Across the galaxy trackers beeped to life as an All Points Bulletin flashed across the dark webs of the Bounty Hunter Guilds and Scholae Palatinae space. The grim face of the Justicar shimmered in the shadiest of smoke filled dens.
“My daughter, Komilia Lap'lamiz, has unfortunately damaged the property of the Proconsul of Scholae Palatinae. She is immediately wanted for questioning - ALIVE - as well as her accomplice Elaine Conrat. You are to find her and bring her to me. Contained within this data package is her last known location and the contact with whom you may work with. Bring my daughter to me…relatively unharmed,” Kamjin’s voice was stern as his face faded from the screen.
Dag Duh Dug looked around at the assembled group of bounty hunters, mercenaries, Imperials, and who the heck knows what else. They had gathered in one of the private rooms of The Salty Dug and he already was pissed that Kamjin wasn’t going to pay for the room.
“||Look, we all know why you’re here and you probably don’t know why I’m here. Kamjin doesn’t believe any of you are going to find his daughter and he hired me and my group of adventurers to do it for him. However,||” Dag sighed and rubbed his eyes with his foot. “||However, Brotherhood law or some such Bantha poodoo required him to publicly declare her a fugitive and give you all a chance. So, now I have to babysit you all to ensure you don’t kill her. I don’t like it. You don’t like it and even if one of you gets lucky he probably won’t pay you.||”
Dag glanced at his droid passing out drinks and he cursed to himself, she better be passing out just water…and not the good stuff, the tap water in the back. “||So look, I have to do this but I’m not going to make it easy. My compatriots have been hot on the trail from the moment we heard of what she’d done…so, I’m going to give it to you all as clues. You figure them out, then we’ll go to that spot. We’re going all together. We’re going in public transit, which is going to take time so you’ll have to be fast on the clues. Now, if you get a clue wrong three times then I’m going to just leave you sorry piles of Nerfherders wherever we are.||”
Dag gave that a moment to sink in. “||Okay, first clue…She’s ditched the Tatooine sands and dodged the Dagobah swamp. Look for her where the air is thin and the fashion is crisp.||”
“||Oh, and there’s something or another about a companion. I don’t know her. I don’t care. She’s not technically part of what I’m getting paid for so if you get her…||” Dug shrugged.
Celevon Werd'a had no idea what was going on, beyond the mere basics due to the Justicar’s announcement that came with the APB. This was not due to ignorance, though anyone in his family would argue that this was the case, as the Seeker couldn’t speak more than a word or two of Huttese.
That was why he’d brought along his long time companion and sister-in-law. Or, at least, that was the half-Shaevalian’s thought process.
The reality of the matter was that Jade Erinos-Magnuri was performing a multitude of jobs at the same time. Pilot, Bounty Hunter, translator and babysitter.
The last was the most important, as chaos tended to trail along by the end of his cloak. Whether he was the cause or not was always a matter of debate.
So, the Mandalorian listened to the Dug with a growing scowl. Her irritation was not helped in the least by her brother-in-law’s commentary as he went over the details they had been given again.
“At least there will be something to look at whilst we’re chasing these two and getting shot at, unlike last time… or blown up,” Celevon added quietly as an afterthought as he read through Komilia’s dossier.
“Shut up, Cel. Aren’t they a little young for you, anyway?”
“There’s no harm in looking. Are you going to try to tell me they aren’t attractive?” the Seeker returned.
“Fine, they’re attractive. And deadly. Now, shut your trap,” Jade hissed back.
“It’s a wonderful combination. Aren’t you supposed to be listening to what the bug says?”
“Dug,” the Mandalorian absently corrected, tuning her brother-in-law out.
NeMo stared blankly at the Dug as it rambled on. He wasn’t sure if it was the thing’s native language or something else. At any rate, it was all gibberish.
What manner of beast is this? NeMo mused to himself. *It walketh upon its hands as though they were feet, and with its feet doth it grasp, as if they were hands.”
