a guard’s neck. Gurgles reassured the Houk that the Hutt soldier was alive, so he slammed him again. And again, then again, until the bodyguard was on the ground being stomped unwittingly by the horde of customers. The head hunter stepped over him. His bloody leg dragged over the Hutt protector’s face. The stench of toe jam and blood would not wake him from his eternal nap.

Nor would that be true for the others.

Many had been shot. Others stabbed. Some simply decimated. A few were the twin Hutt’s men. Although the prized, mighty Hutts had been hovered out the door, their stragglers had been caught in all the disarray. Dai evaded their fire, but the Farghuls did not. One of the larger, furry men seared, his lifeless hand devoted to hold onto his blaster as he lay slumped over a stool. The other two tried to avenge.

They weaved to the side, elbowing the audience in the way. Over the counter, the bartender’s nose and eyes peeked out to watch. The fat Farghul mercenary dipped under a shot, slinging a dagger. In a sharp cut, the Hutt’s sentinel shooting arm drooped. A nerve was hit. The Farghul threw another. The sentinel’s comrade lost his voice and his neck. Stuck in his windpipe, the dagger’s hilt waited to be yanked free by its owner.

Before the fat Farghul could retrieve, he was hit. A blast bore through his fuzz, flesh and heart. He floundered to the ground weakly. His companion hid. Behind the bar counter, the lone survivor stooped beside the bartender.

“Your friend had a good idea. You should’ve just got a drink.”

“You do your job. I’ll do mine.” The Farghul clicked a new power cell into the pistol. Warning shots hit the bottles line along the shelves. “Nevermind…”

The last Farghul came back up from behind the bar. Two hands gripped to the handle, he blasted two of the Hutt’s men. Four were down, but there were many more. Shots squandered another assault. A barrage of rifle fire, laser shots and ion beams rattled the Farghul into convulsions. The huntsman’ head fell to the wood before banking to the floor.

“You should’ve just got a drink,” the bartender mused again.

Scoundrels on the other side of the counter took such advice to heart. They ransacked the shelves and ran through the crowd. Fleeing to the exit, they thwacked up against big bodies. An arm full of bottles was hard to carry, but they didn’t care about wasting anything. As long as they got something for free. A Chev bandit smacked into Dai, glasses falling, yelping “Get out the way!” Dai groaned in pain and watched him slip out the pit. Dai shook his head. Regained his wits, and followed the thief. Not in vindication, but in salvation. Crooks were slippery. Dai knew; he was an officer. Each step the robber made so did he. Twisting, bending, dipping, he got to the steps as the bottle burglar dashed out the door happily. Dai turned his head over his shoulder.

He didn’t spot the Houk. All he saw was the masses, the fights, blaster fire and off by the counter, five dropped Farghuls. Affording a celebratory laugh, he hobbled out the door, yanking the blade from his back. Blood dripped from it as he dropped it to the floor. The vibroblade bounced in the trail of his sluggish footsteps. Dai’s dragged himself into the night air.

There he smelt the fresh, sweet, beautiful, extravagant stench of Hutt slime…

"Frack my life...!"

[James Flint]

Rooftops offered great vantage points for death. The shadowy figure stared through the scope on his sniper rifle a top the jeweler shop. Through the glass talked a Hutt, his guard, a battered Corellian Security officer, and many faces trailed pass in the foreground. The sniper sucked his teeth. Two hours back he had ate his dinner alone in a restaurant across town. His belly was full. He was ready. Around him there was nothing. No obstructions, no holocam, simply darkness of the sky and focus of the eye. Many times before he had done this; finish the job. The moon’s shine revealed his rigid, jagged face, marred by years in the service of the Galactic Empire: Agent James Flint. This was simply another assignment of his, in spite of the mission classified cataloging. Files would never speak of his acts. Medal would not be worn. Still, though, the thick, brown haired, square faced soldier of COMPNOR was aware of his importance. Nothing more than the pristine, honored silence of his fellow officers would be awarded, yet that was enough for him; he did not smile or frown on his subjects as he stared down at them. They were scum, slime, worthless, and he had manipulated them as told.

