Public Daylight Come and Me Wan' Go Home [Open Black Market Thread]

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

Coruscant - Black Market
​

They closed the upper levels at dusk. Transit advisories. Maintenance notices. Official voices using official words so the surface crowds wouldn't look down and ask questions. Down below, nobody needed an announcement. The lights just came on.

Neon bled across the underlevels in streaks of violet and hard blue. Dead holosigns crackled back to life. Cargo lifts that hadn't moved in cycles screamed awake like old beasts dragged out of retirement. Music rolled through the steel corridors with low, heavy bass you felt in your ribs before you heard it. The word moved the way it always does, quiet, fast, hand-to-hand, and burner-to-burner.

The market bloomed out of shadow. Tables welded from scrap. Tarps strung between rusted beams. Crates split open to show their sins without apology. Unregistered blasters laid out like jewelry. Spice strains glowing in colors nature never signed off on. Relics pulled from temples that would swear they were never breached. Chain codes printed while-you-wait, still warm to the touch. Droids standing a little too still with loyalty chips suddenly negotiable. Overhead, hologram banners flickered and glitched, syndicate sigils phasing in and out like nobody wanted to admit they were sponsoring this little gathering. Everyone was pretending but nobody was fooled.

Further in, the noise thickened. A pit ringed in floodlights roared with the sound of bone meeting bone. Credits changed hands faster than punches. Blood hit the floor. Nobody paused the betting. A silent auction rotated on a guarded dais with weapons, data cores, artifacts, all the kind of merchandise that didn't just start fights, it started wars.

The night's young.
The market's open.
The exits are… negotiable.
so,

What are you here for?​

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Colton Renth]

Black Market​

The market levels of Coruscant never truly slept.
Thousands of beings from across the galaxy pressed through the endless lanes of stalls and neon-lit shopfronts, their voices blending into a constant roar of bargaining, shouting, and mechanical hum. Vendors sold everything from rare spices and droid parts to questionable blaster modifications and relics of civilizations that probably never existed.
For most people, the place was overwhelming.
For Colton Renth, it was an opportunity.
The smuggler moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his tall frame slipping between Rodian traders and human merchants hauling crates on repulsor sleds. His brown hair was combed neatly back, and the thick goatee framing his jaw gave him the look of someone respectable—at least until you noticed the holster on his hip.
Inside it rested a well-maintained DL-44 blaster pistol.
Colton's sharp eyes scanned the market constantly. Not just the merchandise—but the people. On Coruscant, the difference between a profitable deal and a prison sentence often came down to knowing who was watching.
A Sullustan merchant waved him over from behind a stall piled high with navigation components.
"Captain Renth!" the merchant chirped. "I have something very rare today. Military-grade hyperdrive regulators. Republic surplus."
"Republic surplus," Colton said dryly, stopping beside the stall. "Which means stolen."
The Sullustan grinned widely. "Liberated."
Colton picked up one of the polished components, turning it slowly in his hand. The weight felt right. The casing was authentic.
But the serial numbers had been scrubbed.
Smart.
"Where'd you get them?" Colton asked.
The merchant shrugged with exaggerated innocence. "Cargo shuttle… unfortunate accident over the Mid Rim."
Colton chuckled softly. "Uh huh."
He set the part down and leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"I'm not here for regulators."
The Sullustan's eyes narrowed with interest. "Then what does the famous Captain Renth need in the Coruscant market today?"
Colton glanced briefly over his shoulder.
A pair of security droids rolled past. A cloaked figure watched from a spice vendor's stall. Somewhere nearby, a band played off-key music through crackling speakers.
Just another normal day in the galactic capital.
"I'm looking for a buyer," Colton said quietly. "Someone with deep pockets and flexible morals."
The Sullustan leaned forward eagerly.
"For what cargo?"
Colton smiled.
"Let's just say," he murmured, "if the right person buys it… a few very powerful organizations are going to realize their shipment disappeared."
The merchant blinked.
"You stole from someone important?"
Colton turned back toward the river of beings flowing through the market streets.
"On Coruscant," he said calmly, "everyone is important."
Then he looked back with a crooked grin.
"Which means the payoff's going to be enormous."

