4

Movement came slowly.

Bastila shifted her left foot forward an inch. The ankle was swollen, the skin an ugly shade of purple and blue spreading nearly halfway up her calf. When her pod had crashed onto the surface of Taris, the impact had left her unconscious, twisted metal lacerating her arms while her left leg had become trapped within the wreckage. She had only woken up when she had felt the shaking and heard the screech of a plasma torch cutting through the durasteel of her pod. She had been met with the muzzle end of a rifle, her shoulder and abdomen still stinging from the consecutive stun blasts.

And now… well, now she wasn't sure where she was. Her head was throbbing constantly, sharp spikes of pain drilling into the base of her skull. She swiped a hand across the heavy vice of metal locked around her neck, fruitlessly searching for any clasp or release mechanism. Nothing, just like all the other times she had inspected it. She settled back against the hard wall behind her, closing her eyes and slowing her breathing, slipping back into her Jedi training that had been instilled into her since she was a small child. The shooting pain made concentrating difficult, but Bastila pushed it down. Pain was just a state of mind, and there was nothing within her mind that she couldn't control.

Her captors were disorganized, rough, and liked to spend too much time bragging about their blasters, but they were also ruthless. She's witnessed several other survivors of the Endar Spire be shot if they were too grievously injured to be sold. Sold to where… Bastila could only imagine, and in the dark hole where she had spent much of her time the past few days, her imagination ran wild; slavery, illegal fighting pits, perhaps given over to the Sith. She wondered what her fate would be. Since her capture, she had been kept separate from the others; her only visitor, a dark-haired man with thin lips near, constantly pulled into an ugly sneer.

Brejik, she believed his name was. He had come swaggering into the dark room, tapping her injured leg until she had awoken. He had triumphantly held out her lightsaber, twisting the hilt around in his hands while firing off a battery of questions. She had remained silent, but it didn't matter. Brejik already knew who she was; her brown Jedi robes and the fact that the saber had been found in her pod were a dead giveaway to her status. The gangster had taken great pride in his capture of her. And his subsequent abuse, using the neural disruptor to overload her body's synapses, sending pain exploding across her nervous system and throwing her deep into unconsciousness.

He had visited her several times, always asking questions, using the disruptor, and never taking a chance. It seemed the brute was wary about her strange powers. He never lowered his guard around her, never turned the disruptor off, or allowed her to leave this room. He fed her once a day, giving her just enough to stay alive but still keeping her weak and docile.

"A fine mess you've gotten yourself into," she murmured to herself. Alone, injured, and trapped in a hostile world with no means to contact the Jedi or the Republic. Force, facing down Revan, may have been easier than this.

She let out a soft breath. No, battling Revan aboard his flagship nearly two years ago had been a long and brutal fight and one she had nearly died from. She pushed those dark memories from her mind and instead focused her attention on the neural disruptor around her neck. She concentrated on the fine mechanisms of the disruptor, tracing the weld work and screws, centering herself on one seam, and working her way into the node. The work was slow and arduous, the neural disruptor sending sharp waves of pain up and down the length of her spine whenever her concentration heightened. She heard a soft click only in her mind, one of the nodes shorting out. Bastila allowed a small, tired smile twist her lips up briefly. A fine mess, indeed.

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Avner strapped on his last gauntlet, pulling the fastenings tight before grabbing the ST-W48 rifle propped up by his bed. He popped the thermal clip taking note of the remaining energy cells; it should be enough for whatever trouble they got into down in the Lower City. Across from him, Carth sat on a worn chair, staring down pensively at the trooper helmet clasped in his hands.

"What's on your mind?" He probed. The other man's mood had become increasingly distant ever since he had returned with the Sith armor. He had been vague in explaining how he had obtained it, causing Carth to become... suspicious? Avner couldn't place Carth's mood and, frankly, didn't really understand where this newfound hostility originated. Sure, the two weren't exactly chummy, but they had been at the very least cordial at the start of this 'Save the Jedi Princess' mission, but the more Avner pushed for them to do things one way, the more Carth resisted.

Carth was silent for a moment, dark eyes studying his face before he finally answered. "Nothing."

