Everything had gone wrong. Everything that was possible and everything that wasn't possible had unraveled in the space of days, leaving Vigo Darrik Korrin holding the bag.
It wasn't supposed to end like this. For nearly twenty years, Darrik had played the game better than anyone else on Nar Shaddaa. He had turned Ashline Terminal into a self-sustaining kingdom through careful manipulation. One gang against another. A bribe here, a threat there. Nothing ever exploded out of control because he never let it.
But the last few weeks had twisted reality. What began as whispers turned to gunfire. Favor turned into betrayal. Mercenaries who once kissed his ring now took credits from his enemies.
His command tower, once a symbol of his reach, now shuddered under the pressure of violence. Explosions bloomed across the Terminal. The streets choked with smoke. Reports bled in with every passing minute, each one worse than the last. The air in his office was foul. Thick with smoke and his own sweat. His tunic clung to him. All of this because the air circulators had failed hours ago after some lunatic blew them up. Somewhere in the depths of the complex, flames were devouring another wing, it was only increasing the heat everywhere. Soon enough he'd become one with the sweat.
"Boss, they breached the outer perimeter." That shook him out of his melancholy, if only for a moment.
As if to punctuate the dreadful news, the ceiling above groaned and a chunk of it gave way. It smashed onto his favorite table. A priceless piece of craftsmanship. Ancient Wroshyr wood, shaped by artisans he could no longer name. It had been a gift from a Hutt once. When his name mattered, when it brought fear into the hearts of his peers. Now it was dust just like his name would be in a few minutes if they didn't get this situation under control.
"Tell Arrek to reposition his team," Darrik said, wiping his brow.
"Arrek is gone, sir. He fled half an hour ago." There was a pause. The enforcer swallowed hard. "Sorry, sir."
Darrik stood there, dumbfounded, for several seconds before waving the man off. "Go. Hold what you can, just go." Alone again and that was for the best. He sat in the cracked chair at the end of the long table and stared into nothing. Strangely enough he wasn't panicking anymore. No fear either. Something else had crept in now and made its home in his chest. Something cold and final. He poured himself another drink, but the whiskey trembled in the glass once full. The tremor might have been from another blast, or perhaps it came from his own hands. When had they become so fragile?
A lifetime ago, he had killed men barehanded in alleys for debts unpaid. Drowned rivals in vats with them without breaking a sweat. Now he was a pale reflection of that stately figure. Slumped and spent, he was just so damn tired. Another explosion rocked the tower. It caused the walls to groan, the lights to flicker in panic.
He whispered to himself, "If I had another chance, I would have done it all differently."
No one answered, but that was for the best. He might've felt honor-bound to keep that promise otherwise.
There was shouting outside. Gunfire. A scream that was cut short followed by silence. Darrik knew it would come to this, because whenever a Kingdom fell, you had to take out the King lest he comes back with vengeance.
A shadow moved past the frosted glass of his doorway. His heartbeat slowed. He rose to his feet with effort and took the hidden blade cane beside his desk. Just a moment ago Darrik had made his peace with things, but now that the moment had come? His hands were slick with the sheen of his sweat.
The door slammed once. Then again. The Vigo took a step back. On the third hit, it cracked and fell inward.
"You may kill me," Darrik growled, trying to straighten his back. "-but you will never kill my spirit."
The figure that stepped inside was enormous. Like one of those Sith statues that just kept going for no reason at all. Her hair like fire and she radiated a sense of pressure that wasn't natural. Her eyes burned like twin furnaces, golden and indifferent. She said nothing at first and instead looked around the room. As if to ask non-verbally, hey where is the Vigo? Before finally settling on him proper.
"I'm pretty sure the spirit dies with you, old man." she said, her tone casual and almost amused. "But no matter. Consider your arse saved by Mercy, Vigo Korrin. You're still breathing... for now."
He couldn't speak. He could only stare, but his body was starting to tremble, teeth clattering even as his eyes kept fixated on her.
She wandered over to the mini-fridge set into the wall, opened it without asking, and retrieved one of his specialty brews. This had the benefit that those eyes weren't staring right back at him like a predator freezing him in the moment. Popped the cap and then she took a long drink.
"Oh yeah." she said. "That hits the spot."
She turned toward the door again. "Still some trash to clean up out there. I'll mop it up. Try not to die before I get back."
And with that she left. She didn't even have the decency to put the door back up into its hinges or at least put some covering in it. Instead he had to see his own men looking back into his office with perplexed expressions.
Smoke filtered into the office from the earlier explosions, at least it obscured some of the tremoring in his hands, barely. Darrik remained still, bottle in hand, silent as a corpse.
Then finally, one of his surviving enforcers found the courage to step inside, licking his lips nervously and watching the Vigo with some measure of expectation. Darrik barely registered him, he was too busy counting in his head to steady his nerves.
"Sir?"
Darrik's lips parted. His voice was hoarse and he had to cough once, take a deep swallow from his drink and only then managed to find his voice.
"Find out who the feth that was."