Kinley Pryse

 

[Tamar Krev]

The unassuming woman made her way with discretion, abandoning the upper levels as daylight faded and the massive shadows of endless sky scrapers cast a twilight on the streets and airlanes long before the light of day was gone.

Below, far below, she knew the 'other' world was awakening. The lights there were not the same as above. Not warm colors, muted and soft. They were either dim, stark, flickering or absent. The air smelled different, more mechanical, like oil and industrial lubricants. Luckily, the food vendors that popped up helped balance that with the scent of fried foods.

Among the throng the dark-haired Fallanassi walked. She had reaped a good harvest in the Uppers, picking pockets, snagging satchels. The petty labor that liberated items from the inattentive. Granted, the distractions that drew those souls attentions away were only figments in their mind. Tamar was gifted in the subtlety of helping minds trick themselves.

But down there, in the Market, were the big timers. At least in her mind. It was more dangerous to ply her trade there, where everyone was suspicious and most were dangerous. That night, Tamar had a couple items she had 'come across' that day, and was looking to make a quick credit from them. Her gaze scanned the vendors, and those that lingered on the edge of shadows, fencers.

Simone was draped lazily around Tamar's shoulders, the green serpent paying little heed to the diverse crowd around them.

Tag: Kinley Pryse Colton Renth and Open

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Kinley Pryse Colton Renth Tamar Krev | Open​

The lift doors opened, revealing the underlevels. The scent was exactly what he predicted, an overwhelming blend.. to put it lightly. He stepped out, boots clicking against durasteel, the black of his tunic and leggings appearing to blend in.. except they didn't. No grime smudged his clothes; not a single thread was out of place. Tonight, Lysander slid into the role of a shadow. Or something close to it. A change of pace and a new scenery couldn’t hurt.

Music pulsed in the air. But it wasn't good music. In truth, he found it rather awful. It was far from the delicate strings and piano notes he preferred, but.. perhaps the synthetic soundtrack had a strange way of keeping the blood warm. Not a terrible thing, considering places like this thrived on credits flowing between unsavory crowds.

If there was something else he could appreciate about a place like this, much like Nar Shaddaa from his memories, it was that everyone breathed the same air. A constant he almost trusted. Nothing wrong with stripping away illusions.

A fight pit roared ahead, catching his attention without effort. Violence impressed him in a way few things did. Words or hands.. it made no difference. Forever a student of the craft. So, he drifted toward that noise, slipping into the circle of bodies gathering.

Lysander studied the two fighters. One appeared to have some kind of formal training. The other was swinging out of desperation. The Sith doubted this scrap would make it past the first round.

A part of him longed to be the one in there. For clarity..

 

[Rolcor Wildstar]

The underlevels of Coruscant always smelled the same.

Burnt circuitry. Cheap liquor. Spice smoke thick enough to choke a bantha.

Rolcor Wildstar stepped out of the freight corridor and into the glow of the black market lights like a man walking into his own cantina.

Neon washed across the pirate captain's moss-green skin, catching the scars along his jaw and the sharp angles of his face. His long dark coat shifted with every step as he moved through the crowd with the slow, confident swagger of someone who had already survived more gunfights than most beings in this market had seen.

A hand rested loosely near the grip of the Westar blaster strapped to his thigh.

Not nervous.

Just prepared.

Three figures followed behind him.

Krann moved first among them, looming half a step behind Rolcor's shoulder like a walking battering ram. The big brute carried himself with the quiet menace of someone who solved problems with bone-breaking efficiency.

