The Other Heroes Were Busy

[Bombad Boyo]

The Galaxy is a big place.

Like, really big.

Bigger.

Keep going.

Back up.

Perfect. Yeah. Biiiiig.

Some planets are full of bad guys. Some are full of good guys. Most are full of regular guys. Guys who work an honest day job, and go to the pub afterward. Guys with plain looking wives and two and a half kids. Guys who snag a brew and catch a holofeed of a Huttball game on the weekend.

And sometimes good guys and bad guys come to those planets. Worlds...collide!!!



Ryloth


It had been two weeks since Bombad Boyo had killed a man.

His skills were growing weaker by the day, he could feel it. Reflexes not as fast, strength not as raw, resolve not as strong. He felt cagey, like an animal stuck behind thick durasteel bars while the proles gawked.

The Gungan rose from bed, careful to not disturb the matching pair of Twi'leks that had invited him up for the night for 'caf'. They continued sleeping, basted in a melange of baby oil and the finest Chandrilan champagne, or at least the finest you could buy on Ryloth. Looking out the window, he stood in the suit nature gave him (with a patina of scars and kickass tattoos also), and watched the harsh suns begin to rise out the window. Turning, Bombad swiftly swiped a match across the nearest girl's lekku, igniting it and causing her to wake with a start.

"Bombad?!"

The Rebel agent shushed her idly, using the lit match to fire up his Ithorian cigar. He grinned, an embossed gold tooth glinting in the sun.

"Yesa muy sweetum?"

He turned, and she was upon him, instantly forgiving the wake-up call as she pressed her lithe body against his.

"You can't leave us, you haven't had breakfast yet!"

Bombad drew on his cigar, giving the purple lady's ass an appraising squeeze as he considered her morning proposition.

"Mesa haven den brisk mornin munchen with yousa...and hersa."

His eyestalks bobbed conspiratorily, and he slapped her bottom audibly, waking her 'sister'.

"Just let Bombad check hisa messages!"

Padding into the living room of the apartment, the Rebel agent noticed a comm disc blinking next to his hastily discarded clothes and double blaster gun harness. It had a message on it. He tapped it, seeing a frantic Mon Calamari named Dran Durgol. Ah. The home office was calling.

"Bombad!? Bombad?! Why aren't you answering me? Damn it! Listen, Bombad, the poodoo is hitting the fan on this one. That call you took on Ryloth? It's a trap! Repeat, it's a trap!!!"

About that time, the door splintered apart in front of him. A Duro hit squad, of course! With his agent training second nature, he flung the nearest weapon, the holodisc, at the closest target, gouging him in the eye. He stammered back, buying Bombad enough time to snatch his blasters up and do a half gainer backwards behind the couch as blaster fire screamed in like Mustafar hellfire.

Cigar still clenched in his teeth, Bombad took stock of the situation. Firing from cover, he was keeping the Duro heads down until he had a better option. He looked behind. The Twi'lek girls were cowering in fear. They weren't involved. No, someone else dropped a dime. Sneering, the gungan reached for a pillow, and threw it skyward. As the Duro assassins fired on movement, Bombad whirled out from cover. With guns akimbo, he trained in on his enemies, cutting loose with a fusilade of blaster fire that cut them down where they stood.

It was over as soon as it began. The purple twins were still whimpering, this was no doubt their first real brush with death. From the ruined doorway, Bombad surveyed the damage. Four men entered, and none would leave. Amateurs. They should've at least sent Gran, or at least a single Wookiee. Still naked as a nuna, the Gungan finished his cigar, plucking the holodisc from the first dead Duro's gouged eye. He opened up the channel.

"Agent Durol? Disa Bombad. Meesa get yousa message. Yousa send meesa cleanup for four deado boyos."

He glanced back to the girls, and winked.

"Meesa still haven dem duey bigum cases to...investigate."

[Sphyrna Mokarran]

Lok

It had been ten minutes since Sphyrna Mokarran had killed a man.

The blast suppressor on his carbine flashed an angry shade of red. Two seconds.

Despite the impressive frame of the Ithorian, he moved with surprising grace. People often forgot that the Ithorians were jungle dwellers: and as Sphyrna so frequently pointed out to the females, jungles were not a hospitable biome in which to habitate. Most Ithorians had abandoned the harsh environs that had spawned their herbivorous race, and had taken their pacifist ways respect for nature to the ultimate extreme, soaring above the treetops in their mighty herdships. But Sphyrna Mokarran was not most Ithorians.

He had been a mere calf when he had defeated his first beast. The reek been an adolescant cub at the time: as tall as Sphyrna was, and several times longer. It had beared down on him, issuing its blood-curdling, bone-shuddering cry. Sphyrna had drawn in a deep breath through both his mouths, and had screamed with all four of his throats: a chillingly accurate replica of the reek's own cry, replicated twice in stereo.

That had been the last sound the reek ever heard: Sphyrna's blade had punctured the back of it's skull only seconds later.

One of his opponents managed to find sufficient cover to start posing a thread, blaster bolts rained out from behind an upturned table, chasing the Ithorian as he moved with surprising grace through the cantina. The ground shook with each of the Ithorian's heavy footsteps as he surged forward, hurling himself up onto the bar. Momentum carried him onwards, sliding sidesaddle down the bar: a second carbine joined the first, and in tandem they hammered a hail of retaliation, chunks of faux wood and plaster torn from the walls, angry scorches smashed into the table itself.

The slide halted, but Sphyrna did not, advancing with steady purpose towards the overturned table, the carbines still blasting away, looking more like oversided pistols in his long-fingered hands.

Suddenly, the tirade stopped. The tell-tale whine of a drained power cell issued from both weapons. Behind cover, the only survivor from the mercenary band - the avengers that had arrived to kill Sphyrna after his misunderstanding with one of their associates not ten minutes before - panted hard, his heart thundering away in his chest. He heard the clatter of the weapons discarded, and saw his chance.

Leaping back to his feet he spun, bringing his own blaster to bear. The thermal detonator tossed casually over the Ithorian's shoulder as he walked away smacked the mercenary squarely in the sternum about half a second before it exploded, and spattered his charred remains across the cantina wall.

Behind the bar, the owner cowered; growing genitals that he hadn't posessed moments before, he growled and scowled at the Ithorian gunman.

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" he shouted.

The Ithorian said nothing; just kept on walking. The barkeep became more aggitated, infuriated by seemingly having been ignored.

"Who is going to clean up this mess?"

Sphyrna came to a halt, his headstalk shifting as he glanced over his shoulder. His voice was strange, twisted and distorted by his dual mouths and multiple throats. "Glibly: I suggest that the clean-up is your responsibility, considering that I have already -"

His hand reached into his pocket, tugging out a set of holo-lenses, and slotting them over his eyes.

"- taken out the trash (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mR3jnW2kcUs)."