More than a month had passed since he emerged from obscure, concocted files and events, in the Outer Rim. Conferences with the Hutts had firmly established his merit, and he climbed up the ranks as any other mercenary would. Fools that opposed the underworld bosses in turn were decimated and destroyed. He was crowned a killer. The perfect hired hand for such the job that his superiors had long ago placed in position for him.

Years of covert operations had culminated to give James Flint that chill which ran up his spine. Years of hard work, forgotten call signs and buried files that infiltrated the Hutts rank. Imperial Security Bureau saw them as a threat. Not one to be eliminated, but a nuisance to managed. Imperial Intelligence agreed. The Imperial Liason Officer in CorSec was also planted by the Empire’s agents. Everyone was hand pick to pit Corellia and the Hutt Clan against one another, and the winner was decided from the start.

It would be the Empire.

But Flint didn’t worry himself with the politics. He worried himself with the details. The barrel was ready, his finger was on the comm. unit.

“Affirmative.”


…BANG!!

[Dai]

Men stomped out of brothels. Packs of girls trickled out of tattoo parlors. Pretty girls that Zorba the Hutt would love to call his own. Two chained gals stood hooked to his hover craft. The Hutt waited for his ride. Sarba was gone. The twins rode separately. Especially after meetings with strangers; his protocol droid stood nearby. A Twi’lek body guard awaited the limousine service at the nightclub’s entrance.

“…I don’t trust that guy, Zorba.”

Zorba wet his lips. Green slime slipped out. “Doesn’t matter.”

The Hutt ran his big fingers along one of his slave’s chins affectionately. A thin, wide grin stretched along his face. Leaned in, he whispered in the woman’s ear. The guard pushed his lekku over his shoulder and turned about. Behind the visor of his helm, he watched for a speeder. A low hum could be heard in the distance. Around the group slipped out more of the gang. They headed off to the parking lot. Some weren’t out. Some were died.

Zorba didn’t care. “He’s no more than a distraction.”

The tussle of the fighting was heard throughout the Row. Folks passing by crossed the way avoiding the off chance of a stray shot. Swoop gangs frequented the cantina. Often nights were young because of their antics. Everyone in the Blue Sector were aware of the dangerous, but no full out bar fight had happened in ages. The Hutts no longer had a stake in the cantina’s profits. Protection was no longer there. Besadii Clan saw it fit to pull their resources until business was handled with the Corellian underworld. So, everyone suffered.

Even bounty heads.

Zorba and his women glanced over as Dai hobbled out. Zorba’s slaves offered no more than curious eyes and a restrained laugh. The Hutt patted them on the head. His bounty hunter turned about. They were all familiar with the credits on his head. His face was too familiar to forget. Holovid buffs and casual watchers had seen him in his youth.

The Twi’lek sneered. “Dai?”

“Yeah, that’s Dai Voo Juñ,” The sex slave added. “He’s not as cute in person.”

Zorba smiled. “No. He isn’t.”

Dai grunted. His left arm dangled. Broken. Hunched over, he gripped his blaster in the holster. Heavy breathes and open wounds was all he offered. If his face could’ve managed it, he would’ve snarled disapprovingly. Instead, his lips just twitched sadly. Energy spent, he spat blood to the side. After a deep sigh, he yanked his body upright and gave them a level gaze. Only one eye wasn’t bruised shut. Dai didn’t even know how that happened. The Hutt and his gang looked on amusingly like he was on show once more.

“But he is still worth a lot!” The guard twirled his pistol and fingered the carbine in the thigh holster.

“Alive and dead, as confirmed by the latest records, master,” squeaked the protocol droid quite plainly. “Although dead is preferred by the Desilijic Clan. He amassed a surmountable debt with the late Jabba that has unpaid.”

“And I hear Lady Valarian isn’t too happy with him either,” the guard stepped forth and aimed.

Zorba raised his hand and licked his mouth. “Wait…” The limousine stopped along the curb.

“Are you sure, mast—“

“Shoot him in the head. Make it fast.” The Hutt turned to the speeder.