It was surly and borderline defensive, and Avner had to force himself to not roll his eyes. "Could have fooled me."

"I'm fine, Marek, no need for the interrogation," Carth shot back.

"Relax, Carth, this isn't an interrogation. I just want to make sure you're alright."

Carth narrowed his eyes, clearly mulling over something. "Let me ask you something, Marek; since the Endar Spire, I've been going over what happened, the ambush, our survival… and some things just don't add up. Maybe you could tell me your take." His voice had a hard edge, as if an implication was poorly hidden within his question.

Avner felt the familiar prick of his guard going up. "Why ask me? I'm just a grunt who saw what every other grunt on that ship saw."

Carth shrugged, but the movement was too stiff to be considered anything but calculated calm. "Just trying to figure things out. No one knew of our operation or of which routes we were taking; convenient that the Sith just happened to find us a few days into the mission."

"Maybe Command didn't plan the mission as well as they should have."

A dark look passed over Carth's face. "This is more than just some higher-up fuck up. I'd seen enough of those during the Mandalorian Wars, men's lives thrown away carelessly, but this… what happened on the Spire was different. A whole ship and everyone on board lost, and Bastila was unable to use her powers to protect us. Dragged into an unwinable fight, forced to crash land on Taris, and now…"

"What are you saying?"

"I just find it surprising that we were the only two that survived… that you survived trapped on the destroyed lower decks, unarmed and outmanned," Carth said.

"Are you trying to accuse me of something," Avner murmured. His voice was low, the deep, rugged baritone giving his words a dangerous gravel. He had never been accused of misconduct in his two years of service. His records were exemplary, having fought the Sith all over the Outer Rim. A sickly hot feeling began to bubble low in his stomach.

"I don't know; you were a last-minute addition to the roster by the captain that not even the Jedi knew about, and you survived where everyone else didn't."

Avner took a second to respond, tamping down his anger. He didn't want to say something stupid, something that would make Carth distrust him further. "Are you implying that "I" had something to do with the crash?"

A look of guilt flashed across the other soldier's face for a second. "No… well, maybe. It's just odd that the one person the Captain requested somehow ended up living through a Sith ambush."

"The Captain requested me because of my experience navigating the Outer Rim. I've spent most of my deployments fighting on the galaxy's fringes. I know of certain hyperlanes that aren't officially recorded," Avner explained calmly. He could see Carth's hard expression beginning to soften.

"Well, whatever your connection to the Captain was, your presence here just seems a little too convenient. Just like how you got this armor and defeated every duelist in the pits," Carth points out. "Your skills… they're beyond anything of a normal grunt."

"I'm a crack shot, and I have a lot of luck on my side."

Carth shook his head. "It's more than just luck. Look, I'm probably wrong and just being paranoid, I'm sorry, but I learned long ago not to take anything at face value."

Avner leveled his gaze with Carths. "I had nothing to do with the crash, Carth, I promise."

"I know, your probably right, and I really don't have any reason or evidence to suspect you, but it's better to be safe than sorry."

Avner sighed; he wouldn't break Carth of his mistrust with just one conversation; his actions would have to prove his claims. "You're a pretty paranoid man."

Carth looked away. "It doesn't have anything to do with you personally, okay? I just… don't trust anymore. Not since…" He was about to say something more but cut himself off abruptly. "Never mind. Let's just focus on the mission."

The conversation was over. Carth offered no apologies for his suspicion, and Avner didn't press him for one. It didn't matter anyway. As soon as they found this Bastila and got her off-world, Avner wouldn't need to interact with the other man again. He could return to trudging through some forgotten backwater mudhole and treat this whole experience as some badly forced shore leave.

With the Sith armor, no one stopped them as he and Carth hurried through the streets toward one of the main lifts that would take them down to the Lower City. In fact, everyone gave them a wide berth keeping their heads down and eyes averted.

"This is working to our advantage. No one questions the Sith, so no one will stop us," Carth said over their personal HUD comm.

