Private Revenge, Served Cold

[Darth Defias]

The Acolyte
Path of Destruction
​

Kryla Cooperative Mining Colony,
Outer Rim

For a month now, the executive council of the Kryla Cooperative had been stalling talks with the Dark Empire over a partial acquisition of the mining rights of the colony. A month in which the Kryla Cooperative, emboldened by the Empire’s defeat at Coruscant, had been subtly sending aid request transmissions to the Galactic Alliance in hopes they would send a strike force to intimidate the Imperials away from any negotiations.

Unbeknownst to them, the transmissions had been intercepted by the ISB and jammed from reaching Coruscant. Believing the Alliance Defense Force would arrive any day now, they had continued the stalling strategy against the Empire.

With the Imperials’ resources stretched over the Core Wars, the task of acquiring this meager mining fell out of priority until it was dropped on the desk of the Carlac Sith Academy’s Overseer — Lord Neveon. Given the Coop was hardly a threat to dispatch valuable resources much needed in the Core, he had given the task to Vydra, a Rattataki Sith Acolyte who was widely regarded as one, if not the most promising disciple of the Academy.

A pirate from a young age, his sensitivity to the Force took a wandering Sith Lord’s attention who brought him to the Academy. The rest of his pirate crew followed heel and joined the Dark Empire as privateers fanatically loyal to their captain.

For Vydra, taking the Kryla Mining Colony was a blue milk run; his battle-hardened Rattatki crew would make quick work of the settlement and bring it to the Sith on a silver plate, further elevating Vydra’s status and reputation in the Academy. Even finally lifting him to an apprenticeship. To him, this was the last stepping stone from reaching new, unmeasurable heights of power.

Unfortunately, he had drawn the ire of another acolyte — Defias; an acolyte who was regarded with high potential in the Force but ridiculed over his obsessive curiosity with ancient Sith teachings, texts and manuscripts of a time immemorial and long past. Vydra had humiliated Defias in the sparring ring, shaming him in defeat among the rest of their peers and instructors. A loss Defias simply could not swallow.

Learning of Vydra’s task, whether by chance or the Force, Defias was quick to act. With vengeance brimming over his mind, to the point it threatened to consume him, Defias sought the services of a Duros mercenary by the name of Jon Dromon.

In the weeks leading up to Vydra’s inevitable raid, Defias had tasked Jon to prepare the miners to fight. A challenging job given most of the miners had never lifted anything but a mining laser and fired it at an unmovable rock for hours at a time. Defias had the numbers, but Vydra had the expertise.

**

A cloud of dust rolling in the direction of the colony heralded Vydra’s arrival. Over two dozen Rattataki pirates riding swoop bikes and led by a Sith acolyte, hungry for glory and blood. Standing on a small, makeshift sentry post within the colony, clad in Sith light armor over dark robes, and a Sith sword sheathed tight on his hip, Defias watched the raiders’ approach through a set of macrobinoculars.

“They’re coming.” Defias said, putting down the macrobinoculars to the side, then asked Jon, “Are we prepared?”

Jon Dromon​

​

 

[Jon Dromon]

It wasn’t every day that Jon Dromon took on jobs that went against his character as a bounty hunter. From serving as a bodyguard one day to being a trainer and drill sergeant the next. These miners were idiots at best when it came to weapons. Yet, more or less, they were expert shooters by the time this Duros was finished with them.

Conveniently, a number of the miners were indeed experienced with firing lasers already. Sure, that meant mining lasers, but some of this sophisticated equipment required even a minimum of accuracy. So it wasn’t much of a leap to trade the triggers of mining lasers for the triggers of blasters.

Others could swing a pickaxe. Jon generally tried to keep himself at a distance from his enemies, relying on his blasters and grenades when it came to combat, but experience taught him that shit happened. Sometimes CQC was inevitable. So, in that same vein, a number of these miners were more easily trained in the ways of blades if the occasion came to swing away at more than ore veins.

“Your targets won’t be rocks,” Jon would bark. “They will be moving and shooting back at you. So kriffing shoot!” He’d roar. He taught. He lifted a sword at one point but, more often than not, blew smoke from his cigarra, and would shake his head or nod.

No, the Duros wasn’t listed in any system as a combat instructor. However, the bounty hunter did have a budding reputation for cold calculation. Jon Dromon was known to get the job done. He was versatile, more than just on the hunt, and given his occupation he had to know armor and armaments. He had to be dangerous. So he was picked for this job for credits and didn’t give a chit about the politics or his boss’ mission.