Dai hung there. Listened, ran his forearm across his nose, stared at them with his mangled body, and he sniffled. Blood slipped down the valley of his face, rolling down the crease of his cheeks and under his nose. Then, he swept it away once more. A gulp dropped down slowly, sliding pass his adam’s apple. There was wetness in his eyes. He blinked. Those drops wouldn’t fall. He blinked again. No tears. He was tired. Dai’s DC-15 side arm lay limp in his hand. The guard and lady servants laughed at him. Pride managed to push a wry smile on his face. The weak arm, bloody hands, crumpled shoulder, lifted and aimed at the Hutt getting in the vehicle. Dai had a single advantage; his bad eye was the bruised one. All he had to aim with was his good one.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

“That wasn’t nice…” Dai felt it before he heard it.


…BANG!!

[James Flint]

2 years and 1 months AE...

Kimmi Chyler's swoop swerved pass. The assassin bucked on his speeder. Cloaked in black, he glared. The hum of the engine annoyed. He push the gas. Shots forced him to duck. He darted his eyes back. More shots. The barrage culprit should have been the victim: Dai. The swoop’s handle bars were twisted and he sped off. Gust of winds followed suite. So did Dai. The hum of the engine infuriated. Debris went into a whirlwind around them. Kimmi was ahead. The line wasn’t far. Cheers roared about them. Sail barges filled with people clapped. Kids leaned over the railing. Parents pried them back. Fans threw food. The hooded assassin swerved, hit the turn, and bolted. At arms length, Kimmi passed the line.

First.

Second.

Third – Dai – he was right behind him. The former actor slipped in alongside. Fist flew. Heads bucked back and evaded. Both their free hands stayed firm on the handle bars. Marsh splashed them. They sped on. The assassin threw a left. The jab hit. Arms flailed. A tree was spotted. A gnarl was made. The assassin veered off to the side, but to no avail. Dai was prepared, and jumped. The thud of extra weight on the back of his speeder jolted the murderer’s attention once more.

Yet, his mind was on the objective.

He’d get there. Swaying from side to side, he aimed to jostle the new passenger off the swoop. Nothing. He sped through the grass, gassed through the small plains, bumped through the streets and the stairs, and did a wheelie at the city hall’s top step. At his rear, he heard the thud of the extra weight falling. Jumping off, he trotted into the lobby. Gas spewed from planted grenades. Body guards lay lifeless all about.
He pushed the oval office door’s wide and entered. Tossing his hood off, he surveyed with his comm. link to his mouth.

“This is Agent Flint, and I have entered the target’s chambers. Awaiting or—“


…BANG!!

[Dai]

2 years AE...

Bang!!!
Bang!!!
Bang!!!
Bang!!!

Sweat! Cold sweat was everywhere - the sheets, his face, the pillow, in the air - it was everywhere. He wheezed. His eyes were like light bulbs. The room was dark. A rapid beep blared in his ear. White walls, white curtains, white sheets and a white Holovision boxed him in. Even white bandages ran down his arm. Small tubes poked into his veins. Stiff with shock, he cut his eyes from side to side. No one was there. His fingers clenched the blanket. The bed was for one. There was no girl. There wasn’t even music, at first. In the distance there was a hum and a ding of elevator lifts. There were footsteps too; squeaks across the polished floor. Remote chatter wisp into his ears, and it all synchronized: a hospital.

A dream?

He blinked. He looked down and furrowed his brows. The breaths came easier. The beeps slowed down. The moisture grew sticky. He gulped, rubbed his wrinkled forehead, fell back on the pillow, gazed at the ceiling, and wondered. How’d he get here? What happened? Why’d he feel so weak? Do they bury people with their braces on? All those questions drew him for a blank. Wonder weighed in on the boy’s face. The scar over his brow was gone. Facial hair hadn’t grown.

Surreal.

The young man checked his body over. He pulled the bandages off. Small, healed, cuts lay underneath. On his body there was nothing. Memory wasn’t serving right. Although his body was fine, medicine of the times was superb; his homeschool math did teach him well, things were not adding up. So, he lay there for a second, looking at the ceiling, his eyes dotting the uneven paint job, marveling at how hazy his mind was.