Gorrik drifted to the right side of the formation, sharp eyes constantly scanning the stalls and the shadows between them. Where Krann was muscle, Gorrik was instinct—watching hands, exits, and anyone who looked like they might reach for a weapon.

Drokk brought up the rear.

Slow. Heavy. Unbothered.

The kind of man who didn't need to rush because anything stupid enough to challenge him would eventually wander close enough.

The four pirates moved through the market like a small storm.

Merchants lowered their voices as they passed. A few beings stepped aside without needing to be told.

Rolcor's eyes moved across the stalls.

Black-market blasters.
Forged chain codes.
Stolen relics rotating under cheap holo displays.

Petty goods.

Petty profits.

Then his gaze settled on the more guarded section of the market.

Security.

Credits.

Something worth the trouble.

A crooked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Rolcor slowed, glancing back briefly at his crew.

"Keep your eyes open," he muttered. His voice was low but carried the weight of command.

Green eyes turned back toward the deeper market.

"Places like this," he said quietly, "someone's always about to make a very bad decision."

And Rolcor Wildstar had made a career out of being there when they did.

The Crew

 

[Colton Renth]

Colton didn't get to enjoy the moment for long.
A shadow fell across the stall.
Not the casual kind cast by a passerby in the crowd — this one lingered.
Colton's eyes shifted without moving his head. Years of smuggling had trained him to notice the little things. There was a sudden lull in the nearby conversation. The slight widening of the Sullustan's eyes. The way the market noise seemed to dull for just a heartbeat.
Boots.
Heavy ones.
Imperial.
A tall figure stepped into view beside the stall, dressed not in the polished white armor of stormtroopers, but in dark matte field gear designed for operations that didn't make it into official reports. The armor plates were lean and angular, built for mobility rather than intimidation.
Imperial Special Forces.
Colton slowly straightened.
The man's face was partially visible beneath a shadowed visor, but what stood out immediately was the mustache — a long horseshoe that framed a hard mouth like something pulled out of an ancient holovid gunslinger.
And over his right eye, partially visible beneath the helmet's edge, was a tattoo.
A black crosshair.
The Sullustan suddenly found something very interesting to organize under the counter.
Colton gave the man a casual glance.
"Let me guess," he said lightly. "You're not here for hyperdrive regulators."
The sniper didn't respond immediately. His brown eyes studied Colton with the kind of stillness that made most people uncomfortable.
"You're Captain Colton Renth," the man said at last.
His voice was calm. Flat. Professional.
Not a question.
Colton sighed.
"You know," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "I really need to stop becoming famous."
The Imperial operative stepped a little closer. Close enough that Colton could see faint scarring around the tattooed crosshair.
"Your ship," the sniper continued, "a modified YT-1300 freighter, recently departed the Anoat sector."
Colton smiled thinly.
"Lots of YT-1300s out there."
The sniper tilted his head slightly.
"Not many that intercepted an Imperial logistics convoy three days ago."
The Sullustan merchant froze completely.
Colton's smile didn't change, but his mind was already moving three steps ahead.
Three exits within twenty meters.
Two rooftops with decent cover.
A dense crowd perfect for disappearing.
Unfortunately…
Imperial Special Forces rarely worked alone.
"Convoy?" Colton said casually. "That sounds serious."
The sniper's gaze never wavered.
"You stole something."
Colton shrugged.
"I steal lots of things."
The man leaned in just enough that only Colton could hear him.
"Return it," the sniper said quietly, "and I might let you leave Coruscant alive."
Colton met his gaze.
For a moment the market noise faded again, swallowed by tension.
Then Colton chuckled.
"See," he said calmly, resting his hand casually near his DL-44 holster, "that's where you made a mistake."
The sniper didn't move.
Colton's grin widened.
"You assumed," the smuggler said, "I still have it."
Behind them, somewhere deep in the market crowd—
A blaster suddenly fired.


Rolcor Wildstar Lysander von Ascania Tamar Krev Kinley Pryse