Standing beside Defias, Jon wore a helmet that prevented a cigarra sitting between his lips, but was armed and armored with various weapons on his person from blasters to daggers, grenades and other blades. He shared his employer’s vision, at least in the sense of gazing through a pair of binoculars.

“Nope,” the Duros answered casually. “Soldiers are prepared. You got miners fighting beside you.” He shrugged. “But Jon Dromon knows a thing or two about guerilla warfare so, yeah, sure. We’re prepared.”

Lowering his pair, the hunter circled a finger in the air and signaled for a miner. One good thing about mining was miners were trained with explosives. They didn’t need military-grade proximity mines. A simpler type would suffice and had already been mined into the surface.

“Those speeders come our way,” Jon breathed easy as if blowing smoke. “More than a few ought to be taken out by hidden explosives.” Miners also knew how to use various kinds of industrial grade steel.

He gestured further. “See those metal posts?” Reserved for one mining colony purpose or the other. “Chains will give way after the boom-boom. Horizontal sweep. Potentially knock back any dumbass riding into said chain drawn taut as a tauntaun’s claws.”

Finally, Jon dipped his thumb backward. “Mining lasers got new upgrades. Function the same way as a cannon. Not a direct comparison, maybe, but you didn’t exactly give me an army.” It is what it is. He was just here to get paid.

Darth Defias

 

[Darth Defias]

The Acolyte
Path of Destruction
​

Kryla Cooperative Mining Colony,
Outer Rim

Jon Dromon struck a stark contrast to Defias. The casual, almost apathetic and nonchalant, attitude shone like a glowing rod in the dark clouds surrounding the Sith Acolyte. Defias stood calm and composed on the outside, following the mercenary’s gestures across the barren field with his gaze, but his mind was in a vortex of ruminations for his inevitable clash with Vydra.

“We live through this--you will receive the remaining pay for your services.” Defias said, shooting a sideways glance at Jon before turning his full attention on the incoming raiders.

The dust storm of speeder bikes approached fast the colony, the roar of their engines growing louder and louder with each passing second. Through the Force, Defias sensed the trepidation of the miners rising as the distant shapes of their assailants took the forms of bulky, pale Rattataki armed to the teeth and blood in their eyes; it felt as a prey staring at the inevitable jaws of its predator. And in the midst of all the dread permeating the air, Jon Dromon stood like a spectator, like a man only observing the galaxy’s food chain in motion from close up; unfazed.

Whether the mercenary was a grizzled veteran who had long accepted death and told her to kriff off, or his confidence in his skills was irrefutable, Defias could not tell.

The acolyte reached out to the ethereal, drinking in the terror that brimmed in the hearts and minds of the miners. He felt the dark side gorge in the emotions and empower him with its strength.

Suddenly, a loud voice boomed in the distance, deafening the speeder bikes’ engines. Vydra. Defias sensed his alertness and surprise, but what orders he barked at his crew to spread out reached their ears only a fraction too late. Explosions ripped the ground open, just as Jon had said, flinging pieces of bikes and their riders in the air. Those that remained continued in their charge – hardly any other option – only to be welcomed by the deadly sweep of chains leaving decapitated riders surging forward aimlessly or bikes lobbed aside as if slapped by a behemoth’s palm; a roar of jubilation resounded across the colony in response.

Vydra’s crew broke off from their charge, splitting into two groups, and for a moment it all seemed as if victory was achieved without the need for any of the miners to get up close and personal with the Rattataki warriors. Even Defias was swept by the ignorant euphoria of triump rolling about the colony; he nearly showered Jon with a grin and wondered whether the man was being underpaid for his service, but his knowledge of Vydra kept his primal emotions at bay. Vydra was not one to tuck his tail between his legs; his ego, his pride, would not let him.

And, truly, not a few minutes later the speeder bikes turned their spear-shaped noses back on the colony. A dozen, or so, remained that had split into two groups and accelerated towards their prized target. Perhaps these were his closest of his clique, Defias thought, as they followed Vydra’s loud orders the moment he had uttered them, and with an enviable precision. Guided by the Force, Vydra led his remaining crew unscathed through the deadly field of traps Jon had laid out.

Defias drew his Sith sword from its sheat just as they approached the meagerly-walled colony. Blaster fire erupted as soon as the Rattataki came in range, but their accuracy echoed Jon’s earlier words – these were no soldiers.

