HellfireSky

We were the only clones in the local May 4th celebration last Saturday. CLONE COSPLAYERS WERE ZIP AND ULTRA RARE I'm not even kidding. We only had a Rex last year and he sadly couldn't make it this year.

So! Other than us both the main performers were Boba Fett and Fennec Shand, a stormtrooper, Kylo Ren, and Darth Marr (a Legends character made it into an original-trilogy-dominated convention it's nuts). We also had a Cal Kestis who arrived a bit late but still a joy to have around 😎

So few people know about TCW and the animated series—only the goated ones! We had a Leia cosser wanting to take a picture with us saying something about being sandwiched between two pretty men (she meant us) sgwhfsgwfs good to know some people are aware that clones are attractive 😆

VERY LOOKING FORWARD TO DO THIS AGAIN!

Everything looked blurry from where you were sitting, especially since the steam from the vent underneath the ledge smoked up your goggles. You swiped a gloved thumb across the glass, but it only smeared the neon reflection of a flickering Wok-The-Tok restaurant sign into a purplish bruise across your vision. A quick scan of your datapad showed three more black-ops freighters needing a discreet top-off at Landing Pad 98.

Ever since the Empire’s doonium quotas turned your Lothal peach garden into a dusty crater, you’d learned that sentiment didn’t feed your hunger, but volatile liquids did. Selling roadside fuel, decanting refined rhydonium from stolen Imperial drums into repurposed thermojugs for the local swoop-rats, or hauling high-capacity pods from your hidden garage for the larger freighters was the only thing that kept you dry and fed. You knew that hawking it to pilots who’d rather pay a forty-percent markup than deal with official port taxes was a high-risk hustle; one accidental drop, and you’d be a memory. But in the perpetual grime of Janix City, it was the only work that felt as honest as the dirt you used to have under your fingernails.

When it came to the black-ops freighters, you never expected a captain or some kind of head of the operation to buy directly from you. It was always a grunt, some hired muscle tasked with the heavy lifting, hauling the fuel pods on the back of a military-grade speeder whilst the person in charge stayed cosy somewhere in the armpit of Janix.

So when the shadow fell across the ledge, the only thing close to a workbench in your spot, you were unbothered. In your mind, you already had the scene figured out - they’d slide a few credits, you’d bargain, and if they were grunts from the scheduled freighters, you’d lead them to the garage and, kaching, rent paid for the week.

But the shadow didn't move. It didn't reach for a credit chip or a weapon. It stayed static in its place. From the corner of your eye, you tracked the silhouette. A heavy, hooded poncho that swallowed the light. Ugh, one of those guys, you thought. Definitely not a grunt. Likely a swoop racer looking for a high-octane fix, or worse, a member of Nico Deemis’ syndicate. You knew the type, low-level enforcers who hadn't even earned a lesser boss title yet but acted like they owned the sector.

“Whaaat?” You dragged the question out, eyes never leaving the blurry nightscape in front of you, silently cussing at the rain that started to drizzle. “Before you even ask, no. I can’t just give your speeder a full tank for free because you’re with Deemis, or Vario, or whatever the fuck gang you’re pretending to represent today. No discounts for ‘influence,’ and no tabs.”

The silence that followed wasn't the awkward quiet of a shamed gang member. It was a black hole. There was a brief sound of a metallic hiss, the sound of high-end cybernetics servos in the dampness of your corner.

“I am not with a gang,” the voice said. It was lower than you expected, vibrating through the metal ledge and up into your dangled legs. They didn't even sound like one of those cocky gang members, they sounded like an old, tired engine finally being turned off.

You eventually looked back. The neon blue of a nearby corner shop sign caught the stitching of his hood, but his face remained a void. He wasn't looking at your fuel jugs. He was looking straight ahead. Nowhere, and everywhere at the same time.

“Still. Even if you’re homeless, I won’t give it out for free.” You rolled your eyes, turning back to your datapad to hide the fact that your heart was hammering against your ribs.

“Did you water down the rhydonium?" He asked. The question was surprisingly banal, delivered with a calm that somehow felt more menacing than any brawls you’ve ever found yourself in.

As you squinted through the steam, you realised the figure wasn't just a tall man in a poncho. He was a Zabrak, his skin a deep, bruised red, with black tattoos that looked like they had been carved into his flesh by some kind of ceremonial blade. Even in the dim light, he looked less like a person and more like a statue of some ancient god left out in the rain.

“Wild accusation,” you said, finally pulling your goggles down to rest around your neck. You tried to summon your best unbothered glare. “Even if I did, I’ve never had any complaints! My customers keep coming back because my fuel gets them where they’re going without the Imperial tax.”

