#awio

“So let me get this straight,” Cirak said, watching the swirling ice cubes in his glass like racers around a track as he flicked his wrist. “You want our help tracking down an infamous criminal who - supposedly - has near unlimited resources, his own private army of paid mercenaries, and is known for being able to vanish without a trace the moment anyone shows up on his doorstep.” He leveled Braden with an inquisitive look as he downed the remainder of his alcohol. “Sounds easy enough. Why can’t you and the wonder-Mando do it?”

Cirak shot a glance towards the Mandalorian as he mentioned him, Braden’s answer fading into the background as he searched. He’d taken to a booth alone at the far side of the cantina, back turned to the ambience it so welcomingly provided. It felt like a small slice of Nar Shaddaa jam-packed into a desert hovel, unclean to the point of pungency and so loud he could barely hear either of his companions when they spoke, not that he paid them much attention anyways. Mere feet away from their table a green-skinned twi’lek woman made her way around center-stage as violet light illuminated her aggressively-sensuous movements. On occasion she’d shed another article of what little clothing she already wore, eliciting a whoop or holler from the patrons, Cirak himself included.

The dancer drew closer, and for the briefest of moments they locked eyes.  “You come here often?” she asked in Huttese, her voice barely audible over the din of the music.

“Not often enough,” he responded in kind. “Maybe I should start, if the desert really holds such beauty.” Cirak flashed a rakish smile and raised his glass to her.

She winked, and then returned to her dance.

Grinning, Cirak turned his gaze back to Dekon, who had now taken apart his blaster on the table, either oblivious or - worse - disinterested by the life around them. Stupid Mando doesn’t know how to have fun, Cirak thought, watching the dancer’s body move around the shimmering pole.

Taelros snapped his fingers in front of Cirak’s face, breaking him from the trance. “Kid, when you ask for clarification, don’t let your ears wander with your eyes. These gals aren’t anything you wouldn’t find anywhere else in the galaxy, and with the right job you could buy yourself a hundred dances. Now pay attention: there’s credits to be earned.”

“It’s alright Tael,” Braden said, raising a calming hand. “We’ve all been young before. Although-” he leveled a stern look at Cirak- “Bounty hunters who let themselves think with anything other than their heads tend to not last very long in the business. Keep that in mind.”

“Braden, you have no idea how often this kid thinks with just his blaster, if you follow my understanding. A few years back on Onderon-”

“Stars not this again.”

Taelros took a drink and waved Cirak off. “It’s a fun story, but we shouldn’t get sidetracked any longer. Not when there’s credits to be earned. To save Braden the time of recapping, in short, Cirak, too many hostiles for a two man job, too closely guarded for something requiring precision. And we have more resources than them, what with Meruna and Deim making up for what they lack in specialized roles. We’ll hit hard and hit fast before he can flee and vanish again.”

“Rell Syrn rarely ever sticks around for very long in one place for very long,” Braden continued, “He tends to avoid drawing attention to himself. Keeps away from personally conducting business on overly-populated planets like Coruscant or Nar Shaddaa and sends agents whenever he can. Has a pleasure yacht that nobody ever boards and that he very rarely ever leaves, which he keeps floating around various moons around the galaxy for short spans of time. Never the same one twice. Has a hobby for trophy hunting large game, which is when we’re gonna hit him.” He reached into his pocket and produced a holomap, which he displayed on the table. “He’ll be heading to Cholganna next.”

Cirak leaned in closer, studying the forest planet. “So...what, he’s gonna hunt Nexu? Hardly a unique hobby.”

Braden shook his head. “Cholganna has an indigineous population that’s not yet achieved spaceflight. Separate tribes and whatnot. Hardly capable of resisting blasterfire or more advanced toys.” He pursed his lips, allowing his expression to tell the rest.

“Ah. So he’s scum.”

“Pretty much, but that’s not why we’re getting paid to take him down,” Taelros said. 

“Last week some corsairs under his employ struck an Imperial stealth cruiser. Usual raid and whatnot, except they found something on there that the Imps want back. Badly. Some sort of information they were carrying really wasn’t supposed to fall into anyone else’s hands. And he recognizes it too; supposedly he killed all the corsairs who were on the raid just to keep it from leaking out. They don’t want him alive. Dead only, six million credits.”