The door.

A pale woman with ginger hair trotted into the room with purpose. “Hello, officer,” she remarked. Her focus was on his clipboard. She wasn’t old enough to have experience the horrors of the Clone Wars, but older than him. Small freckles sprinkled over his nose. Her face was heart shape. She was short. The tag on her smock read Starsider. He smiled.

She was cute. “Finally the sleeping beauty has woke on up. Sure has been a while.”

“Huh?”

“1…2…3 months,” Dr. Starsider flipped the pages. “Yep, longest nap I’ve ever seen. Well not really. Wonder what you dreamed about – What did you dream about?”
He rubbed his hand through his mangled head, face scrunched up, “Well I—“

“Yeah.” She checked his vitals “Must’ve been crazy – taking down a warlord, saving the day“.

The patient was baffled. He watched her go on through her routine, scanning his wounds, dialing the bacta intake.

“I say you deserve a vacation. Especially after all the wounds you got. When didn’t think you’d make it. Everyone was running around. Doctors were asking you question. You wouldn’t respond. It was crazy. We weren’t sure if you’d make it through the surgery--”

“Surgery?” he finally chimed in.

“Yeah, yeah,” she pulled back his blanket, and lifted his shirt. He jerked back. Although she was cute, to have someone suddenly violating body parts without so much as an introduction was a tad uncomfortable. Especially since her hands were cold, and clinical.

“Look,” she reassured him with a smile. “The scanner.” She waved it over his chest, pulling the shirt up. On the surface, all was normal. Scars had been removed, covered by synth flesh. The vibro blade’s mark was gone on his back. The tattoo he got on Ord Mantell on his left side of a Krayt Dragon battling a Diathim, a species often mistaken for angels, was still there. Yet underneath, where sturdy bones were to rebuilt, there was something mechanical at work.

Cybernetic rib cages and a prosthetic right lung lay underneath the ordinary exterior. He looked puzzled at it all. Everything was still so fuzzy. Words couldn’t be managed. Thoughts simply traveled, inaudibly, through his mind. Images and flashes of exploding pistols, jolting bolts, flying fist and sheer pain ran through his mind. He preferred not to mince words, but he communicates nonetheless with a quiet grimace and squinted eyes.

“You bucked and fought, but we managed. We weren’t gunna loose our big hero,” she pinched his cheeks and went back to his track sheet, thumbing over the medication.

The young man looked around, eyes wandering, searching for an answer or something to slow down everything. It was too much to process.

“Hero,” he finally murmured. Her head popped up.

“Hero?” He asked again, looking her in the eyes. “What do you mean…Hero?”

“Now, you don’t have to be coy with me. I watched how you would swing, move, buck around in your sleep. I even had to restrain you a few times,” she laughed, touching her arm. There use to be a bruise there.

“Every day in the infirmary we get fighters like you. Real fighters,” she edged to the end of his bed. Her nose twitched. She leaned in and grinned. “But you’re the real deal.”

“Uh….”

“Matter fact the Diktat’s on his way right now,” The Doctor placed the tablet under her arm, and checked the time. “Like right, right now.”

On cue the squeak of footsteps jumbled down the hall. The hero glanced over at the door. Brows shifted, he cringed at the possibility. Already he was in distraught, bewildered, and messy, but now he was going to have to deal with all the craziness that ensued. The woman pulled him to sit up straight as the footsteps came closer. As the door opened, she swiveled about, stood stout and smiled as she should.

She was in the presence of greatness.

The Diktat’s guards walked in first. Amid the bulk of his protectors, the Diktat stepped. Splitting between the shields, he revealed himself with a smile and a nod. A many times before the young man had seen politicians give that same, charming, sly grin to their audiences. And he had also seen the same smile on the face of casino owners, card dealers, gambits and traffickers before he screwed out of his credits. However, the young man was at ease. Pressed against the headboard, legs tucked away in his blanket, he mirrored the man and offered an affirmative nod with an outreach hand.

“Greetings Mr. Gallamby,” the hero said.