"Up here maybe, but down in the Lower City may be a different story. Swoop gangs run the lower levels, and they're notorious for fighting back against any authority," Avner replied back. The gang war was all anyone could discuss in the Jaded Ackley for the last few days. Apparently, it was growing worse the longer it dragged on, and the Sith had nearly pulled out of the lower levels altogether.

"A plague infects our city! We can't sit idly by as this pox infects our society and destroys our way of life!"

Avner turned and caught sight of an older man standing astride a small platform clearly hastily put together surrounded by a throng of humans. "Fellow humans, please listen! I bring this warning so that you may prepare! Prepare for the great plague that is destroying Taris! Please listen to me!"

He slowed and stood at the very fringe of the crowd, wondering what this man was going on about. Murmurs break out amongst the group, and the people pressed in closer.

"My name is Gorton Colu, and I have seen what this plague can do! Won't you join my cause? Won't you stand with me, band together to stop the spread of vermin and scum across our great planet?" The elder pitched his arms upwards, the crowd clearly captivated by his performance.

One man, smaller than most, stepped forward. "What vermin do you speak of, Gorton? Is it the Sith?"

A bold question to ask when he and Carth were within earshot. Gorton smiled and shook his head. "No, my friend, I speak of the hideous aliens who infest Taris, the Wookies, and Bith, Cathar, and Ithorians; all are a blight upon this city. They bring misfortune and violence wherever they go!"

Chatter broke out, and some began nodding along to Gorton's rambling. Avner felt his heart sink. He had heard words like this before; mistrust of aliens ran rampant through much of the more heavily populated worlds of the Outer and Mid Rims. When times grew rough, people often looked for others to blame, others who may be different. It was words he had been on the receiving end of.

"People, do not fear, for I have come up with a solution to our problems! I have formed the Anti-Alien League! The time for action is now!"

Avner gripped his rifle a bit more firmly in his hand. He didn't step forward, though, nor interrupt the man continuing on with his diatribe, but instead breathed deeply and turned away. He had a far more important mission to complete. Carth didn't say anything as they hurried past the crowds. What could he say?

The main lift stood by itself, a rusting elevator gated off from the rest of the population, aliens and humans alike, moving slowly through the security terminals stationed just outside. He and Carth pushed through the crowds and approached the lone sentry standing guard.

He immediately noticed them and gave them a courteous nod. "Heading down to the Lower City, eh? Good luck; gang wars getting bad down there, more violent than usual. Then again, we've sent more patrols down there in the past for days than we have in the past year. Pfft, don't know what the COs are thinking."

"We'll stay frosty," Avner said.

The guard swiped his pass over the lock, opening the lift. "Keep your head on a swivel; thugs will take a shot at anything that moves down there. If only Command would send us the needed manpower to clean out the scum."

The ride was long, and the further they descended, the more derelict and rusted the buildings became. The air grew thick with smog, so much so that the filters on Avner's helmet had difficulty clearing it out. The oily haze stirred memories of his childhood, of whirring machines and clanking power tools hidden away deep within an asteroid mining facility. The lift shuttered to a stop, the doors cranking open to reveal a close-knit series of narrow alleyways and catwalks spiraling around rickety buildings. Artificial lighting flickered overhead, and the hum of air support systems echoed around them.

The main causeways were packed with people moving back and forth between ramshackle establishments. Slipping between them was a bit more difficult than it was in the Upper City. Most people ignored them; some shot dirty looks, while a few eyed them closely, fingering blasters and blades strapped to their sides. Further down the cramped alleys, the crowds thinned. It seemed few were willing to stray away from the main street, away from the safety of others. Except perhaps the especially dangerous or very stupid. Avner wondered which group he and Carth fell into.

In the Upper City, the eyes that had followed him there were merely curious, if maybe a little wary, of why someone like him was wandering around. Here in the shadowy streets of the Lower City, the eyes that watched now were suspicious and sharp, like those of a predator tracking its prey. Avner straightened his back and strode forward with a definitive purpose; best to get the message out that he was not some cowering animal backed into a corner. He shouldered his rifle, wrapping his hand around the stock's grip. Most took the hint and retreated back into the murk, but the more brazen stood out in the open, hostility rolling off of their bodies in waves.

