Private A Crash of Fates

[Damien Dooku]

SCOUNDRELS
CHAPTER I: A CRASH OF FATES
THE SMUGGLER'S BAR, CORELLIAN SECTOR OF NAR SHADAA
Morrow | THEME


Pazaak had been the moneymaker of the evening by the time the level's artificial lighting had began to click off and recede into its nightly dim glow. His side of the table was flush with Republic credits, Imperial credits and a few other luxury items that his fellow gamblers decided to ante up when their pockets grew thin. In the end it was their luck which proved miserable by the time their cards had hit the table, and Damien would come out of each game with that same devilish grin that remained set in stone no matter the reaction his opponents left the table with.

While it wasn't the wisest move to clean the entire cantina's patrons out of their hard-cheated cash -- or at least that's what your average denizen of the rim would tell you -- it wasn't a concern that Damien had, not while he was well within his home turf. He'd been under the employ of one Nero the Hutt, a relatively young Hutt for their species, and one whose rise to power in recent years had carved himself out a nice chunk of the Smuggler's Moon to call his own. Damien's employment started out a year prior following an introduction from Jinnosha, a Hutt Warlord based out of Keldooine with deep ties to the syndicates back on Nar Shadaa and Nal Hutta.

Jinnosha's past dealings with Damien's father led to him helping the rogue Jedi escape out of Alliance space and evade the bounties and arrest warrants put out on his head in the months following his arrest back on Coronet City. He'd worked for both of the Hutts since then, working under various aliases while building up a solid reputation for himself in the Outer Rim's underworld circles. The last thing he was worried about was some random spacer threatening him over their misfortune-- most were smart enough to understand the consequences of raising a gun at Damien in the end.

The Cantina was beginning to slow down by the time he'd settled on racking up his final game of the night. A Trandoshan and a Wookie sat down at the table first, their entrance looking like the set-up to a bad bar joke until another human sat on the chair across from his own. The game went swimmingly well at first; He cleared the first few rounds with ease after a handful of lucky pulls, but he'd noticed almost immediately that the human across from him wasn't doing bad for himself either. By the end of the first game, he'd won the pot but barely, the man across from him having remained neck-to-neck with him until the very end. The two aliens exited the table -- apparently friends, much to his surprise -- and left the two remaining humans to continue on the game.

Several games later and his winnings had evened out in comparison to the man across from him. That grin had shifted into something a bit more stone-cold by that point, and remained that way through the next batch of grueling rounds that left his winnings for the night noticeably dwindling. "Alright, alright." Damien spoke up for the first time since that long stretch of games had started. "...I think we're good to call it for the night." He would say, already gathering the credits that remained into a secured pouch on his belt. Damien finished what was left in the watered-down glass he'd been sitting on for the night, rising from the table and loosening up his limbs with a stretch.

Walking around the pazaak table once done, he took the opportunity to size up the seated man, his gaze narrowing slightly after taking in his features. Unlike many of the denizens who'd come and gone throughout the night, this one was lacking in the aura that he associated with your typical scoundrel on the Rim. If anything the man gave off the vibes of someone who was a survivor, someone who was simply doing what they could to move on from one day to the next.

Damien sighed inwards to himself, his gaze softening and letting the liquor hit him enough to enjoy the buzz. A hand extended down towards the individual as his lips curled back into that same grin from before. "The name's Damien." He'd help the man off the chair if his gesture was accepted. "You play one hell of a game of Pazaak. Nearly cleaned out what I'd won for the night, dude."

His attention shifted away from his newfound acquaintance as his gaze locked upon a handful of newcomers filtering through the front door. Their plainclothes appearance wouldn't immediately set off any alarm bells, but their clean-cut appearances, and the way they carried themselves were not what he'd associate with the average joe who frequented cantinas like these. No further confirmation was necessary once their eyes collectively swiveled into the direction of the two spacers caught in the middle of a meet-and-greet.

