Private A Sinner's Gambit

[The Nomad]

S C H E M E R

ABOARD THE MISCREANT GAMBLE
Deep Space, 17 Parsecs outside of Quesh System

To any unsuspecting spacer, all they would see would be a lone hauler idling in deep space. If it even registered on a scanner, it would be a nondescript OPH-FH5 Wayfarer-class with a manifest of bantha hides, droid parts, and unrefined lommite -- the wares of an Outer Rim trading vessel -- that wouldn't be worth the effort of taking for even the hungriest pirate. But woe be unto anyone who decided to try their luck, for the ship was the personal cruiser of the Nomad.

Enigmatic. Mysterious. Known only by few, because that was the way he liked to keep it. The way he saw it, the fewer people that knew your name, the fewer people would be trying to kill you. And there were enough people trying to kill him as-was. No need to add to that tally.

But this kind of business sometimes meant that you had to establish connections with the right people. And if Ophidian Dusk was going to be making plays within this newfangled Hutt Space Consortium, the Nomad would have to shed his reclusive skin and throw around some weight. And what better way to start than by contracting the gun of one of the most notorious bounty hunters in the business?

The Nomad liked Mandalorians, though from what he'd read up on the guy's file, this particular hunter didn't share the same sentiment. It was no matter to the Nomad though. Every man and woman had a love language. Physical touch, words of affirmation, yadda yadda. What really set a Bounty Hunter's heart beating was credits, this was well known. And whatever an enemy paid, the Nomad made sure to make it known that he could always pay more.

He now sat alone within the empty cargo bay of the hauler, sitting at a small metal desk flipping a nondescript coin -- waiting for the arrival of the hunter he'd invited.

Koda Fett​

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[Koda Fett]

DEEP SPACE
The Nomad

The Mandalorian, in armour that bore all the weathered and worn features of a set that had seen countless battles, stood at the mouth of the room. His T-visor had seen to a small series of scattered stares about the room. He was a man wanted dead himself, the Nomad could no doubt understand the cautious that Fett offered. Crimelords, if the Nomad even constituted as one, were often to surround themselves in faceless mooks to fall before them; the sear of a blaster bolt to become carved into their own chest before the man at the helm.

He strode forwards in a march, the blaster over his shoulder and the one in the holster remained, but the removal of them was to amount to little more than the removal of a fraction of his arsenal. As was the case with a Mandalorian, the barbaric lot coated themselves in rockets, blasters, flamethrowers, toxins, and more. He was no exception to the rule.

Fett settled into the seat across from the Nomad, a man he had not known bar the few rumours that heralded his existence. Few had remained as unknown as him, and that much was commendable. He tossed and turned on the notion of complete anonymity himself; the means to be anywhere without notice in exchange for all the pride his reputation afforded him. He was too greedy a man to forfeit it, he conceded.

"What's the job?"