Cirak’s eyes bulged at the bounty value, and he gagged on his drink. He wiped the spillage from his lips with the back of his hand. “I’m kriffing sorry, how much?”

“Six million, kid. Split six ways is a million for each of us.” Taelros smirked. “Now aren’t you glad you’re listening to me and not oogling some dancer?”

“Don’t blame me for knowing how to spend a good time, unlike Mando-boy over there.” Cirak pointed back at the Mandalorian’s booth with his thumb.

Braden’s gaze drifted over to where Dekon sat. “You ever heard of the Great Hunt, Kiht?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“It started out as a Mandalorian tradition out on Dxun, but has since opened up to any interested bounty hunters in the galaxy. You’re given the hardest contracts, the most dangerous of the dangerous, and have to hunt them down. At the end a Grand Champion is determined the winner. Rumor has it that Mandalore is considering holding another one soon.” Braden pointed at Dekon, who was just finishing loading a blaster pistol. “That man right there is the next Grand Champion, I guarantee it.”

Cirak shrugged, grimacing. “He doesn’t seem like all that to me.”

“He has hunter’s instincts like nothing I’ve ever seen. Brains just as much as brawn. I’d bet credits on him to take down a rancor with just his fists if the wager came up.”

“Then why doesn’t he just do this himself?”

Braden took a drink. “Like I said, this job has accentuated circumstances.”

“You sure it isn’t a trap? This job I mean. If the Imps want this data so badly, and it’s this valuable, what’s stopping them from just offing us once it’s done?”

Taelros shrugged. “We can burn that bridge when we get to it. Meanwhile, if we get this done right, and if we don’t get double-crossed, we’ll have good friends in the Galactic Empire, plus some cash for spending.”

Cash for spending felt almost like an insulting understatement. During all his years since joining Taelros’ crew, he’d never been a part of a job that held such a vast reward. Most of their contractors were petty crime lords wanting a rival dealt with, or some local government putting a warrant out on someone too dangerous for their own people to handle. On a rare occasion they’d get a contract from a Hutt, but those situations were far and few between. Even then, most of their earnings just went right back to The Reaper’s Prophet for upkeep, or towards their own resupplying for future jobs. By the time things were said and done, he had little money of his own for spending. When he did…

Cirak nodded towards Taelros. “Was the contact at the spaceport, the one for Woth?”

“Yeah, he was, and I’ve forwarded your credits to your account. Already did the deductions for you this time. Go do your thing.”

“What’s this?” asked Braden.

“It’s nothing. Not worth-”

Before he could finish speaking, cheers erupted from across the cantina again. He looked up in time to see the dancer twirl one final time in a rush of silver and scarlet cloth. She bowed, and then strode confidently back behind a curtain on the stage’s end.

Cirak smirked. “I’ll be outside. As wonderful as the sights are in here, I think I might get too distracted when the next one hits the stage.”

“You do that kid,” Taelros said, rising to his feet simultaneously with Cirak. “Braden and I will finish loading up the ship, get her spaceworthy by tomorrow. Might even try to pick up a few more bounties while we’re here.” He shoved a stern-yet-playful finger into Cirak’s chest. “Have your fun, but make sure you’re aboard before we take off. I don’t want a repeat of Chandrila.”

“For the record Tael, you’re the one who took off without checking if I was on board.” Cirak yelled back as he turned, waving a playful farewell as he moved across the cantina. “And it was worth it! You wouldn’t have wanted that noise on the ship!” From the corner of his eye he saw the Mando turn towards the noise, his unseen eyes watching Cirak from beneath the helmet. He could only imagine the glare the armored mercenary was shooting at him. Cirak felt his own mood sour at the sight, even amid the music and lights. He pressed on.

