Crash!
The clay wall of the cantina shattered outward as a battered, bleeding form was hurled face-first into the dirty street.
A second later, the massive, imposing silhouette of the T-850 stepped through the dust.
The machine gripped two remaining bouncers by their collars with a single hand each, slamming them violently against the hard-packed soil.
Thud!
The mercenaries were left completely cross-eyed, sprawling in the dirt as they coughed and retched up their cheap midday rations.
A few seconds later, another mercenary sailed out of the broken threshold, dropping into a heap.
Daemon Kane stepped into the sunlight, balancing an empty core-glass bottle in his hand as Trent walked out beside him, adjusting his scuffed leather sleeves.
The brawl had cracked and closed in a matter of minutes; the T-850 alone had systematically broken the cartel thugs before they could even draw their pieces, and neither Trent nor Daemon were the type to sit back and watch.
As a Legendary scout and operator, dropping a handful of local street-thugs was entirely routine for Trent.
For Daemon, while he knew better than to reveal his invisible current in broad daylight, cracking a heavy bottle over a mercenary’s skull to secure a tactical opening introduced zero complications.
Besides, the mounting administrative friction of the past week had left him incredibly stifled; the sudden violence provided the perfect outlet to vent his bottled-up aggression.
“You arrogant piece of garbage!
You think you hold leverage over me?!” Daemon snarled, spitting out a barrage of Earth-born profanities, completely indifferent to whether the local denizens could parse his words.
His internal alignment was shifting erratically.
The sudden rush of anger was sweeping through his cognitive blocks, blurring his restraint.
His eyes carried a faint, bloodshot edge, and a predatory whisper in the back of his mind urged him to tear the surrounding thugs down to the bone.
“You miserable…
Bantha-droppings…” the downed mercenary wheezed, attempting to spit blood at his boots.
Daemon didn’t hesitate, snapping the broken base of the bottle down into the spacer’s jaw.
The impact sent a wave of absolute, unvarnished release through his senses, his negative thoughts detonating all at once.
His focus completely fractured, and he let out a dark, guttural roar that echoed down the alleyway.
“Get out!”
The shout carried a terrifying, rhythmic vibration, mirroring the snarl of a predator.
Though the volume barely cleared the street, the underlying weight of the voice struck the onlookers with a deep, psychological dread.
Without breaking his stride or looking back, Daemon threw his left hand out, catching a hidden mercenary attempting a tactical flank and sending the man sailing across the lane.
The surrounding crowd, always eager to witness a blood-spill, paid no attention to how a human youth could hurl a grown fighter several meters with a casual swat, nor did they spot the micro-arcs of blue static dancing across his fingertips.
They were entirely frozen under the brutal, overwhelming dominance of the T-850 and Daemon.
“Move out.
Back to the freighter,” Daemon ordered, his breath coming in ragged shifts as he delivered a final, calculated boot to the mercenary’s ribs.
“We set a vector for Mos Espa.”
Scanning the alley, he watched the remaining cut-throats quickly turn their gaze away, utterly terrified to look him in the eye.
On a lawless frontier world, raw violence was the only currency that bought absolute passage.
“Those runts belong to the Needle-Rat ring,” Trent noted, rolling one of the unconscious enforcers over with his boot to expertly rifle through the man’s utility pouches for hard coins.
“A petty local crew that handles street enforcement for Jabba.
We should scrub our footprints; they likely have trackers nearby, and they’ll be calling in reinforcements.”
“Your data harvest is remarkably fast,” Daemon noted, a tight grin returning to his face.
They marched back toward Truda’s docking bay, the civilian foot traffic parting seamlessly to clear their path.
However, as they crossed beneath the tattered awning of a collapsed mud hovel, a low, cold voice drifted from the deep shadows of the recess.
“I field a logistics contract. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Ten thousand wupiupi.
Do your blasters clear the terms?”
Daemon stopped, his brow furrowing as he turned toward the shade.
A green-skinned Falleen woman was leaning against the crumbling masonry, a high-caliber projectile sniper rifle slung casually across her shoulder.
Daemon’s first instinct was to disregard the prompt and maintain their vector, but Quinto grabbed his sleeve, whispering frantically.
“Boss, consider the ledger.
Jabba completely gutted our profit margin on the previous drop.
If we don’t secure immediate credit liquidation, we won’t even possess the capital to clear our fuel lines at the next port.”
Trent offered a casual, relaxed smile, stepping forward to bridge the distance.
“If you intend to buy our corporate leverage, a dirty alleyway seems like a poor boardroom, don’t you think?”