After a pregnant pause, the Zabrak finally turned his head, sickly yellow eyes locking onto yours.

“Indignation is the shelter of the guilty,” he remarked, voice remaining that gravelly vibration that seemed to harmonise with the muffled beat of a nightclub nearby. “I do not care for your moral justifications, nor the fragile contentment of your clientele. I merely find the mechanics of your deceit... compelling. You compromise the chemical integrity of rhydonium to sustain the longevity of your own survival. It is a necessary subterfuge, is it not? To subsist on the margins of a galaxy that offers nothing but the cold residue of progress.”

He walked closer, the smell of ozone and wet leather overpowering the dizzying scent of the fuel.

“You dilute the flame to stay in the game a little longer. But sooner or later, the engine always stalls. The debt of your mediocrity will be collected, one way or another.”

“Rude,” you grimaced, “doth mother never taught you mannerth?”

For a terrifying five seconds, the only sound was the bass thumping from the nightclub and the rhythmic drip of the evening shower hitting the unsheltered area of the rooftop you were in.

“My mother,” he began, the words felt like a trail of poison coming out of his mouth. He looked down at you with a hollow exhaustion that made your snarky retort suddenly feel very small. “My mother was a leader of witches. And my... past, his only lesson was that manners are the luxury of the weak.”

“So... you’re buying?” You raised both eyebrows, refusing to let his words rattle you. You wondered where this aimless conversation was going, and more importantly, if it was going to end with a kaching or a corpse - preferably not yours, though it was the most possible outcome.

He shrugged before taking a deep audible breath that felt like forever, and dropped a metre next to you. Separated only by a potted plant you carelessly placed to add a touch of decor in the makeshift shop, cybernetic legs dangling off the ledge. “Buy, buy, buy. Even loyalty from mercenaries costs credits these days,” he hummed.

“Huh?” You almost laughed. Mercenaries? Was this guy mad? Who would’ve—

Oh.

A grainy, high-contrast holographic poster you’d seen flickering in the Sector 9 transit hub suddenly hit your brain. A face like hell, eyes like burning sulfur. Without realising it, your jaw dropped. Instinctively, you scooted a few inches further away, worsening the state of your ripped trousers as you let them scrape against the rough metal.

“I know that look,” a soft chuckle escaped him as he took off his hood. “I doubt you’d have the guts to turn me in,” he turned back to the city lights. “Many have tried. All failed.”

You simply rolled your eyes, though your hands were shaking as you put down your datapad. You tried to recall the name from the poster, the letters blurry in your memory until they formed into focus.

“Ma—Maul?”

The sound of his name competed with the thumping bass of the nightclub that got louder as the night grew darker and the ever present hiss of the vents. He didn't react. If anything, he seemed to lean into the sound of it.

“I have been many things. A Lord. A son. An apprentice. A brother. Now I am merely 'Maul' who haunts the corners of this city. A cautionary tale for those who think they can run the underworld.”

“Dude, your head costs a lot these days,” you blurted out. You cussed your reckless mouth the moment the words left your lips. Dammit. This was what you got for trying to survive in the bowel system of the galaxy for too long. Eventually, your filter dissolved in the acid waste along with your sense of survival. It was as if nothing truly scared you anymore, not even sitting a metre away from a death-sentence.

“I am aware. As I have mentioned, many have tried to collect the bounty. None have survived.” He looked out at the horizon where some freighters were idling. “I have paid dearly for the loyalty of a band of Mandalorian commandos. Death Watch. Their commander has not questioned my orders, but I have seen the others... the way they look at me when they think I am not watching.”

He let out another short sigh before he turned his face to yours. “They need to be dealt with, don’t they?”

“If only I could just ‘deal with’ the sleemos that keep putting it on a tab and never pay their shit in full,” you chuckled, ignoring how deeply tired you sounded. “I’d be so rich they’d be on their knees begging me for a discount.” You laughed at your own complaint, the absurdity of comparing galactic-scale treason to a back-alley fuel debt hitting you all at once.

The yellow of his eyes was almost neon in the dark, tracking the way you crossed your legs, and turned your body to face him.

“To you, I am a bounty. To you, betrayal is a matter of credits and unpaid tabs.” He observed. “There is a strange honesty in that. My ‘sleemos’ do not keep themselves busy with credits, they play with brittle loyalties, and false promises, and eventually a grand betrayal. But the rot is the same, isn't it? The weakness of character. The failure to honour a commitment.”

“I just call them assholes,” you tutted, leaning back on your elbows, facing upwards as if your shelter would agree with you. The rain was finally starting to soak through the fabrics of your makeshift shop, but you didn't care. “Is that why you’re not sitting on a throne somewhere in the underground of Janix? Too many assholes to deal with?”