Once outside, Cirak stopped and looked around. Mos Ila had grown quieter as dusk approached. Earlier the streets had been filled with an eclectic mix of all the strange species the galaxy had to offer, bartering and browsing and aimlessly wandering about. Most had returned to their homes; only a small collection of three Jawas remained visible on the block, poking away at some dysfunctional droid they would later take and scrap for parts; it sat there lethargically, seemingly oblivious to its inevitable fate. 

Off in the distance a binary sunset colored the sky in hues of orange and violet. It had a sort of contemplative calm to it. Such natural beauty was uncommon on typical adventures, and for a moment it took Cirak by surprise. He could only stare in silence, watching enraptured as they inched closer to the horizon line. Something stirred in his chest, a longing he hadn’t felt for several years

Cirak shook his head and returned to his task, removing his personal holopad from his pack and logging onto the holonet. The banner at the top of the familiar website read “Coruscant Horizons Mutual: Your #1 provider for all your banking needs” in thick black lettering, the skyline of the planet clear in the background. A mixed family stood in the foreground, the human mother holding up her daughter while a Mirialan father stood beside them with his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Typical image crap, meant to deceive the average person into unearned trust, true of any bank. In reality any banker would set fire to that little family if it meant turning more of a profit. He may be the one killing people for money, but at least he was honest about it.

Sure enough, just as Taelros had said, the earnings from their most recent hunt had been transferred into his account, all eight thousand credits-worth. At least a thousand of that would go to armor maintenance, and another thousand for his blaster pack refills. He frowned, staring at his current balance of fourteen thousand credits, soon to be even less. The swoop bike he’d seen on the holonet had been twelve thousand. If he withheld his normal plans he could afford it, barely. The thought egged him on, the bike’s roar calling him like a siren’s song. 

He blocked it out with a sigh, and continued on with his usual routine. It would have to be some other time. Cirak tapped the link that read “transfer” and selected the alternate account with the new funds.

“Are you sure you would like to transfer four thousand credits to the account “Tyar’s Savings” Mr. Kiht?”

Cirak tapped “confirm” and leaned back. He wasn’t even sure if Jedi were allowed banking accounts, or if their life of monasticism prevented them from having any personal belongings. They already lead such a restricted life, one that Cirak himself couldn’t imagine living. Perhaps they’d brainwashed him into all of their tenets, maybe he didn’t even remember his own brother, but either way the money would be there for him when he came of age.

He glanced back down at the screen. “Would you like to include a message for this transaction?”

Cirak tensed, then leaned back over his holopad. “Hey kid, hope Jedi training is going well-”

He immediately backspaced. The message sounded dumb, especially for having no contact for the past several years.

“Brother, I hope this message finds you wel-”

Backspace.

“Tyar, I’m sorry I haven’t reached o-”

Backspace.

“Take this kriffing money.”

Backspace.

Cirak sighed, refreshed the page, and then declined to send a message. If Tyar wanted to make contact another time it would be his decision, not Cirak’s. The best he could hope for was that the kid would seek him out when the time came, and that both would still be alive for that reunion.

While his holopad remained open, Cirak decided to check his mail. There was already a confirmation regarding his transfer, complete with a hackneyed thank you message from the bank, which he promptly checked for deletion. He scrolled down, deleting as he went. Most of the messages were junk anyways: advertisements for various weaponry he could find at suppliers around the galaxy, new starfighter models worth checking out, possible clients reaching out to him not realizing that he wasn’t the one who handled the new jobs, etc. One message caught Cirak’s eye, though, from a Zeltron man he’d spent time with on Manaan. The message was flirtatious in nature, requesting that Cirak look him up again if he should even be on that side of the planet again. As sweet as it was that this paramour had taken the time to look him up, Cirak only remembered parts of that night, even if those parts were good and involved drinks and dancing. He deleted that piece of mail too.

Tucking his holopad away, Cirak made his way back to the cantina. A new dancer - some human woman with blonde hair and tanned skin - had taken the stage while a fresh series of beats accentuated her steps. Tael and Braden were both gone, their seats taken by a pair of faces Cirak had seen earlier at the bar who now had their holopads out, burning credits that flickered onto the stage and floated down around the dancer as they were spent. Some thugs pushed each other in front of the bar, attracting the attention of a weequay bouncer, whose approach turned them docile once more and retreated back to their seats.