“Your enforcer possesses remarkable physical metrics, and your flight frame is a solid build,” the Falleen woman replied, her cool gaze tracking the T-850.
“My assessment indicates you can finalize the assignment.”
Trent cut straight to the core mechanics.
“And what is your personal cut of the transaction fee?”
“The distribution log is outside your parameters,” the Falleen replied coldly.
“I am aware that Jabba withheld your baseline contract fee.
You require these credits.
Do we lock the terms?”
“Ten thousand total.
Five thousand upfront as a non-refundable security deposit, and you upload every localized telemetry file regarding the target before we break orbit,” Trent countered smoothly, his long years on the frontier mapping out the negotiation.
“Otherwise, find another bucket to run your border.”
“Locked.
Follow my lead.” The Falleen turned, hoisting a heavy durasteel hatch hidden beneath the rags of the hovelfloor, revealing a reinforced ladder descending into a subterranean bunker.
Trent paused, exchanging a brief, silent glance with Daemon.
Receiving a subtle nod, the pilot descended into the dark first, with Daemon and Quinto locking into the secondary slot, leaving the T-850 and Spard to secure the entrance above.
Reaching the fortified underground chamber, the Falleen activated a secure holocomm terminal, casting a flickering pillar of blue light into the center of the room.
The figure that coalesced within the projection was exceptionally tall and lean, standing nearly two meters in height, its skeletal frame appearing as though a human silhouette had been heavily compressed and elongated.
It was a Muun.
His skin was a flawless, chalky white, wrapped in a heavy dark cloak that threw a permanent shadow across his upper features, while an integrated mechanical respirator completely encased his elongated jawline.
“These are the assets you isolated for the contract?” the Muun asked, his synthesized voice carrying a metallic, chilling echo as his eyes tracked Trent and Daemon.
“Correct.
They represent the most reliable and lethal extraction operators currently lingering within the sector,” the Falleen answered.
“Excellent,” the Muun murmured, offering a slow nod.
“I am Hego Damask II, your contract holder.
Your operational instructions are remarkably straightforward.
Travel to the planet Mygeeto, secure a high-value asset identified as Semyne, and extract him safely to the world of Roon.”
Hego Damask II.
The name struck Daemon’s mind like a physical detonation. This story is hosted at g.com.
His pupils dilated in shock, and he immediately dropped his chin, hiding his gaze beneath the lip of his desert hood to prevent the automated terminal from tracking his sudden facial panic.
Darth Plagueis the Wise.
Trent remained completely oblivious to the galactic scale of their client, focus strictly on the mechanics.
“A basic extraction run.
Is that the complete file?”
“I assure you, the instructions are precise,” Hego Damask replied smoothly.
“However, you must maintain a high state of tactical awareness.
The fact that I am utilizing external operators to finalize his extraction indicates that alternative factions retain a deep interest in his termination.
Success will yield substantial credit liquidation, alongside…
the invaluable economic backing of Damask Holdings.”
“What is the defensive profile of the opposition?” Trent pressed.
“This is an un-chartered, non-governmental contract,” the Muun noted, his tone dropping into a freezing register.
“Therefore, your opposition is everyone.”
Trent paused for a brief moment, evaluating the variables before offering a micro-nod toward Daemon.
Turning back to the hologram, he confirmed, “The terms are agreeable.
Our crew accepts the contract.”
“The tactical dossiers for Semyne will be uploaded to your flight computer shortly,” Hego said.
His hidden gaze suddenly shifted, locking directly onto Daemon’s still form.
“Your companion…
his biometric posture indicates…
a distinct trace of apprehension.”
Daemon’s heart hammered violently against his ribs, but he forced his muscles to relax, maintaining a loose, indifferent spacer stance.
Trent covered the gap seamlessly.
“He’s a fresh recruit we pulled from a frontier mining grid.
Green as grass and rattled by big spenders.
With Quinto and me at the helm, the cargo clears.
You don’t need to worry about the baseline labor.”
“Reassuring.
Ensure his compliance does not introduce a variable into my investment.
That is a critical parameter.
Your flight must reach the coordinates within eighty-nine standard hours,” Hego commanded slowly.
“We’ll clear the line,” Trent finalized.
The transmission severed, the blue light dissolving into the dark.
The Falleen woman stepped forward, dropping a heavy, woven pouch of hard currency into Trent’s open palm.
“Five thousand wupiupi.
The remaining allocation will be wired to your corporate ledger upon verification of delivery.
Our window is exceptionally narrow; break orbit immediately and do not deviate from the nav-point.
You do not possess the leverage to survive a breach of contract with that man.”