“Hello, officer. I am happy to make your acquaintance after all this time. Corellia has been worried about their bright son.” The governor gave the man a handshake. The staff at the door chuckled at the governor’s small joke as he glanced at them. “Glad to finally meet the man who brought some justice back to the Blue Sector.”

“Well, it needed it.”

The Diktat nodded. “If you didn’t already have a Bloodstripe you’d be on the HV right now being awarded again. But I’m sure you don’t need the fanfare, now do you?” He grinned. Another joke.

“Those damned Hutts deserve every shot you laid into him. That ole’ bounty hunter too; all the scum running around Treasure Row, still hard to believe you manage to wipe them out with a so smoothly. When you get back on your feet, you’ve got to show me how to shoot like that.”

“Umm…I’d have to check my schedule,” the hero smirked. The Diktat sniggered

All the body guards watched coldly in CorSec uniforms. The Diktat’s secretary signaled at her watch. He nodded.

“You do that. I’m going to need that sharp eye when the Cup Series come to town in a month. I hear you like swooping.”

“Yes, sir I do.”

“Sounds like its going to be a great time. Now I got to go do more of this Diktat work. They have me everyone on this planet but home.” And with that, the Diktat was gone; a political move - a stop and go - with the CorSec agents dropping the paperwork and data pad on a table, and then slipping out the door for the next appearances.

So, the hero was left there, shrugging. Doctor Starside smile proudly down at him.

“Don’t relax too soon, Mr. Celebrity. I hear Atris Ordo is on her way to visit you too. Is that your girlfriend?

“Wha—“ Heels tapped the floor. The Doctor scampered out sniggering. The slick, lean frame of Olivia Shañ waltz in through the shadows of the hall. Her long black hair dangling. Freckles ran along her face, trying their best to blemish her curved, delicate looks, only to embellish. Years infront of the camera, studying communication, and bluntness kept her back straight, her walk fluid, and smile seemingly natural. The sparkle of his teeth came from early wakes, and late nights, with a schedule inbetween fit for prestige. Gray, Imperial outfitting clutched her curves as she stopped, doing their best to undo the harsh memories Dai had of her on Raxus Prime.

She was the devil. She smirked. The door shut behind her.

"My Hero...."

[Dai]

2 years and 1 Month AE...

Heroes are just crooks with more friends. Between a tough, husky Maykl Vega and a punch bowl, Dai realized that. Then pretended to forget it with a laugh; an overzealous Kimmi Chrysler startled Officer Vega with a pat on his back, leaving him with red punch all over his tuxedo. Vega scowled. Kim apologized profusely, stifling her giggle. A few looked over. Most were lost in chatter. Tables around the hall were filled with occupied seats. Guest walked in the doors adorn in the finest wear. Corellian and the CorSec flags hung at the entrance. So did four rookie officers. They wouldn’t be able to join in on the festivities, the free food, the networking or politicking. Dai saw them from the side of his eye. He envied them. No Diktat would come up to them and kiss them on the cheeks. They wouldn’t have to deal with the dull sound of their lieutenant’s voice congratulating them or the drone of endless chatter about privateers. Instead, they would joke. They would pull pranks. Rant about the girls at the party, or tell stories, all amongst themselves. Meanwhile he would be sociable with his friends. He hated the Annual CorSec Awards Ball (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Annual_CorSec_Awards_Ball) so far. At least the proceeds were going to the Survivors and Orphans fund.

“Smart move, officer.” Dai felt the warmth of an arm wrap under his. Over the span of the night he had been latched alongside the familiar face of Olivia Shañ, or better known as Atris Ordo – the great Holon reporter – and he could barely get a word in without her chiming in. She was busy. He was not. She was strict. He was not. Everyone swore they were a perfect match; too perfect for Dai’s liking. Every time his eyes met her own, he felt a chill run down his spine. All of it was a publicity stunt, a celebrated sighting, and he despised it.

Even as he managed a smile, he could not get the taste of dishonesty out of his mouth. He looked down at her without a word. She wasn’t hard on the eyes, but she was quick to cramp his style.

“C’mon Dai, let’s dance.”