A motley group of seven stood barring the path ahead. They all appeared to be ill-tempered, hands clenching knives or making fists at each other, or rather at specific individuals. Four aliens, rough-skinned with beady dark eyes, were dressed head to toe in black riding leathers, while the other three wore an assortment of reds and browns.

A tall, lean Weequay stepped forward, shoving back a shorter human. "You wanna start something, you bantha sniffing schutta? Everyone knows to get out of the Vulkar's way!"

The human leaped forward, slamming his fist into the Weequay's jaw. He squealed in surprise and stumbled back. The human's companions, a short, stocky Rodian and a tall, well-muscled Twi'lek, jump to his side, pulling free knives. The Twi'lek swung his short blade forward, catching the arm of one of the Weequays and pushing him down roughly. The human was amid the other two thugs, wildly punching and kicking while spewing curses and insults.

"Karking Vulkars! We'll show you why you don't cross the Beks!" He screamed and viciously began stomping his booted foot onto the unprotected head of the downed Vulkar. One of the Weequays darted forward and stabbed him several times in the back, bright red blood gushing from his wounds as he shouted in pain and surprise. The Rodian turned in shock, leaving his flank unprotected and an easy target for a frenzied vibroblade attack. The Twi'lek was the last one left, the three remaining Weequays descending upon the outnumbered man, stabbing, beating, and cursing him into the ground: his head and green lekku resembling roughly mashed fruit pulp when they were through.

"Fuck," Carth let slip, and it echoed out uncomfortably. The three remaining Vulkars whipped around, seeing them standing only a few feet away.

"Only one thing I hate more than a Bek," slurred the lanky Weequay, his black eyes glistening as he flipped his knife from hand to hand. "And that's a fucking Sith."

Avner didn't wait for them to step forward, and neither did Carth. The intent was obvious, painted clear on their bloodstained faces. Too bad they brought knives to a gunfight.

Miraculously, the human was still alive. He was slumped over, barely breathing; his eyes fluttering open as they approached. He gave them a weak cocky smile, teeth stained red. "Just my luck… Sith…"

Avner quickly set to work pulling out several bacta patches from his medkit, basic combat medicine that he had learned in boot camp, rushing back, taking note of the man's extensive injuries, and trying to figure out which ones were the worst. Carth knelt down beside him, prepping a kolto shot while he applied pressure to the man's other wounds trying his best to staunch the bleeding. He needed professional help, but Avner didn't know where the nearest hospital was or even if there was a hospital in the Lower City.

"We have to get him off the street," the Kiffar grunted, throwing the injured Bek across his broad shoulders; vagrants would be along soon to pick over the bodies. They dashed through the empty roads, thankfully cleared of any onlookers after the fight turned violent.

"Up ahead." Carth motioned to a dilapidated apartment unit standing off to the side. Its windows were boarded up, and several holes pock-mark the roof, evidence of its poor upkeep. Perfect for hiding out in. Carth shouldered the door open, allowing him to slip inside with their hurt ward. It appeared abandoned, with no sign of squatters or unwanted guests besides them. He took the stairs two at a time with Carth hot on his heels. They skidded to a stop at the top of the landing, peaking into empty rooms in a vain attempt to find a suitable one. Most were locked tight, the few that had been jimmied open were trashed, and the furniture was broken or stolen. The very last few on the end were promising, and after he and Carth wrestled the door open on one, they carefully laid the wounded man down on the old, dirty mattress in the corner. A fine layer of dust coated every inch of the room, with two rickety chairs piled up in the corner next to a broken dresser and cracked mirror.

"Should be safe here," Avner noted, dropping his pack and rifle in the center of the room, reaching inside his bag to withdraw a rag.

"For now, at least until someone comes looking for him," Carth said, nodding to the unknown man.

"We need to get him to a medical center." Avner wiped the blood from his armor while Carth paced around the room.

"We've done enough, heh, more than anyone else would have. We have to get back to our mission."

"And just leave him here to die? Then what was the point of us treating him in the street?"