And still the Mandalorian sat in his corner booth with his back to the action, the contents of his own pack strewn out on the table.

Cirak took a seat across from him, waving down a waitress as he did. The Mandalorian didn’t even bother to look up from his assortment of junk, instead continuing to wipe at his rifle with unwavering devotion. There were at least five blaster rifle packs on the table, along with three hunting vibroblades, a thermal detonator, and various blaster parts.

“You know, in most cantinas you can get thrown out for this kind of weaponry being out in the open,” Cirak said. The Mandalorian said nothing in response, not even so much as an acknowledging grunt. “Come on, you can do maintenance when you’re on the ship. You’re missing out on the fun right now.”

The Mandalorian looked up for a moment, then turned his head back towards the dancer. “Not my idea of fun.”

“Of course it isn’t. You Mandos don’t have a concept of fun.”

“I’m focused on what’s ahead of me. The hunt. The fact that I’m focusing on that instead of skirt-chasing is what’s going to keep me around much longer than you.” He slammed a pack into his rifle and then set it on the table.

Cirak rolled his eyes. “Yeah, whatever. Doesn’t matter how much focus you have when things can go kriffing sideways on any given job. Might as well enjoy life while you’re living it, or else when will you?”

The Mandalorian shook his head. “Mir’osik. Short-sighted.”

“I don’t speak Mando’a, so don’t bother.”

“That you don’t speak it is the point.”

“Look,” Cirak said, leaning over the table, “I’m not any happier about working with you on this than you are, but it looks like we’re going to be stuck together for awhile, so can you cool it before I feel like putting a blaster bolt through your skull? After this job’s done we can go our separate ways, forget the other exists, and maybe, if we’re lucky, we can wind up shooting at each other on some later job when we’re on opposite sides. Okay?”

The crimson helmet twitched, and Cirak could feel the heat of the Mandalorian’s glare from underneath it. “Let’s not forget that you insulted me first when you insulted my people,” his voice crackled.

“And your people massacred mine generations ago.”

“You see history only through the lens supplied by the Republic and the remnants of your species. That you are descended from people who survived mine should fill you with pride. It speaks that you have a survivor’s soul.”

Cirak opened his mouth to speak, but found himself without words. While he found the words themselves insensitive, there was resembling complete sincerity in Dekon’s words. Without the genocidal context, it bordered on being a compliment, however harsh the tone might’ve been.

He shook his head. “Look, I didn’t want to spend my evening arguing with a warmonger. I-”

Sounds of conflict drew his attention away from his soon-to-be associate and towards the bar. The previous dancer - now clad in a more modest lounge robe - stood across from a group of three armored humans, her arms folded with a drink in hand. From the appearance of their scrappier designs and cavalcade of scars across their face, it was clear that these three were outlaws of some kind, or at least individuals as used to braving the dangers of the galaxy as Cirak was himself. Their leader wore a coy expression as he spoke to the dancer, though there was no amusement in her face, but rather one of annoyance-bordering-contempt. One partner kept a stern eye on the bouncer and a hand on his blaster, while the other seemed equally amused as the ringleader.

“I’ll be back,” Cirak said, rising.

Their words became clearer as Cirak approached. “For the last time that’s not the kind of work I do,” the dancer said, still speaking Huttese.

“Come on baby, just think of it like a different kind of pole, different kind of dance,” the man said, albeit in Basic. “Don’t be such a tease. I’ve been throwing credits at you all night. Isn’t that a good enough deed for some time with you?”

“I said no. I dance, that’s it, and I don’t spend time with people just because they think their credits mean something. Go away and let me enjoy my break in peace.”

He lunged for her wrist. “Aw you don’t have to-”

His sentence ended prematurely as the contents of the dancer’s drink found his face. “Don’t touch me!” she seethed, backing away.

The bouncer started forward, causing the one minion to start for his blaster. Cirak found his own first - his father’s holdout - unholstering it and shooting the thug’s right out of his hand. All eyes in the cantina turned towards him, the atmosphere now tense from the sound of blaster fire. Despite the blasting beats from the speakers around him, the cantina felt dead quiet.