At length, the beast ceased its speaking. NeMo turned to his IG-100 MagnaGuard, Kéto. “Goodly Kéto, what did the strange thing say?”
Kéto looked back at its master, “Admission: I do not possess a translation function, master.”
“Ah, yes.” He looked over to the two in conversation. It appeared at least one of them understood the Dug. “Prithee, dost thou understand the gibberish uttered by that?” He gestured vaguely towards the Dug.
Jade sighed, going to squeeze the bridge of her nose before aborting the motion as she realized her helmet was on. “In summary? The Justicar doubted any one of us would be able to track his daughter or successfully bring her in, so he hired this lot. Since they don’t think the pay is worth the contract or Kamjin won’t pay out… they’re sub-contracting us and stringing us along on a wild bantha chase. While taking public transit and giving us intel they’ve gathered a piece at a time in the form of clues.”
The Mandalorian exhaled explosively, beyond frustrated with this particular mission. “There was mention of an accomplice or a companion, but they didn’t care enough to learn the details. The clue he’s given is ‘She’s ditched the Sands of Tatooine and dodged the Swamp of Dagobah. Look for her where the air is thin and fashion is crisp’.”
“… Fashion is a hint? Great. We’re screwed,” Celevon deadpanned.
NeMo’s expression shifted through surprised, offended, incredulous, and confused during the course of Jade’s explanation. The Justicar not trusting his own people not to bring in his daughter? Surely, she couldn’t be that much trouble. The whole thing seemed excessively complicated and a bit contrived. Almost as though it were a test.
To see this errand done may win me favor in the Justicar’s good graces.
“‘Ditched the Sands of Tatooine and dodged the Swamp of Dagobah’, eh?” NeMo absentmindedly rubbed at his chin as he thought over the clue. “Perchance Bespin?” He looked up to Jade and Celevon. “Aye, in the upper firmament there floats a lone colony, where they mine the vaporous Tibanna. The folk there are clad, verily, in garments most fine and, uh, ‘crisp’. All three worlds lie yonward, in the southern reaches of the galaxy.”
The door to The Salty Dug let out a protesting hiss as it slid open, and the smell of ozone followed Qor into the dimly lit cantina. He stood motionless in the threshold, his leathery form draped in a muted, sea-worn cloak. The room’s tension tightened with his arrival - bounty hunters, mercs, and killers with fingers twitching near triggers. A few recognized him. Most didn’t. But all felt the pressure shift.
BB-0Q rolled in silently behind him, emitting a low, droidy grumble that somehow managed to sound unimpressed.
“This place stinks of desperation,” Qor rasped, ignoring the side-glances and nervous whispers. His cobalt eyes flicked toward the Dug as it issued the riddle - something about fashion and thin air. Cute.
He stepped to the side of the gathering, leaned into a shadowed booth, and said nothing further. Observing. Calculating. Waiting.
Beneath the table, BB-0Q quietly flashed a private message across Qor’s vambrace:
Encrypted Burst: Residual heat signature - matched Komilia Lap'lamiz. Possible companion injured. Trace signal leads to Bespin orbit.
Qor’s tentacles twitched.
“Thin air and crisp fashion,” he said aloud, just loud enough for a few to overhear. “It’s Cloud City.”
A pause.
“I’ll scout ahead.”
A lie. He wouldn’t lead them to the quarry.
He would lead them astray.
A few moments later…
In a quieter moment, Qor approached the disinterested Twi’lek behind the ticket terminal near the spaceport corner. “One ticket to Cloud City,” he murmured, sliding a sealed credit chit across the counter. “No tracking. No chatter.”
“First departure is in thirty-two minutes,” the Twi’lek replied, eyes narrowing. “You expecting trouble?”
Qor didn’t answer directly. Instead, he leaned down, his voice a cold whisper.
“If they’re still alive… I intend to keep it that way.”
NeMo watched as the Quarren left The Salty Dug.
Scout ahead, indeed, he thought.