Dai frowned. The others looked at him amused. Even Officer Vega held a snicker, watching him being dragged to the dance floor. “Go buddy,” they teased. “Have a good time.” Reporters sprawl throughout the crowd, flashing pictures as Atris and her arm candy’s feet hit the dance floor. The tap of their feet called eyes over. She moved with grace. He tried to follow. Dance wasn’t his specialty. The rhythm was easy though. That was his strong suit. That was all musicians’ strong suit. Off by the stage there rested his mandoviol. As he swept Olivia about, his eyes following his footsteps, the Director Sassich waited. By the tables the young Director crossed her arms and watched. Her icy blue eyes, jet black hair, short, but strong built were refined to be more than that girl who simply liked music as a kid. She was a fan of Dai’s work, like most at the party, and wanted to hear him play. Particularly because she ordered him too; the Director had no problems throwing her weight around. She also had no problem voicing her opinion.

Both Atris and Dai could hear her talking to one of the Drall guest; she wasn’t fond of Atris. The hero twirled her around, and pulled her back in. Close to his chest, he could hear Atris heaving. She wasn’t out of wind, but out of patience. Her brows were sharp like daggers, and her eyes tempering fury. More often than not she was barking orders, playing dominant, and the mix of the dance & side words had her seething. Claps hid the Director’s spite. Atris faux a bashful giggle. They swept off the dance floor, their performance over. Dai restrained his laughter with a silly grin, knowing all too well what was going on.

“That was just gre—“ He began to tease, but was quickly cut off by a reporter stuffing a microphone in his face. Holocams floated over. Abruptly, he was back in the celebrity seat – the spotlight. Paparazzi fed off moments like these, where they overwhelmed stars and enthused about questions that had nothing to do with anything Dai ever cared to talk about.

“Officer Voo Ju—“

“Its just Dai Voo Juñ.” Atris interrupted. She was good for that. Always in control – in a way, she was doubling as his P.R as well as his date. It was all part of her design; even the raffle ticket was contrived. There would be no hiccups on this night. Dai looked at the reporters, unfazed. His eyes got distant, his thoughts grew cloudy, and he left an air of silence to await them. The crowd formed around. More questions were pending. Behind the feigned philosophizing, calm exterior, were fear, confusion, uncertainty, and an unbearable sense of longing being reigned in by his former child stardom. He knew better.

Once, Dai remembered, being told about the seven simple rules for life and hiding by a great musician named Dylan in a backwater cantina in Nar Shaddaa. Dai’s mind went there. He could almost hear the man speaking over the drone of the crowds. One, never trust a cop in a raincoat. It was wet season in Coronet. He had his raincoat on the pole by the door. But the most important one – for that moment – was rule 6 – Never say or do anything the person standing in front of you can not understand.

“Dai Voo Juñ, what was it like taking down those bad guys?” The reporter gazed, with a foolish smile.

He would not be telling them the truth.

---

Death starts at the eyes. Old men lose their sight. Young soldiers can’t see their future. Either way, it happens in a blink. Then, death creeps on down, through the body, like life was a disease to be wiped away. For some the process takes a day, week, month, year, or even a decade, however they all end the same – in a second. In a second the assassin lost sight of his present. In a second he saw his past, his childhood, his friends, and his family. In a second a blaster bolt tore through his hide, ripped nerves, left him numb, and left him singeing on the floor. In a second, he was toppled to his knee. In a mere second all the sound of the room was gone, beside a final thud, and he was gone with it. The plush carpet rug stained with his blood. The smoky chest wound leaked. At the door stood the culprit; his hand still holding up the weapon – a DC 15 side arm blaster. As he lowered it, his snarl grew. Death left a signature stench whenever its job was done; Dai was disgusted.

After holstering the blaster at the back of his belt, he trotted over to the mysterious man. He knelt. Dai covered his nose, and turned the body over. In the dead man’s clutches was a comm. link buzzing with a familiar voice. Behind the palm he smirked, and snatched the unit from his lifeless hands.

“Hello…hello? Operator? Don’t play around – I can hear you breathing…Matter fact, it sounds kinda good –“

“Stop fooling around. The target is in the second to the bottom drawer.” Olivia was such a hardass.