And in true bombastic fashion of which Vydra was known, his bikes’ repulsors flared up and leapt over the walls of the colony right into the fray of miners that had been expecting their assault through the usual entry.

Shrills of death cried out in the night.

“Let’s go!” Defias growled at the mercenary and hurried towards the ensuing massacre.

Jon Dromon​

​

 

[Jon Dromon]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Jon listened to his employer, Defias, after having given his speech of tactics and circumstances in this situation of defiance. Payment for services, the remainder of it, meant everything. There was another something, however. “And a bonus, I hope.” That was always a draw for a bounty hunter whose orbit of existence was credits and reputation. One or the other was greater. Sometimes on the same page. To earn a bonus, however, meant doing more than what was required.

Jon did not wait for a response. Neither did Defias. By that time, the speeder bikes came toward the colony, kicking up dust like something vicious. The hum of engines was delicious. The Duros would get the violence promised to him as much as he offered. It didn’t matter to him that his miners were fresh eggs, tainted by labor, untasted for the saber of warfare. Whether brave or scared, however, they would fight. Or they will die. It was Jon Dromon’s other promise.

As was that of explosions. Speeder bikes and their riders exploded. Chains gave way to decapitation. Yet the charge had not ended. No. The onslaught of the raiders begins this moment. The colony’s cannons fired as much as misfired. Vydra proved true, moving like a hydra, unfazed by the stakes.

“The Rattataki are known to eat their enemies,” the hunter announced to the crowd of defenders as their enemy came forth. “But, if anyone runs away,” the Duros exclaimed. “YOU WILL BE FLAYED!” Truthfully, dramatic displays weren’t his forte, but he did give into the moment. Cowardice would not be rewarded.

Rifle in hand, Jon stood tall atop the wall, took aim, and squeezed the trigger as the riders came. Their weapons weren’t to be understated, however. He managed to knock a couple off their bikes before the walls were getting bombarded, a number of defenders pulverized in one moment, by lasers great and vengeful, but the line did not break. Jon Dromon was promised a fistful of credits to keep this colony in one piece. He did have a reputation to maintain.

“Let’s go!” Defias cried as his sword sang from its scabbard.

“ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH!” Cried Vydra for whatever reason.

“Like I always say,” Jon Dromon raised his blaster, helmet on his face, took aim. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.” He, admittedly, just wasn’t one to exclaim.

What he did was keep his distance from the enemy. Positioned atop the wall, he maintained range, firing down after they vaulted the wall into the fray. The miners didn’t have to be better at melee. The Duros was great at this vantage. That was when someone crashed into his back just then and Jon toppled over the wall, landed on the ground, and lifted his rifle as a sword soared toward it.

Weapon deflected, Jon planted a swift kick into his opponent’s stomach. The raider was shoved over onto his back instead. At that, Dromon planted the muzzle between the Rattataki’s teeth. “Eat this, cannibal.” Finger on the trigger, he squeezed.

Darth Defias

 

[Darth Defias]

Blood, flesh and bones splattered against the black robes of Defias as he passed right by Jon butchering a raider. He jumped over the wall, a large shadow deftly landing on the ground below before hurrying towards the carnage unfolding within the colony.

A massive melee was ensuing across the narrow streets of the mining outpost. Some miners continued firing their lasers up close, caught in the merciless stupor of fear and holding the trigger of their rifles for dear life until a raider’s vibrosword finally met their throats. Others–those who had truly drank in Jon’s lessons—had taken up their power hammers and smashed into the assailants in groups of three, leveraging their numerical superiority.

But the battle was far from over, the contest between numbers and skill ebbed and flowed in a wild river of blood. In the midst of the slaughter, his eyes met Vydra’s; the initial shock on the Rattataki’s face caved in, hacked open by a quake of rage rumbling beneath his pale flesh.

“You…TRAITOR!!” Vydra growled loud enough to be heard through the tumult of battle. The hate in his voice reverberated through the Force and involuntarily opened up a clear path in the melee between him and Defias. Without a shred of doubt or hesitation, the two Sith charged at each other and clashed in the very heart of the fray. Sith metal struck against one another with such brute strength, a flurry of sparks showered both and a miniature shockwave swept the dust off their ankles.