There was something off about that Quarren, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Dag pinched his nose harder with his toes. “||Do none of you speak Huttese? I said we’re going together…oh, Sith spit on it. Seems like you’ve all figured out that we’re going to Cloud City,||” Dag said, hopping across the table and furniture to get to the door. “||Come on, we’re leaving.||”
A short while later you all arrive on Cloud City on Platform 342. Dag leads the way down the ramp from the shuttle. He turns around to face the group. “||Now that we’re here I’m going to let you all spread out a little bit. We’ve found clues in several locations in the city that you can choose to explore. You may go to either the Fashion District, the Banking Clan’s local branch, or Platform 259. When you get there an associate of mine will give you a clue. Meet back here to tell me where you’d like to go next,||” Dag said, before pulling out a flask. He took a swig of the warming liquor and then went back up the ramp to wait.
As soon as the Dug vanished up the ramp, Celevon physically turned toward his Mandalorian companion in an expectant manner.
The sigh Jade released was audible through her helmet. “Out of all of the crap you carry on you, not one of them is a translator? Never mind,” the Mercenary stopped him from speaking with an upheld hand. “They found clues in separate locations, so the group is going to be spread out to three locations. There’s the Fashion District,” Jade rolled her eyes at her brother-in-law’s visible shudder, “the Banking Clan’s local branch or Platform 259. Each location has an associate of Dag’s that will provide us with a clue. We’ll return here when we want to go wherever the clue leads us.”
The Adept nodded thoughtfully, glad that he hadn’t brought along his HK droid. It would’ve been ever-so-disappointed that they were under orders to bring their targets in alive… and not slightly maimed. “Where do you think we should go?”
There was an audible humming sound before the Mandalorian shrugged. “May as well go to the other platform. That way we won’t be too far from here… And there’s less chances of you getting lost. Or attempting to burn down the entire Fashion District.”
“I wouldn’t try to burn it down!”
His sister-in-law’s deadpan stare through the helmet was the only reply before she shook her head, turned and began walking out.
“Seriously… I’m not that bad.”
NeMo gazed around their landing platform. He had never been to Cloud City before. The air was indeed rarified, but clean and clear. He breathed deeply as he listened to the Mandalorian translate the Dug’s speech. Neither the Mandalorian nor her companion appeared terribly enthused to visit the Fashion District. NeMo didn’t mind checking it out. After all, “crisp” fashion was in the clue that lead them to Cloud City in the first place.
“I go now to the fashion quarter, there to find Dag’s agent. On my return, I may yet take a turn by the Banking Clan’s branch.” He wasn’t sure if they heard him but didn’t wait to make sure. Kéto dutifully followed behind its master as they strode off the landing platform.
NeMo stopped when they rounded a corner past the transport terminal. He closed his eyes and reached out with the Force to search the teeming populace of Cloud City. He sensed hundreds of beings in an instant, but only once felt of ice.
A grin spread across his face as he focused on the cold of the Quarren; committing the feeling to memory. At length NeMo snapped his eyes open and spoke to Kéto, “He is nigh, that Quarren shade. Mayhap he watches even now. Keep thine eyes sharp. He may yet stand apart from our purpose. If thou dost see him, let me be the first to know.”
"Statement: Acknowledged, master.” Kéto’s footsteps clicked behind NeMo’s as they moved further into Cloud City.
On their way to the Fashion District, NeMo saw a Duro crouched in front of a droid terminal. Tools and diagnostic devices were spread around him as he worked. He looked as though he may have been at it for a while. NeMo stopped just behind him.
“You there, young sir! Spied’st thou a Quarren in armor akin to mine? Speak! When didst thou see him, and what path took he hence?”
The Duro whipped his head around, thoroughly startled. His eyes darted between the Sith to the droid as he stood. "Um…I-I’m sorry. What did you say?”
Kéto answered, “Translation: Did you see a Quarren armored like my master and, if so, where did he go?”
The Duro swallowed in a dry throat. “Yes. H-he was heading toward the Banking Clan branch.”