Carth scowled and shook his head. "I don't know! It was a heat of the moment gut reaction! But now it's time to get back to work; there's nothing more we can do. We're in hostile territory with an injured man who we can't drag back up top because the Sith will never let him through. On top of that, we're running on borrowed time to find Bastila. We don't have time to waste finding a hospital and getting him there."

He was right, his logic sound. This man would have probably left them in the streets if the roles had been reversed or, worse, someone who could have attacked them. The smartest thing to do would be to turn away. Avner tossed the rag back in his pack and stared the comatose human down. Something wriggled low in his chest, a soft persistent poke to not turn away.

Don't.

He grabbed his rifle and slung it across his shoulder. "Clean yourself up. I'm going down to see if one of the locals knows about any clinics in the area. I'll be back before you're done."

Carth didn't protest. Instead, he walked over to the Bek and squatted down, checking his bandages with practiced care. Avner easily slipped from the abandoned building, sticking to the shadows and giving the area they had just come from a wide berth. By now, the scene would be crawling with other gang members and underworld denizens looking to learn what had happened and strip the bodies of valuables. No need to rile up the masses further with his presence. No, best to just stick to the back alleys and find someplace where the locals holed up.

The bright neon blinking in the smokey darkness was like a beacon in the deep night. A few beings lounged outside the cantina, Javyars, by the cracked worn sign strung over the entrance. No one stopped him as he ducked inside and Avner was immediately assaulted with the heady smell of burning spice and smoke thicker than the smog outside. Multicolored banners adorned the drab walls, and various beast heads were mounted over the cantina bar and in between cracked holoscreens giving the joint a very tight feeling.

He squeezed between two very drunk Rodians, the smell of booze nearly oozing from their pores, and bumped into a tall green-skinned Twi'lek cradling a small glass.

"Oi! Watch it!"

Avner caught himself and turned, nodding at the other alien. "Apologies, navigating this place is like trying to pick your way through a colicoid nest during mating season."

The older Twi'lek wheezed out a laugh. "Ha! You're not wrong, Buckethead. Javyars is about the only decent bar in the Lower City, and it's always crowded on nights like these."

"What's so special about tonight?"

"Ahhh, the Beks and Vulkars are at it again. Shooting and stabbing each other in the streets, not caring about who gets caught in the middle. Bad scuffle went down not too far away from here; five or six guys got spaced," the Twi'lek explained with the indifference of a man long desensitized to violence. "Whenever they start fighting, everyone runs for cover, usually here to wait out the ruckus. Javyar's got privileges with the swoop gangs, see. No fights here."

Avner felt a prick at the base of his spine and wondered if the old Twi'lek was referring to the bloodbath he and Carth had just run from. "You seem to know a lot about these parts; what's your name?"

The man looked at him for a few moments in silence, eyes narrowing in suspicion. It was unnerving to be on the receiving end of such a look, and Avner had to remind himself that he was dressed in the armor of a Sith trooper, asking questions to a man in an unsavory part of town. He slipped off his helmet and set it on the table beside them, putting his pointed ears and yellow tattoos on full display. The Twi'lek took one look at them and let an easy smile slip back onto his face.

"Name's Uriah; lived here all my life. So that armor really yours? Not many aliens join the Sith, at least not here on Taris."

Avner shrugged and settled into a seat. "Let's just say I'm unofficially a part of the neighborhood watch." He winked, and Uriah let out a loud guffaw.

"You got balls of durasteel parading down here in Sith armor, boy. If the Beks or Vulkars don't shoot you for invading their turf, then the Sith will when they catch up to you," he said, taking another swig of his drink.

"Who says I'll get caught?" Avner fired back with a smirk.

"Kids these days," Uriah muttered, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "And here I thought I ran a dangerous life selling Pazaak cards on a markup."

"Brave man," Avner chuckled as he leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. "I was wondering-."

"Uh oh," Uriah interrupted him, waving down a service droid. "Anyone who starts with 'I was wondering' is about to start asking questions."

"Wellll…" he scratched his shorn black hair.

"A word to the wise, questions will get you killed down here. Ask the wrong ones to the wrong people and…" Uriah drew a finger across his throat.