Meanwhile, Vydra’s lieutenant – a warrior cold-blooded enough to not fall enthralled into the pit of berserker rage as his kin – issued orders to the raiders to regroup. A mass, chaotic brawl as this only served to the benefit of those with a greater number. He roared repetitively until the raiders finally heeded his command, turning the mayhem of their fury into a razor-sharp, purposeful and precise blade of rampage to turn the flow of battle against the miners.

A challenge to Jon Dromon’s reputation and skill.

Jon Dromon​

​

 

[Jon Dromon]

Spoiler: Music OOC

Jon Dromon rose from his blaster’s blow to his enemy’s skull. These raiders were bold, more so than the miners in comparison, but the latter were cornered like animals, which made them desperate. They had nothing to lose except their colony and their lives and both had taken work to obtain. They were trained by this hunter to not relinquish either to their enemies so easily and, if they did, the hunter would be their enemy.

“Y-YOU REALLY MEAN THEY EAT THEIR ENEMIES!?” A miner asked the hunter right beside him as they both trained their weapons on the Rattataki. “I…maybe mistook these punks for Rakata.” He shrugged. “Or did I?”

The miner blinked at him for a moment. Distracted, his skull blew open in an instant from a stray or aimed blaster bolt. Jon blinked away, completely unfazed, as he trained his pistols on the shooter and fired away.

A moment later and someone shouted “TRAITOR!” The Duros glanced at his employer. Defias began to duel with Vydra. That was fine. The former just better not lose or Jon would have to clean up the mess with no payment and bonus. Except, if it came to that, perhaps he could make the most of it by finding a new employer or just pilfering from the bodies and their wallets and purses before calling it quits.

At the moment, Dromon was too busy dealing with his own opponent: Vydra’s lieutenant. They exchanged bolts. The Duros ran sideways, twin pistols blazing. The Rattataki ran adjacent, sporting a carbine. They missed each other but Jon didn’t miss the explosive approach of the lieutenant’s troops like a riposte as they moved.

“NOT SO CLOSE!” Jon barked at a cluster of miners. One chucked grenade later and they exploded. Idiots. Dromon returned the favor. The Rattataki raiders didn’t make the same mistake. They were spread out. Didn’t matter anyhow. The flashbang cried out a moment later as the Duros dove behind a crate and sprayed away.

He popped a couple of disoriented assailants but he suddenly could no longer spot the lieutenant.

“POP QUIZ, HOTSHOT!”

There he is.

The lieutenant appeared right beside him, muzzle toward the hunter’s skull, too close for comfort. Jon threw one of his pistols at the barrel, knocking the shot off course, then threw himself forth toward his opponent.

No, the Duros wasn’t one to get up close and personal, except when the occasion called for it. This one did. Abandoning one gun, he replaced it with a hilt to fill his grip. It was a big hunting knife that vibrated as it soared toward the lieutenant’s wrist.

The Rattataki raised his blaster, parrying the swing, as Jon trained his remaining pistol toward his foe’s face and pulled the trigger. A misplaced bolt struck his blaster and knocked it out of his fingers before it hit.

Jon quickly kicked the carbine from the lieutenant’s grip. The Rattataki grinned something vicious, withdrew his own big knife, and now there were two duels in this pit. Fine. In this colony on fire, violence was the Dromon’s fuel alongside Defias.

Darth Defias

 

[Darth Defias]

Meanwhile, as the miners struggled to follow Jon’s orders, countering the Rattataki lieutenant’s tactical maneuvers to the best of their (dis)ability, Defias faced off against Vydra, weighing his own options. Their blades locked in a violent struggle, each acolyte straining to overpower the other. The swords barely separated them, both feeling the spittle from each other’s grunts and rasps.

“Did you not learn?! Your strength is a mere speck against my power, Defias!” Vydra barked. “Your head will roll before the Overseer, but not before I humiliate you in front of this rabble!”

Suddenly, Vydra disengaged and delivered a powerful kick to Defias’ gut, sending him reeling backward, gasping for air. Seizing the moment, Vydra thrust his blade toward Defias’ chest. Defias barely ducked in time, the blade whistling over his head as he rolled away to safety. With a snap of his open palm, Defias unleashed a telekinetic wave at Vydra sweeping friends and foes alike

But Vydra was prepared. His protective barrier, embraced his body like a second skin just as they had been taught at the Academy, shielding him from the blast as if a mere breeze had passed over him.

“Weak!” Vydra growled. With a force-enhanced leap, he closed the distance between them, aiming an overhead strike at Defias. Blades met with a furious clash, the impact forcing Defias’ feet to skid backward through the dirt.