NeMo turned his head to follow where the Duro pointed. “My thanks, kind fellow. Come, Kéto, let us away.” NeMo and Kéto proceeded to the Fashion District.
The Duro watched the pair walk down the thoroughfare. In the exact opposite direction he had indicated. He scratched his head in thought. "The hell was that?”
The shuttle groaned as it settled onto Platform 342 with a hiss of venting pressure and hydraulic release. A brief silence followed, broken only by the steady hum of repulsorlifts fading into nothingness. Beyond the descending ramp, Cloud City unfolded like a dream in the fog - tall, elegant towers rising into orange-tinged skies, their sleek lines etched with the glow of countless lights. Vapor trails curled between the causeways and catwalks, masking the lower platforms in perpetual mist. The wind here always whispered, carrying echoes of laughter, danger, and long-forgotten deals.
Qor lingered near the rear of the shuttle’s interior, a shadow among shadows. His tentacles twitched faintly as he watched the others disembark, their boots clinking against the metal ramp. The scent of tibanna gas was faint in the air, oddly sweet and metallic - unmistakably Bespin. As Dag gave his briefing ahead, Qor silently slipped back from the group, drawing his long coat around him and letting his presence blur against the shifting haze.
It was here, on this floating city above the clouds, that he activated an ancient technique.
The Force around him bent, warping like ripples on still water. His leathery features melted away like dew on a mirror, tentacles receding, tusks folding in - until another Quarren stood in his place. Narrower, gaunter, older perhaps, with a new limp and a cataract clouding one eye. It wasn’t just an illusion - it was identity undone. No disguise kit, no prosthetics. Just the Force, pulled tight like a veil.
This was the art of the Shadow - an obscure and disciplined branch of Force adepts trained in espionage, misdirection, and silent infiltration. Where Juggernauts favored bludgeons and brutality, Shadows dissolved into the folds of the galaxy, unseen, unknown. They were the poison in a diplomat’s drink, the whisper behind the throne, the figure you never quite remembered seeing.
Faceless was a skill taught only to true Shadows - a dangerous weave of Force energy that unraveled one’s presence and rebuilt it thread by thread. It was more than a mask. It was an erasure.
Qor flexed his new fingers, adjusted the unfamiliar weight of the limp in his stride, and stepped into the mist-covered platform alone. His eyes scanned the sprawling cityscape. Neon signs blinked far in the distance, and speeders zipped between the towers like fireflies. Somewhere here, his quarry awaited - and none would know they were being hunted.
Not by Qor.
Not by a Shadow.
He turned without a word and headed toward the Banking Clan’s local branch. If Komilia was on the run, she’d need credits. And if she still relied on her father - the Justicar - to funnel them through discreet channels, this was the logical first stop. Qor’s eyes narrowed beneath his new guise. He would follow the money.
And the trail would lead him straight to her.
The walk through Cloud City was quiet but not empty. The higher levels were clean, pristine even - with polished duracrete walkways that hummed faintly underfoot, and walls laced with flowing lines of neon. But as Qor descended into the lower levels of the Banking District, the sheen faded, replaced with silent tension.
The neighborhood around the Banking Clan branch had the sterile order of wealth, but without warmth. Marble-tinted plastoid facades loomed on either side of the narrow street, their windows dark, their logos gilded in fading gold trim. Security droids stood motionless at the corners like tomb sentinels, tracking every movement with cold, humming optics. The air smelled of coolant and synthetic paper - too clean, too still.
Pedestrians here walked with purpose. Wealthy financiers, quiet middlemen, and silent guards in polished suits. A few pairs of eyes glanced at Qor, but quickly moved on. No one lingered. Not here. Not near that building.
The Banking Clan branch itself sat at the end of the causeway like a predator at rest - angular, obsidian, gleaming. Wide double doors sat recessed beneath an arch of cold-blue light, flanked by marble statues of Muuns holding tablets and credit ledgers. A surveillance node hummed gently above, its lens following him as he stopped across the street.