Point taken.

"So, who's the right person to talk to?"

The Twi'lek shrugged and downed half of his new drink. "Zax, I guess; he's Davik's associate in the bounty office here. Unofficially owns this joint and half the cantinas in the Lower City. He can tell you anything, well, for the right price."

"I keep hearing that name come up. Who is this Davik guy?" Avner asked.

Uriah shook his head fervently. "Ha! I'm not about to start gossiping about Davik Kang in his own place, not with Zax nearby. The only thing I'll say is that he's a bigshot Exchange boss with connections all over the galaxy."

The Exchange: Avner hasn't had any personal run-ins with the crime syndicate, but he knew enough about them. Smugglers, slavers, and criminals all operating within the shadows of the underworld and outside the reach of the law. They wanted for nothing and didn't let anyone stand in their way. "Fair enough. You said there's a gang war going on between the Vulkars and the…"

"Hidden Beks," Uriah finished tapping his long fingers against the greasy table. "Gadon Thek is in charge of their outfit. They used to run the Lower City, kept it safe during the Mandalorian Wars, and weren't too bad. Actually made life a bit better for us. But now the Vulkars are stepping in. They've become bolder ever since Brejik took control. Ruthless little shavit who's got a few screws loose; won't stop until every Bek's dead and the Lower City is under the heel of his boot."

"Yeah, I've seen those gangs' hospitality firsthand." He fell silent momentarily, mulling over everything the other man had said thus far.

Uriah pushed ahead, unaware of his brief introspective silence. "Yeah, and things have only gotten worse since some pods or something crashed down in the Undercity. And now the Sith are tramping around riling everyone up, frack it's a mess."

Avner wanted to praise any god that could hear him on his good luck at stumbling upon this mouthy Twi'lek. "Where is the Undercity?"

"What? It's further down, much further. Deep below the Lower City, completely cut off from the rest of Taris. Terrible place, infested with rakghouls and madmen. No one goes down there and returns."

A sudden crash drew their attention to the front of the room. The two drunk Rodians from before were huddled together with a lanky Twi'lek, chortling and pointing at a short, stocky man standing a few feet away. His skin was pale, like sour milk matching the disdainful expression pulling his thin lips down.

"Go away," the human ground out, clearly unimpressed by the three drunk's antics.

"Hey, no need to get surly, Calo," slurred one of the aliens. "We just wanted to say hi to the big bad bounty hunter."

"One," Calo started, the mood suddenly sharpening, other bar patricians moving away quickly when they heard Calo's utterance.

"Come on, this little man can't be him! He's nothing but a runt," the Twi'lek jeered. "One? You trying to be funny, tough guy?"

But Calo's mood was anything but funny at the moment. "Two."

"You know who we are, Nord? We're Black Vulkars; you can't intimidate us, runt," the Twi'lek snapped, swaggering forward.

"Three." It happened in a flash, so fast that Avner nearly missed it. Calo drew his blasters and let loose a devastating salvo, every shot finding its mark. The three drunks collapsed to the floor a second later. Calo blew on the muzzle of one of his smoking blasters before stalking away, leaving the bodies where they had crumbled.

"I thought you said no fighting was allowed here."

"Yeah, between the Beks and the Vulkars, but Zax's bounty hunters, well, they got special privileges," Uriah groused before slowly getting up. "Damn, gonna be scrubbing their stink out of the floor for a week."

Avner took that as his cue to go. He grabbed his helmet and slipped off into the crowds pressing up against the bar, taking note of the tiny snippets of conversation.

"Calo's gone too far this time; Brejik will have his head for this," one woman said over her drink to her friend.

"Please, Calo is Davik's newest pet, and not even Brejik is stupid enough to cross him," he bit back.

It's much the same at the other tables. He had to keep moving, though, spending only a little bit of time in one place, not wanting to arouse suspicion. Most pay him no mind, clearly used to seeing a Sith trooper taking refuge in the bar when the fighting outside became too chaotic.

"I saw Davik's new spaceship at his private port before the lockdown," one man bragged to his mates cloistered around him. "They say it's the fastest ship on Taris, can even blow past the Sith armada. Called it the Ebon Hawk or something."