The pendulum of the battle swung from one side to the other, its ultimate fate decided by whose heads would fall first.

Jon Dromon

 

[Jon Dromon]

Spoiler: Music OOC

This was a duel. Like the one being waged right beside it. Yet they were as similar as they were different. For this engagement, there was no Force. Neither the bounty hunter nor the lieutenant were Force-sensitive. Their strength was their strength. Their power was their power. They could only move as fast as their bodies permitted. It was just a different kind of skill and experience in order to kill.

A knife in the Duros’ hand, a knife in the Rattataki’s hand, they slashed and stabbed. There was a misconception to this kind of engagement, however, which was that knife-fighting was as fluid and fancy as that of lightsabers. Whatever was going on with Defias and Vydra with their blades, these blades were a different story. It was violent, it was dirty, it was quick and chaotic, up close and personal, given the limited range.

If Jon did not have armor on, or his opponent, it would have been even more bloody. It was already brutal. One man sought to control the other’s hand by grabbing it. That left him open to an attack by the other hand or a kick. That created distance. The next moment, with unpredictable strikes, blades were exchanged in full.

Stabs happened at blinding speeds. Blood spewed from Jon’s hip beneath his armor. Blood spewed from his opponent’s armpit. A blade grazed the Duros’ cheek. A blade grazed the Rattataki’s neck. Jon slashed. His foe leapt back. Jon lunged. His foe sidestepped. It was expected.

Jon rolled forward, his enemy’s knife whipping into the wind behind him. He got to his feet, kicked dirt into his opponent’s eyes, and stabbed repeatedly. A whirlwind of strikes. His blade penetrated defenses at the chest and stomach. Yet, the reality was that you could survive a number of stabs at least initially, and this Rattataki was no infant.

He slammed his head forward toward the Duros out of nowhere. The hit connected. Jon staggered backward as his opponent recovered. The pendulum of the battle swung from one side to the other, its ultimate fate decided by whose heads would fall first.

Darth Defias

 

[Darth Defias]

Defias knew he had to change tactics. Summoning every ounce of his strength, he feinted a low strike, then twisted his body and swung high. Vydra, caught off guard by the unexpected move, barely managed to parry in time. Their swords clanged again, and Defias pressed his advantage, delivering a flurry of rapid strikes that drove Vydra back.

Vydra’s eyes widened in surprise and anger. With a roar, he unleashed a powerful Force push that punched through Defias’ own protective burier and sent him flying backward, crashing into a solid wall. The impact rattled his bones, but Defias gritted his teeth and pushed through the pain. He could feel the dark side coursing through his veins, fueling his strength.

“Is that all you’ve got?!” Defias taunted, “I expected more from you, Vydra.”

With a snarl, Vydra charged again, his blade flashing in a deadly arc. Defias met him head-on, their swords shimmering in a blur of motion as they traded blow for blow. The sound of clashing steel and the grunts of exertion filled the air. Defias could feel his muscles burning, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Despite his physical potency, he knew he could not outlast the grizzled Rattataki in a pure duel of physicality; Vydra was a man baptized in the flames of battle.

Amidst Defias’ rising despair, the Force suddenly revealed an opportunity, a vision he sought to manifest into reality, and Defias seized it. He leapt backwards, two dozen yards away, disengaging from their fight.

“Yes, run away, coward!” Vydra roared with a satisfied snarl on his face.

Defias shut his eyes for a brief moment, wolfing in the terror, the suffering and the anguish burning all around him – a testament to the never ending cycle of violence and conflict in which the galaxy existed.

Peace is a lie.

An inferno blazed from within the core of his very existence and he released it out in the world, unleashing a devastating Force Blast. Vydra’s protective barrier shimmered into existence, but the blast was more than he could handle. It sent him hurtling backward, his barrier absorbing the worst of the impact but not the collateral damage.

Behind Vydra, a small building, weakened by the ongoing duel, could not withstand the blast. With a deafening roar, it collapsed, massive chunks of debris raining down. Vydra barely had time to scream before the rubble buried him, leaving only a bloodied, mangled mess in its wake.

The duel was over. Vengeance had been served. Defias reveled in his victory, a cruel grin glowing in the direction of Vydra’s buried remains. The dark side was his ally, and with its power, he would rise above all who dared to challenge him.

His head swiveled left and right, seeking Jon’s face from out of the crowd engulfed in battle. A part of him hoped the Duros was dead, absolving him of the hefty payment that was due.