Qor didn’t move forward. Not yet. He watched.
Watched the ebb and flow of credits and shadows alike.
This was the right place. He could feel it.
Dag watched from the shuttle door as the various beings dispersed across the cityscape of Cloud City.
For those going to the Banking Clan’s location read below.
||The Banking Clan’s centralized office was abuzz with patrons withdrawing and disposing a variety of currencies and valuables. The area screamed both grandeur and security and the various security droids and agents makes it clear that any attempts of criminal activity would be quickly, and harshly, put down.
Despite all the security a lone Mon Calamari stands out with a long-bore sniper rifle slung over his back. He holds himself with the confidence of a warrior used to conflict but with enough ease to not draw more than the occasionally glare from the security forces.
As you approach, he recognizes you immediately. “I assume Dag has sent you here with one of his damn clues,” Hibbity Jibbity said in the bubbling tone of the Mon Calamari. “Look, I honestly think this is the dumbest thing and I don’t know why Dag is stringing you all along. You’re not going to capture either of these girls no matter what you do,” he said, sighing.
“I tell ya what. If you pay me a thousand credits I’ll just tell you what I found out and we can be done with this.”||
For those going to the Fashion District’s location read below.
||The Fashion District is surprisingly clean and quiet. Where the average outfit costs the GDP of an outer rim farm colony you don’t shop, you live and experience of obtainment. All by scheduled appointment booked far in advance.
You spot a large Trandoshan and a purple skinned Twi'lek, who is missing one Lekku, window shopping. They are the only window shoppers in the area. As you approach they recognize you and the Trandoshan hisses.
“Oh, can it Slyth. We were expecting them,” Lyn said, giggling as she playfully shoved Slyth. “Have you seen the fashion here? This stuff is really amazing and I think I’d look great in this golden dress.”
“That dressss costs more than Dag’s bar,” Slyth hissed as he rolled his eyes. You notice he does go to check his bank account while Lyn turns to address you.
“Dag told us all about this game,” Lyn said, rummaging in the pockets of her oversized pants that hung loosely from her hips. “Alright…here’s your clue,” she cleared her throat to read.
“She vanished from view on silken thread, past e-webs where ancient whispers tread. Not forest, nor field, nor towering hive is where they will hide.”||
For those going to the Platform’s location read below.
||The platform contained a rather ill maintained quad jumper. As you approach you hear a banging and clanking sound from with you. Suddenly, a tiny Jawa appears holding a massive engine part that’s easily twice her height.
She sees you and squeals and holds tighter her prize. As you takes you in she realizes you were the ones Dag told her would be coming and she begins to jabber in Jawaese. She then points to one eye and then points the other and shakes her finger in a clear ‘no’.
For those with Jawaese as a language please ping me and I'll DM you the conversation. For everyone else you'll need to roll to try and figure out what she's saying||
NeMo ignored the Trandoshan; entirely focused on the enchanting Twi'lek and her cryptic clue. “My thanks, sweet one,” He warmly smiled to Lyn and gently took her hand, giving it a kiss.
He continued, not breaking eye contact, “Prithee pardon mine boldness in overhearing, yet I hold it true,” pressing a credit chip into her palm, “That golden gown would adorn thee like the sun itself.”
NeMo closed her fingers around the credit chip with a slow wink before abruptly spinning on his heel and striding away. Kéto followed closely behind. "Come, Kéto, the clue is ours. To the Banking Clan’s hall we go, and see if fortune grant us eyes upon that Quarren.”
Lyn scowled and shook her hand. “No, Slyth. It’s not worth it,” she said, placing a restraining hand on the Trandoshan’s chest as he snarled and glared after the departing NeMo.
The upper halls of the Banking Clan’s branch on Bespin were a gleaming illusion - designed not just to impress, but to intimidate. This was no marketplace. It was a sanctum, a fortress of wealth that stretched into the clouds, anchored in a city that floated above the sky like the galaxy’s own crown jewel.