He ducked into a small side room off the main bar where several tables were spread out. Various beings sat huddled around the old high-tops eating and drinking or casting eyes up at the holoscreens above their heads.

Two Rodians shoved past him and strutted up to a young blue-skinned Twi'lek sitting by herself. She was dressed in well-worn cargos and a dusty flak jacket shuffling several old Pazaak cards through her nimble fingers, paying the duo towering over her no mind. Avner felt a knot twist low in his stomach. She was in trouble, and the poor girl didn't even realize it yet, but the thugs meant to harm. He stepped forward and leveled his blaster rifle at their exposed backs, ready to fire off a shot if they raised a hand.

"Evening, Bugeyes, still see your breath smells like bantha poodoo like the last time we met." The girl gave them a smirk and continued flipping her cards. Avner stopped and hung back, confused by the kid's relaxed demeanor.

The taller of the two Rodians slammed his hand down onto her table, speaking in thick Huttese. "Little girl should watch her attitude. Wouldn't want something to happen to that pretty face; maybe little girl should run along home."

The Twi'lek's brown eyes flashed. "Who you calling little girl, chuba-face?"

"Ch-Chuba?" the other Rodian thug spluttered. Chuba… a very insulting name to call an adult Rodian. Avner would know; he got a black eye once after accidentally calling one of his squadmates the slang name. "Someone needs to teach you some manners, little girl."

Avner immediately stepped forward at the other alien's threat placing a strong hand on the Rodian's thin shoulder and squeezing it tight. "That's no way to speak to a lady." The gangster wilted under his vice grip, unable to move. His partner froze, eyeing the large rifle held casually in his other hand.

The little lady, however, didn't look impressed. "Just a sec, Officer. Me and Zaalbar will take care of these creeps. Hey, Big Z, come help me rip the legs off these insects."

A massive yet lanky Wookie sat at a table just behind the skinny girl. Honestly, Avner wasn't quite sure how he had missed him. He sat hunched over a large tray of food, light brown fur combed back from tired dark eyes. He grunted and growled in Shyriiwook back. "Mission – I'm busy. I just got my food."

"Ah, quit complaining, ya big furball, you can always finish eating later. Besides, you need the exercise, so get over here," the girl, Mission, jabbed back. What was happening? The Wookie stood, drawing himself up to his impressive height, and lumbered over, glowering down at all three of them. Mission smirked.

"H-hey, we want no trouble with you," the smaller Rodian began pointing up at Zaalbar with a shaking finger. "It's just the girl-."

"You got a problem with Mission, then you got a problem with me," he growled, baring his fangs down at the two quaking bullies. Avner released the one man and wisely stepped back. Best not to get between an angry Wookie and the object of said anger.

"You heard my furry friend; you best hop on out of here before things get ugly!"

The two Rodians practically tripped over each other to get out of the way first, pushing and shoving one another out the door. Mission let out a peel of laughter and appreciatively patted the Wookie's massive paw. "Man, Big Z, I think that's the fastest I've ever seen them run."

"Perhaps I wasn't the only one who scared them off," Zaalbar grunted, nodding in the Kiffar's direction.

"Oh yeah, the Sith trooper in dusty durasteel. Thanks for the assist," the Twi'lek said, flashing a quick smile. Zaalbar rumbled in agreement.

"Not really sure I did anything. You and your friend seemed to have it covered," Avner pointed out.

"Still, it's the thought that counts." She tapped her finger against her chin. "You're not one of the usual bucketheads who patrols down here. Who are you?"

The innocent question took him off guard, and Avner wasn't sure how to respond. It was a risk revealing his true identity to Uriah; telling too many people he was a fraud could draw unwanted attention from the actual Sith. However, he had a sneaking suspicion that the young girl in front of him was not one who could be easily fooled.

The kid didn't seem put off by his silent wariness, though. Instead, she flourished a deep bow. "Where are my manners, asking your name when you don't even know ours? The stupendous Wookie is Zaalbar, and I'm Mission Vao, splicer and pickpocket extraordinaire."