Jon Dromon

 

[Jon Dromon]

Spoiler: Music OOC (Recurring)

He might have tripped but his feet were planted firmly into the ground that served as the arena of this makeshift tournament. He was allowed to stand, by his own ability and experience as much as the universe permitted it, though Jon Dromon was never superstitious. It didn’t matter to him that the Force, or space magic, existed to begin with. His resilience was his own. His skill was the result of plugging bolts into skulls and not some dunghill garbage between light and darkness.

However, in this battle, skill and experience were like leaves in an ocean breeze; they mattered little and less. Chaos was the element, not choreography. If only it was that easy. In a knife fight, however, events were brutal and bloody and you were lucky to be spared a flick of metal across the skin; unless you were maybe Force-sensitive to begin with. Neither combatant was.

After the headbutt, the Duros recovered as much as the Rattataki did. Only the latter was suffering from stab wounds despite his resilience and adrenaline; recovery meant he would have to sit still or rest on a bed if not in a bacta tank, and none of this was his current luxury.

Thus, as soon as he regained his footing, Jon drove forward toward his enemy. He feigned to slash with his knife. His enemy was ready for it, crossing his arm to block, but Jon’s free hand whipped as quick as the wind for a punch into the lieutenant’s stomach. Then the hunter was spinning.

Whipping back around at his enemy’s flank, he swung his blade across his hip, returning the gesture from earlier, beneath the armor. It was a hit. He arrived at his opponent’s back just as a building collapsed.

Maybe it was loyalty. Maybe Vydra and his lieutenant were lovers. Whatever it was, the hunter’s only loyalty was limited to credits, and he was rewarded for it in more ways than one. As the building collapsed, his Rattataki enemy was distracted, and it cost him this match.

Jon kicked the back of his knees so that he fell on both of them. Seizing his chin with his free hand, he lifted his enemy’s head upward in a swift motion and, concurrently, planted his blade at the lieutenant’s neck, and dragged it across his skin. Blood ran red. So ended his opponent.

Dromon shoved the body of his enemy forward as he landed unceremoniously into the dirt. He turned to face his employer, discovering that he had won his own match. That was good. “I’ll take my payment up front.” He said as he wiped blood off his blade. “And the bonus.” He spoke with nonchalance but it was just as much a command. “Or else we got another problem on our hands.”

Darth Defias

 

[Darth Defias]

To see the battle turn and victory be claimed brought a sense of wild exuberance to Defias' weary body and mind. Alas, it only lasted until his eyes found the mercenary alive, and somewhat well. He had hoped for his demise, but Jon Dromon had turned out to be the real deal. A man whose reputation in the world for guns of hire was not the product of fables and myths.

"I'll take my payment up front." He said as he wiped blood off his blade. "And the bonus." He spoke with nonchalance but it was just as much a command. "Or else we got another problem on our hands."​

The acolyte gave him deep glare of contempt. He felt the need to snap his neck, but knew well he was tapped out. The duel with Vydra had consumed all of his reserves and some more, and Defias' training was still nascent. A grizzled veteran who had prepared the common miner to triumph over an experienced band of Rattataki pirates was perhaps a bite too big to chew. Besides, in time, he could use him as a valuable asset in pursuit of his goals. And as far as Defias knew, solid mercenaries were a rare sight these days.

He pulled out the datapad from his utility belt and his digits reluctantly tapped on its screen. "Ten for the job, as we agreed. Five -- the bonus..." a long pause followed, interrupted only by the beeps of a cash transfer to Jon's account, before Defias added, "... and your silence. You never had this job, it never happened."

Turning heel around and departing from the mercenary, he called out, "Make sure you stay alive -- your services might be needed again."

Jon Dromon

 

[Jon Dromon]

Ten for the job. Five for the bonus. Maybe the mercenary could negotiate but he wasn’t unnecessarily greedy under the circumstances. He wasn’t afraid of his company. Force-users were just another challenge against his armor and armaments in the end. One didn’t need to be a Mandalorian to prove this.

Bleeding a bit, needing medical attention, he had his medkit and would do it himself when in position. His opponent had given him hell. So had everyone else given each other, including this sorry colony of miners. Lighting a cigarra, Jon blow smoke toward the sky.

“What job?”

He didn’t expect an answer. He didn’t even glance back at the miners. Jon Dromon just walked off into the distance, toward his ship, and would leave this planet the next moment. There was always more profit and future business.

Darth Defias