Damien pulled the man behind him, yanking him rather uncomfortably before he pushed down upon the edge of the Pazaak table and lifted it between them and the direction of the door. High-velocity shells and blaster bolts ripped through the Cantina's patrons as the group of assailants begun to clean house mercilessly without discrimination. Plenty of those rounds pelted the Pazaak table, Damien's back pressed firmly against one side as he reached for the blaster holstered beneath his jacket. Damien blind-fired from the side of the uplifted table until the charge pack had run its course. "...Are these assholes here for me-- or are they here for you?!" Damien called out to the man, who at this point was the only one not dead or wounded as far as his eyes could see.
​

 

[Morrow]

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​

Not a single honest hand had been played all night, not from Morrow's side of the table, anyway. Among the other players, those with any sense should have been leveraging the same dishonest advantages that had carried him through game after game. Yet, most of those who had come and gone had foolishly stuck to the philosophy of an honest game, evidenced by how quickly their bankrolls had drained. Morrow found it curious that in a place like Rimmer's Rest, known for its shady clientele, entrants would suddenly turn honorable when they picked up a hand of cards. Perhaps it was a fear of being caught that kept them rule-abiding?

Morrow didn't have that problem.

There was one exception: the player across from him. Of course, Morrow would suspect anyone of cheating, but this one had a particular determination to him. Where every other contender hardly lasted two hands, this one refused to quit, even when Morrow had accumulated a sizable hoard on his side of the table and could easily bully the rest of the table with exorbitant bets. Surely no one could be that stubborn; he had to have something up his proverbial sleeve. Morrow held no qualms for hypocrisy, but he still wouldn't accuse the man of anything. With credits on the line, it should have been what anyone would do. Nevertheless, Morrow's scrutiny furtively increased behind the cards.

"Alright, alright. ...I think we're good to call it for the night." ​

Nothing. Whatever he was doing, it was no wonder he hadn't been caught yet. Maybe they were employing the same technique?

"The name's Damien. You play one hell of a game of Pazaak. Nearly cleaned out what I'd won for the night, dude." ​

"Morrow." His gaze lingered on Damien's offered hand for a moment before taking it, rising to meet him at eye level. "Just lucky," he dismissed with a shrug, though the subtle smirk that came after betrayed that there was something more at play.

Before anything further could be said, a pang of danger hit Morrow's senses. Alongside the urgent sensation, a distant premonition of blaster fire materialized in the back of his mind. Morrow reached for his blaster, but he'd find himself thrown behind an overturned table before he could pull it from its hiding place. Flinching, his chin tucked into his chest, narrowly dodging a bolt that pierced the edge of the table and soared just above the back of his head. After a small amount of fumbling, he'd finally free the blaster from its appendix holster.

"...Are these assholes here for me-- or are they here for you?!"​

"No clue!" Morrow shouted back. Blue eyes peeked from behind the table's edge, trying to discern who exactly was shooting at them. They'd disappear back into cover once an inclination of danger hit his gut, narrowly avoiding yet another shot to the head. "Who even are these people!?" Morrow hadn't the insight to connect them with that business on Denon. He'd hardly obtained a full picture of what that had been about to begin with. Nor did he particularly care; the important part was that he'd survived.

Surging from behind the table, Morrow strafed into the open, firing several shots before diving behind another table that had been overturned in the chaos. Prone, he could only crawl a few inches before he felt something seize his leg. A bloodied patron of Rimmer's Rest held onto him desperately, blood dripping from his lips on account of a blaster wound to the stomach.

"H-help," they croaked weakly.

Morrow lifted a foot and booted the victim hard across the bridge of the nose, conjuring a crunch and breaking the desperate grasp. Once free, he rolled away just in time to avoid his cover being shredded by a barrage of focused fire. Behind a metallic pillar, he popped to his feet and pressed himself flat against it. With a deep breath, he emerged halfway to return fire, landing a shot into the neck of one of their assailants. A flash of red skipped by his face, searing a lock of hair and nearly grazing his cheek as he retreated behind the structure.

