A seedy dockside district on Nar Shaddaa—grime-slick streets beneath the endless glow of holo-ads, the stink of fuel and spilled ale clung to the air. A place where the desperate and the dangerous blended together, where even the stars drowned in the city's electric haze.
Braze moved through the filth-ridden streets, the sounds of hissing steam vents and the distant hum of sublight engines added an queer ambiance. The docking sector reeked of rust and rot, the acrid burn of scorched coolant stuck to the back of his throat. Neon lights buzzed erratically overhead, their flickering glow threw jagged reflections across the puddles pooling in cracked duracrete.
He was dressed in dull, dark attire, hidden beneath a blackened cloak with the hood drawn high. Nothing ostentatious, nothing that drew eyes. Yet, eyes were on him anyway.
Somewhere out there, a reptilian bounty hunter he'd slighted in the past had put forth a grudge bounty on his head. Lies mixed with exaggerations, half-truths became wild tales, and whispers twisted into something far larger than the slight that started it. The bounty had spread, mutating into something far worse. And Braze, unaware of how much his name had grown in infamy, had no idea just how much larger that price had become.
His rather public role in bringing
Marlon Sularen
to justice had painted a new target on his back, and the underworld had taken notice. In the eyes of the Hutt Cartel, that young Jedi—barely more than a kid—was now a decorated war hero. The kind of name that carried weight. The bounty had originally claimed he had committed multiple crimes against the Hutt Cartel, listing him as an enemy of their interests:
- Destruction of cartel property.
- The execution of criminals without due process before a Hutt official.
- Aiding the Evocii in armed rebellion.
- And worst of all—murdering a Hutt by the name of Bookga, right here on Nar Shaddaa.
Braze had never even heard of Bookga. But that didn't matter. Someone out there needed an excuse.
And so, somewhere in the shadows, someone had given him one.
The Death Mark had been issued.
But Braze wasn't here for himself.
He had intercepted a distress call, fragmented but urgent. A Republic diplomat from Sakiya, kidnapped and smuggled through this port. The transmission had been garbled, but the desperation in the voice cut through the static. "Please, if anyone receives this, they're taking me—" Then silence.
The coordinates led him straight into the belly of the underworld, where crime festered unchecked, and the air hummed with the promise of violence.
A cantina, half-eaten by a gutted freighter, pumped deep bass from within. The holo-sign above it sputtered in protest, barely managing to spell out "The Velvet Quiver" in flickering red letters. Smugglers and spice runners poured out onto the walkway, laughing, drinking, sliding credits between calloused fingers under the indifferent glow of the city.
Above it all, high in the steel spires, a rifle scope caught the light—just for a second.
Braze exhaled slow. He wasn't stupid. He knew a trap when he saw one.
The problem was, he'd already walked into it.
- Gear