Everything smelled clean. Sanitised. Processed. The scent of recycled oxygen and freshly oiled droid joints. No life here - just credits and secrets. Qor moved silently through it.
He didn’t belong. And yet, he didn’t look out of place.
His black Inquisitor armor clung to him like shadowplate, light yet structured, tailored not for war but for control. Each motion of his limbs was smooth, efficient, silent. No rattling gear, no exposed weapons. Just layered plating over a sinewy frame - refined and lethal, like a surgeon’s scalpel disguised as an ornament. Over it draped a cloak of grey-scaled armorweave, weightless and fluid as ink, the folds dragging no sound across the polished floor.
He made no impression on the banking patrons moving through the vaulted corridor - just another predator in the forest of money. But he was not here for credits. Komilia.
That name had turned up too many times to be coincidence. Dag had scattered breadcrumbs, yes. But Qor had traced them not with hope, but suspicion.
He didn’t serve Dag. He didn’t serve anyone.
His real reason for tracking Komilia now had nothing to do with capture or bounty. It traced back to a moment on the Proconsul’s luxury yacht - bright lights, expensive drinks, a sea of rich fools pretending their power made them immune to consequence.
And then, violence. Sudden. Predictable.
A lightsaber. A Nexu. A severed limb. Callè, Elaine’s companion, had gone down in a burst of screeching fury and blood. The crowd panicked. Elaine didn’t. She knelt beside the beast, fists clenched, helpless.
Qor hadn’t hesitated.
With hands as steady as ever, he had bent over the predator and restructured her biology. Not just healing - reforging. Sith alchemy laced his work, rebuilding the Nexu’s lost limb with unnatural precision. The bone knitted faster. The muscles formed stronger. When Callè rose again, she was more than she had been.
Elaine had watched in silence. She’d said nothing then, and she didn’t need to.
Qor saw the recognition in her eyes - not trust. But understanding. That was rarer.
So when Komilia’s name came up again, he moved.
To protect her. To warn Elaine. To sabotage Dag’s hunt from within. Now, here, the next thread dangled before him: a Mon Calamari mercenary standing too tall and too proud beneath the Banking Clan’s golden lights.
Qor saw him from across the room - a figure that stood out despite his attempt not to. The long-bore sniper rifle over his back was an unsubtle contradiction in this place of careful wealth and clean suits. Security droids gave him distance, not deference.
The Mon Cal stood like someone used to being noticed. Or maybe resented. Qor could relate to that.
But not with sympathy.
He drew closer, letting the Banking Clan’s opulence fall away into background noise.
“I assume Dag has sent you here with one of his damn clues,” the Mon Cal said, voice gurgling faintly with the tone of a species adapted for deeper waters. “Look, I honestly think this is the dumbest thing and I don’t know why Dag is stringing you all along. You’re not going to capture either of these girls no matter what you do,” he sighed.
A pause.
“I tell ya what. If you pay me a thousand credits, I’ll just tell you what I found out and we can be done with this.”
Qor didn’t answer immediately. He simply stared.
The space between them grew colder by the second.
Then Qor stepped forward - lightly, silently, until the faint shadows of his cloak swirled just at the Mon Cal’s feet.
He tilted his head slightly.
“You know,” he began softly, “I’ve often wondered what makes your kind so… predictable.”
The Mon Cal’s eyes twitched, confused.
Qor continued, tone sharp and measured, like a scalpel carving through skin.
“I was raised on Dac. Not for long. But long enough to hear stories. My people - the Quarren - bled across coral battlegrounds, generations deep, torn apart by your kind’s arrogance. You built your crystal towers and told us we were beneath them. Even when we served the same causes.”
His tendrils flicked once beneath his mask-like face.
“You burned our alliances every time they were made.”
He looked the Mon Cal up and down. “So forgive me,” Qor said dryly, “if I hesitate to hand over seven hundred credits to a gun-waving relic of a species that solves its politics through civil war.”
The mercenary bristled.