They were outnumbered. His gut told him to run, but the attackers had their backs to the door. Morrow yelled to Damien, hoping he could be heard over the cacophony of blasters, "Any chance you know another way out of here!?"

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Damien Dooku​

 

[Damien Dooku]

​

"Who even are these people!?"​

His initial reply came in the form of a shrug, but his attention had been thoroughly focused upon returning fire to the best of his ability, given the circumstances. There was clearly some forethought put into whatever their plan was, or at the very least there was someone behind the curtain who'd pulled the strings to give this crew their best shot at their target. Damien could only think of a few people within his orbit that wanted him dead, but it'd been a long time since someone had actively levied a hit on his head.

But he also had to consider whether it was his newfound gambling buddy who'd crossed the one group-- and not him. Morrow was a stranger at best, but he didn't strike Damien as the type to end up with a hit team coming after his head. Looks could be deceiving though-- Damien knew that one best. The galaxy was a far safer place to navigate when people didn't strike you as a threat from their first impression of seeing you.

His eyes swiveled away from their assailants after Morrow yelled to catch his attention. The blasters being dumped on either side of the fight were deafening within the small confines of the cantina, but he caught enough of what the guy had said to shoot back with a quick response.

"Uhhh-- yeah, probably!" Damien yelled back, his hand once again sliding over the edge of the improvised cover to blind-fire another round of blaster bolts into the general direction of the assassins. He unhooked something from his belt simultaneously as the shots were let off, his thumb sliding onto a button at the top and pressing down upon the trigger. "You might want to get down!" Damien warned Morrow with seconds to spare once the spherical object was flung over his shoulder.

Damien ducked his head in-between his legs as the latter portion of the cantina erupted in a cacophony of fiery oranges and reds and the thunderous explosion of a thermal detonator being casually used against soft targets. He waited a few seconds, letting the dust and debris settle on the ground, and waiting to see if the blaster fire would continue.
​

Silence.​

He looked across to Morrow and delivered the man a nod, then flung himself over the table with his pistol lined up ready to shoot. He swept across the remnants of the cantina for signs of movement, cautiously moving towards their sprawled out and defeated assailants. "I think that did the trick for now." Damien spoke up, kneeling over one of the fallen hitmen to give the man a closer look. He reached into the man's pockets and removed what appeared to be a very slim wallet of some kind.

"Huh. Look at this." Damien called out, holding the wallet out between his middle and index fingers. There was an EMBLEM stamped in the center of it, one that he'd not seen in a seriously long time. He'd toss it over to Morrow before searching another one of the fallen's pockets, an eyebrow arching as yet another wallet of similar design was pulled out. "...The last time I saw this..." Damien's voice trailed off as he connected a few dots in the back of his mind. A handful of little things that he'd shunted to the back of his mind since he left the Core worlds a couple years back.

He reached into the new wallet this time, his fingers pulling out a slim metallic card that temporarily caused his gaze to widen in sheer surprise. His face softened alongside a deep breath leaving his lips, and he held the card out for both him and Morrow to see.

"It's an Identification badge-- Imperial." He clicked his teeth, tossing the card down onto the man's chest-rig. "I believe folks called 'em called Chain codes back in the day." Damien raised to his feet, his eyes still focused on the bodies. "Y'know, before the Empire shattered."

A hand slid across the length of his face as yet another sigh left his lips. "...You wouldn't happen to have crossed any remnant Imperial groups as of late?" He'd ask, almost out of courtesy than genuinely expecting an answer. There were skeletons in his closet that he'd thought were long buried when he left the Core. The arrival of a team of assassins carrying Imperial chain codes meant that was no longer true-- assuming they were sent here for him.

His fist clenched around his signature blaster in that moment, his teeth gritting together beneath the serene façade that masked the emotions simmering within. It was times like these that he missed Kyric the most; the times when mysteries unraveled before his eyes, and conspiracies uprooted themselves from places long forgotten, and presumably deceased. ​