Maul let out a sound that might have been a humourless laugh. “Thrones are for those who believe the seat itself grants the power,” his voice dropped to a near-whisper that fought the noise of the city. “I am no longer that person. And my 'assholes', as you so eloquently put it, are symptoms of a larger plague. One I intend to cauterise.”

“You love big words, don’t you?” You couldn’t fight a small, lopsided smile. “Personally, I’d like to cauterise Myke. He’s uhh… get this, he’s a swoop racer who always loses. Zero moulee-rah in his pocket, and I think he’s also a symptom of a larger plague, as you so eloquently put it. Because not only does he put his fuel on tabs, he keeps borrowing everyone’s credits in the name of ‘sponsorship,’ promising them a big win. Meanwhile, that cold, hard cash goes straight to some stupid HoloNet gambling ring. Jawa Depot, ever heard of it? Fuckin’ hate it. Their ads are everywhere in the HoloNet.”

There it was again, that micro-smile haunting his face. Bathed in the ever-shifting colours of the city lights, his red-black complexions seemed to look less and less diabolical. “Myke,” he repeated, testing the common name as if it were a foreign tongue. “He does sound like an asshole.”

You nearly choked on the humid air. Hearing the most wanted man on Janix use the same term you used for the guy who owed you sixty five credits was the most surreal moment of your life. You let out a genuine, barking laugh. “See? I knew you’d get it. Forget the Empire, it’s the Mykes of the galaxy that are going to be our downfall.”

The micro-smile lingered on his face longer than before. For a moment, Maul looked like a normal guy who had once known how to find something funny. The structure-wide light from a massive health insurance company building in front of you pulsed from a harsh blue to a soft lilac, and for a split second, the red of his skin appeared less like blood and more like the warmth of a sunset on Lothal that you missed so dearly.

He looked down at the wilting baby Lothal Peach plant in the cracked pot between you, the one you carelessly placed, the one kept for good luck - knowing that none of your seedlings would survive the climate of Janix. His tattooed hand hovered over it, fingers unsurprisingly steady, before he pulled his hand back.

“I once had a brother,” he said softly. The authoritative tone was gone, replaced by one that sounded like a memory of a kinder world. “He was... fragile. A weakling, the others called him. But he was mine to watch over. My mother - as I have stated, was a leader among her kind - but she taught us that victory wasn't measured in conquest. She taught us to commune with the trees, to find the life force in the chaos.”

“And he spent his money on Jawa Depot?” You joked.

“Hmpf.” Another muffled laugh caught in his throat, tactfully covered by a dry cough. “No. On Dathomir, the world can be dark. My brother was afraid to venture far from our home. I would spend my days in the wilds, foraging for species he could study. I’ve always preferred the silence of the woods.”

He reached out, tattooed fingertips hovering just millimetres away from your wilting peach again.

“I once found a cluster of redweed in a deep ravine. They only bloom in total darkness, fed by the minerals in the cave walls. I spent hours propagating them in a hollowed out gourd just so I could bring them back to my brother. I wanted him to see that beauty didn't need the sun to survive.”

You didn’t know why Maul was sharing this with you. Why the so-called Shadow Lord of a criminal empire was sitting on a dirty ledge talking about botanical species, but you nodded anyway. Before you could say anything remotely snarky back, he continued, gaze fixed on the hazy horizon.

“And then there were the fire beetles that lived in the forgotten swamps near my village. They are foul, bioluminescent things. Venomous if they nip you, and some subspecies would even eat your flesh.”

“And what’s that got to do with Myke?” You let a small, genuine smile grow on your face.

“Nothing,” he answered.

The silence that followed wasn't the pressurised quiet of earlier. Strangely, it was the kind of silence you shared with a regular customer at 0300 when the galaxy felt too stupidly massive to talk about so you settled on menial things like the increasing gas prices and the quickest way to make credits and get the hell out of Janix.

“Nothing,” you repeated softly, looking down at your own hands, stained with engine grease and the soil of a world you couldn't go back to. “Right. Just two folks on a ledge talking about bugs and losers.”

Maul stared at the rain, eyes distant, as if he were seeing the red sunrise of Dathomir instead of the pouring rain amidst brightly coloured signs.

“I would spend all night catching them in a bottle. I would get stung a dozen times, hands swelling until I could no longer comfortably grip my zhaboka, just so I could put the bottle in the centre of our shared bedroom. I thought if Savage had a 'little sun' in our room at night, he wouldn't be afraid of the eerie magical ichor that seeped into our village whenever mother was communing with her sisters.”