Qor leaned closer. His voice dropped. “And don’t pretend you weren’t just fishing for a payout. That rifle is a bluff. The Banking Clan tolerates you because you’re cheap. Disposable. You’re not meant to be here.”
The Mon Cal opened his mouth. But Qor was already weaving the Force.
Not pressure. Not pain.
Deception.
The suggestion settled over the Mon Cal’s mind like a thick fog. A whisper that sounded like memory: You offered seven hundred before. You said it yourself. That was the deal. Qor folded his arms behind his back, posture still and commanding.
“Seven hundred,” he repeated, calm as a quiet autopsy. “And not a credit more. That was your price. Wasn’t it?”
The Mon Cal hesitated.
His jaw tensed. His eyes flicked downward. A flicker of doubt - was it? Had he? - and that was all Qor needed.
“If you’d like to haggle,” Qor said smoothly, “we can bring in the security droids. I’m sure they’d love to question your data sources. Or your permits.” He turned his head slightly, as if listening to a conversation only he could hear.
“But I’d prefer… discretion.” The cloak shifted behind him like ink on oil.
His blue eyes never blinked.
It was clear that neither Celevon nor Jade spoke Jawaese, merely staring in silence at the small being with the pilfered part.
“You’re the one that gets into trouble like this… What would you be saying?” the Mandalorian queried.
The Seeker’s lips curved into a smirk. He had taken his helmet off the moment they entered the platform. “‘You saw nothing’, of course.”
The Jawa jabbered excitedly and pointed to him.
Jade sighed. “How are we supposed to understand the clue? Must we engage in charades?”
Both humanoids were silently for a moment whilst the tiny Jawa stared back.
“Oh!” Celevon jumped slightly, then started feeling around on his armor before he triumphantly pulled out his translation visor. As he put it on, he realized that his sister-in-law was staring at him. “What?”
“… You’ve had that this entire time?”
“I forgot,” the Force Disciple muttered sheepishly, continuing to fit it on his head. It was a fairly useful piece of equipment, as it translated both audio and visual input.
As the human female began cursing under her breath, there was a distinct sense of amusement from the Jawa.
Hibbity Jibbity stared at the Quarren. His neck tendrils twitched as he smirked. “I’ve dealt with Sith far more powerful than you and far scarier. The price is now fifteen-hundred and I can assure you the rifle has done more to erode people’s smugness than all the Quarren bubbles on what little shore exists upon Dac.”
Qor’s eyes narrowed beneath the folds of his brow, his posture rigid but unmoved. The smirk on Hibbity Jibbity’s face stirred something ancient in his gut - a hatred passed down like a disease.
He had known plenty of Mon Cala in his time. Sanctimonious, bloated with idealism, always swimming upstream while the world burned around them. This one was no different. Greedy, self-important, and worse still: enjoying it.
“You flinch at the word Sith like a performer on a stage, mouthing lines you barely understand,” Qor said, voice thick and briny, as if dredged up from some deep trench.
He leaned forward, the subtle ripple of his tendrils a twitch of disdain.
“You think credits buy safety? That a rifle earns respect? I’ve dissected things far worse than your ego with duller tools and cleaner hands.”
His fingers hovered just above his datapad, the amount already primed. One tap would feed this barnacle.
But his mind wasn’t here - not really. It was with Komilia, scared and hunted. It was with Elaine, who didn’t ask to be dragged into the undertow. He wasn’t chasing shadows for glory or coin. He was doing it because someone had to.
“Take your fifteen-hundred. Choke on it. And if you send me in the wrong direction…”
A pause. The air around Qor cooled.
"…then all the rifle’s smugness in the galaxy won’t save what’s left of you.”
He pressed the transfer. And silently vowed to make this information bleed, one way or another.
Hibbity confirmed the payment went through and gave the Quarren a mocking salute. “Hey, you do you buddy. I’m sure you’re really bad and scary when you wanna be. Go look on ||Ghorman||. Not that it’ll help you knowing that. I intend to get paid for this job for a change.