“Nice hearing from you too.” Dai crept around the Diktat’s desk. Stacks of papers were pushed aside and thrown about as he scavenged the drawers. Pens and papers fell on the floor. Small statues toppled over. Then, suddenly, in mid-swipe, he stopped. In the dark of the room a light warmed his face from the desk. He reached in. A shit-eating grin smeared across his lips.

“Do you got it,” Olivia asked impatiently.

“Yea…”

“Huh?”

“I said yea!” Static feedback scratched over the comm. unit. Olivia growled. She didn’t like his volume. Actually, she didn’t like much of anything about him, but she had to bite his tongue. Her impatience showed nonetheless. Often their conferences throughout the missions called for quick endings because Dai got testy. He had a flair for playfulness; a flair that she didn’t appreciate, being a military brat.

“Visuals?”

“There coming up, there coming up…Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” He activated the strip-cam on under his jacket. “It’s the glowing cube.”

“No. That’s the holocron,” her voice was grave. “Grab up the datapad in the top drawer. There is a squad on their way to the sight. Move briskly.”

Swoops and speeders screeched to a halt outside the building. He could hear them from the window. Orders were being barked. Blasters were being pulled. Soon the building would be surrounded. Dai yanked the drawer. He snatched the datapad, and dashed for the door. The sound of his feet beat the carpet until it yelled back with a thud. Death swarmed the room. He had to escape. Dai jumped over the fallen body and went for the hall. Before he could gasp, he felt the clutches of a cold hand around his ankle. Instincts forced him to tug. Then, he looked. Down on the ground, blood dripping, was the assassin gurgling on his last breathes.

“I…” the murderer struggled to speak. Dai struggle to run. The man’s grip was too tight.

“Get the frell off me,” Dai kicked.

“I…saved you.” He finally said, leaving Dai to stop in his tussle. “I saved you.”

“What are you even talking about – this isn’t a soap oper—“

“I saved you from those…hunters…that Hutt.”

Dai frowned. He gnarled. He wondered. The story wasn’t told like that. HoloNet broadcasted that night, when he was on the hospital bed, being tortured and dragged back to the world of living, that he had shot those men. Atris had went on air and confirmed the shooting. The Diktat had commented to news reporters how proud he was that one of the great crimelords had been brought to justice by Corellia’s very own. Chatter had roared through the streets about the gallant act. Random fans sent flowers in. Celebration echoed throughout the office when Dai got back to work with CorSec.

He was a hero.

“You?” Dai murmured.

“FIRE!!” Shots fired over Dai’s shoulder. He was forced to duck and roll. Blaster bolts rattled the mysterious man, ripping through his black cloak, his body bucking back and forth, rumbling from the barrage. Then, as abrupt as it began, the officer raised his hand for cease of fire. And finally, the man was gone. Death had finally finished it’s job.

------

“Great…” Dai looked down.

“Well, right now Dai has to get to stage for his performance,” the Director swooped in, pushing Atris aside, guiding him through the crowd. Flashes of pictures from the holocams, and a loud outcry followed as he was escorted. An exchange of smiles confirmed the move. Dai didn’t want to talk to reporters. They were pest. He was more comfortable in front of the microphone. Within seconds, he was there, giving a smile, a wave to the audience, and a nod. This was his farewell. Everyone amongst the ranks were well aware he’d be heading off to his new operation after this, even the reporters did. Off to the side Atris was fielding questions about her man, and how he’d be handling COMPNOR for now on, and that there’d be a HoloNet special on the whole events following, while the Director glowered. Officer Vega was blotting his shirt from the stain, and Kimmi was watching the stage.

Everyone else were unaware, aloof, awaiting, and cheering. Behind him sat the drummer, the strings player, and a rest of unknowns Dai hadn’t met before. They knew his songs, though – but they weren’t his band. Glancing over at Olivia, he sighed and stepped to the microphone.


♫ (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8StG4fFWHqg) “Well I don't know why I came here tonight,
I got the feeling that something ain't right,
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair,
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs,
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you.” ♫ (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8StG4fFWHqg)