Meanwhile the bouncer searched himself for a blaster wound with apparent wonder that he hadn’t just been shot.

“Now that I have your attention,” Cirak said, “I think you owe this lady an apology. She’s been working hard all night up on that stage, so when she says for you to leave her alone, you do what she says.” He leveled the blaster at the leader as he stepped between them and the dancer, lining the sights right up with the man’s eyes.

The leader looked to his crew, then back to Cirak with a cocked eyebrow. “Do you have any idea who it is you’re talking to? We’re the-”

“Yeah yeah, some idiots who’re feared around these parts. Take what you want, want what you take. Heard it before. Shot them too.”

“We have you three-to-one.”

Cirak glanced between the three men. “I like those odds,” he growled, “I’ll have you all dropped before your buddy there pulls out that other blaster from the back of his pants.”

The group’s leader scoffed and looked back at his men as though this were the most ludicrous thing they’d encountered together. They chuckled along with him and shrugged. Then, at once, they drew. 

It all happened in seconds. Cirak brought his blaster down hard on the leader’s nose, shattering it. The man crumpled with a pained grunt, dropping his own weapon in the process, and as he fell Cirak turned his attention to the pair behind him. They couldn’t react fast enough to their leader falling out of the way of their aim, and it took them a moment too long to readjust. Cirak’s first shot found the leftmost one right square in the forehead. He made no sound as he fell, dead instantaneously. 

Just as he was taking aim on the third the man another shot rang out, striking the thug in the chest, the force of which sent him careening over the bar counter. Cirak turned. There, still in the booth, sat Dekon of Clan Arrun, still looking through the scope of his blaster rifle. Without a word or even a gesture he set the rifle back down on the table and began cleaning it once more.

The rush of gratitude faded quickly, however, as Cirak turned his attention to the groaning man at his feet. Blood streaked down the thug’s nose and mouth as he looked up with hatred and fear in his eyes. “My men! You shot my men!”

“Career hazard. They should’ve known better.”

“You kriffing alien!”

“You really should know better than to insult a man who’s got a blaster aimed at your brain,” Cirak said. He pulled out his holopad and opened it to the Bounty Hunters’ Guild database. “What’s your name there handsome?”

“I ain’t telling you nothing.”

Cirak pushed his blaster to the man’s forehead. “I can just shoot you now if you’d prefer.”

The man was silent for a few moments longer. “Antelv. Antelv Langot.”

He entered the name into the database and scanned Antelv’s face. Several long seconds passed as it searched for anyone in the trillions of the galactic population who may have angered someone enough to place a bounty on their head, and which planets they were known for frequenting. 

No results.

“Well Antelv, seems no one has any strong preference for whether or not you live or die in this unforgiving existence, so I’m gonna let the lady decide.” Cirak looked over to the dancer. “What do you say,” he asked in Huttese, “Lives, or dies?”

“I’m sorry,” Antelv croaked, sending bloody spittle across the cantina floor. “I’m sorry!”

The dancer gave a cursory glance over the pathetic man bleeding in front of her, then nodded to Cirak. “Let him live with the humiliation you’ve shown him.”

Cirak shrugged. “Well, her decision’s final.” Just as a weary smile crept onto Antelv’s face, Cirak brought his blaster down once more on his skull, knocking him out cold. His unconscious form sprawled out onto the floor, and around them people began turning their heads away from the scene. Music took their focus once more, and life returned to the cantina. The bouncer approached, threw Antelv over his shoulder, and then vanished outside.

The dancer took a seat at the bar, draping one of her green lekku over her shoulder. “Thanks for the help,” she said, “Not often we see patrons here who are brave and handsome.”

“Not a problem.” Cirak twirled his blaster, holstering it. “Ordinarily I’d ask if I could take the seat next to you, but given the circumstances…” He glanced down to the bloody puddle by his feet.

“His problem was thinking that credits could control me,” she said, “I dance because it’s fun and I choose who I spend time with because I want to, not because I’m paid.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides he was quite rude, and you’re quite cute. So by all means, take a seat.”