Hibbity turned, mutter some slur against Kamjin, and left.
The word slithered into his thoughts like a blood-slicked scalpel.
Qor didn’t flinch, but his mind surged with old data - clinical, cold, and quietly bitter. A planet bruised by history.
Once the site of a massacre. Now just another colony scraping by under the patchwork rule of corporate blocs and planetary militias who pretended the New Republic still meant something.
He’d worked there once. Not as a Sith, not even as an alchemist - just a surgeon for hire. In those days, the galaxy had been fractured, raw from Hosnian Prime’s destruction. Hospitals were underfunded. Clones and stormtroopers alike limped into repurposed garages for patch-jobs. If your arm was shot off, Qor would sew it back. If your spleen exploded from a spice stim, he’d scoop it out before the blood ruined the carpet.
He remembered Merian Voss, a Twi’lek with radiation burns and nerves of cortosis. She ran a micro-clinic out of a hangar bay in the refugee quadrant. Took credits, jewels, or favors. No questions. No names. No morals.
If Komilia was on there… she was hiding. Or hurt. Or both.
His eyes returned to Hibbity Jibbity, the Mon Cala waddling smugly into the cloud-smog.
Of course it had to be a Mon Cala. Self-righteous algae-breathers. Always thought they were swimming above it all. This one just traded ethics for smugness and sold it as business savvy.
Qor schooled his face into something resembling gratitude - his tone even silkier than before.
“My thanks, Hibbity. I’ll be sure to remember your help. When this is done, if anyone asks where the trail began… I’ll keep your name clean. Unless you’d rather be famous.”
He moved beside the Mon Cala, non-threatening but close. Too close.
“Transport’s back that way, yes?” he asked casually, gesturing not to the open platform, but toward a side corridor veiled in mist and neon glow. “Through the alley. Quicker, quieter. No schoolers pretending to be bounty hunters. No tap-dancing Ugnaughts with glowsticks.”
A faint smile tugged at his lip - beneath it, something older than charm.
“You’ve done well. At least walk with me. One minute of your time. For closure.”
His boots shifted, soft against durasteel. His mind already dissecting scenarios.
He didn’t need a scalpel to cut.
Hibbity eyed Qor and stopped at a line for a teller. “I’m good. But if I were you I’d assume one of your companions either figured out the clue sooner or got Tiny talking. I’m gonna take my time here. Be real leisure like and make sure your credits don’t go anywhere.” He glanced at his wrist device. “Ooh, tick tock little Quarren.”
Qor tilted his head, his gaze unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. Hibbity’s smugness oozed like an untreated wound. The Quarren’s tendrils twitched once, barely perceptible.
“I respect your need for leisure,” Qor said calmly. “But I prefer to arrive at public transport without any… accidents.”
He reached into his coat and drew a slim credit chit, holding it between two fingers like a card.
“A short escort. Quiet company. No questions. No witnesses. You get a bonus, I get my peace. 500.”
His blue eyes didn’t blink.
“Consider it a parting gift… or hazard pay. Komilia isn’t going anywhere. But if my credits do, I might feel inspired to collect them from… less cooperative tissue.”
The smile that followed was polite, professional. Surgical.
He extended the chit. “Shall we?”
Silence.
Hibbity vanished into the crowd without a word.
Qor let out a low breath through clenched teeth. No need to force it. Not here. Not yet.
“Coward,” he muttered, turning from the branch and slipping back into Bespin’s mist-drenched maze.
He filed the planets name away behind his eyes - an old scar from a fractured galaxy. Refugees, shadow clinics, missing names. If Komilia had run there, she wasn’t hiding - she was surviving. And if Elaine was anywhere near, she’d need him.
The public transport dock hissed open. Qor stepped aboard, quiet, controlled.
“I’ll find you, Komilia. You and Elaine both. And if anyone’s hunting you…”
A pause. A stillness.
“…I’ll bleed them clean.”
The tram doors closed. The city disappeared behind him.