He went quiet for a moment, tilting his head towards the sky far outside the city’s structure.

“He was a fool,” he murmured. “He believed the dark could be bargained with.”

The zabrak turned his head just enough for the colourful neon lights to catch most of his face. He didn't look like a monster right then, but like the boy who used to catch weeds in gourds, wondering if collecting fire beetles would be enough to make his brother safe.

“And that was… centuries ago?” You finally asked. You’d never really bothered to learn about the lifespans of other sentients, but Dathomirians had always struck you as an intense, ancient species. You’d only heard about the witches from stories your mother used to tell you when you were a child running around Lothal, “Come back home before dusk, or the Nightsisters will kidnap you!”.

“That was twenty two years ago. I was fourteen,” he recalled flatly.

“Wait, you’re thirty six? I was expecting three hundred and eighty seven.” You laughed at your own admission, the absurdity of it melting the tension.

“I am a Dathomirian Zabrak, not a Hutt.” He let out another sigh, and you swore you saw him roll his eyes.

“Explains the knee,” you probed, subtly pointing at a tiny spark jumping around the casing of his mechanical joint. It was a small flicker of blue light, almost lost in the smog, but your eyes, trained by years of keeping junk-tech running, couldn't ignore it. “Looks like you took a hit. The stabilisers in your servos are trying to compensate, but the feedback loop is causing a misfire.”

Maul looked down at his leg, watching the tiny spark for a moment. The mechanical limb whined in a high-pitched protest as he shifted his weight. “It is a souvenir from a skirmish down there,” he didn't sound proud of it, if anything, he sounded annoyed. “It functions well enough. Still carries me where I need to go.”

“Yeah, until whatever lubricant you’re using catches that spark and your leg becomes a firework,” you countered. You reached for a compact toolkit you kept tucked under the fuel jugs display case, the one you used to fix the fuel pumps whenever the climate gummed them up. You pulled out a small tube of high-viscosity insulation paste and a hydro-spanner. “Sit still. Or don't. But if you blow up my shop, it’s going to be a real bitch to clean up, and I’m already behind on my night shift.”

For a heartbeat, you thought you’d pushed it. You expected a red blade to light to life and end your career right then and there. Instead, the Shadow Lord simply watched as you leaned in. He didn't move. He didn't even seem to breathe.

You applied the paste with the practiced thumb of a gardener-turned-mechanic, sealing the leak and smoothing the wear-and-tear of his cybernetics. “There,” you muttered, wiping your hands on a rag. “It won't make you faster, but it’ll stop the clicking. Other places would probably charge you a hundred credits for a custom service like this, but consider this one on the house.”

Maul stood up. He tested the joint, the spark gone, replaced by a smoother motor. He looked at his knee, then back at you. “Thank you.” The words were heavy, as if they had traveled a long way through a very dark place to reach you.

“No worries,” you shrugged, throwing your tools back where you found them. “If the scheduled freighters bailed on me, then at least this made me feel like I actually worked today instead of just loitering around.”

“Hmm.” He hummed as he pulled his hood back over his horns, the shadow swallowing his face once more. “You possess a curious brand of mercy,” he remarked. “Most would see a broken machine. You see a flaw to fix.”

“Most would see a murderer, judging from your records. Yeah, I was reading about you on the HoloNet just then,” you added, a little bolder now that he was standing. You waited for the anger, but again, it didn't come.

“Well… we make do to survive.” A micro-smile escaped him again, gone as quickly as a fire in the rain.

“There’s something about you. It’s… um… hard to explain,” you cursed yourself for being reckless one last time. But you’d always liked reading people, and Maul was no exception. “I mean, if you’re up for a chat, or more philosophical rants in High Galactic language, then I set up my station here every Zhellday at least for the next two weeks. On Taungsday, I’m usually over in the Sector 4 bay.”

“I’ll come find you.” Maul nodded.

And before you could even blink, he was gone. Dissolved into the Janix smog, possibly magically manifested somewhere amidst the crowded buildings like a ghost returning to the machine. You shook your head at the absurdity of it. You could have called the local security precinct, but there was no point in reporting a ghost to the very institution that would shut down your illegal hustle in a heartbeat.

Suddenly, your datapad chirped, three immediate pings. The freighters had confirmed their refueling schedule - they were sending their speeders to your spot in less than an hour. Then, a new notification scrolled across the screen. A Kom’rk-class fighter had booked a high-capacity fueling for the coming two days. Neat, you thought. You’d never seen a Kom’rk in person. It was a special Mandalorian ship, at least based on your growing starship knowledge, and that usually comes with a shut-up-money that would pay for a whole new warehouse.