Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private Dirty Rotten Scoundrels


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The bell coughed out a reluctant tone, off-pitch and fuzzy through the near-derelict speakers. It shivered along the bulkheads like a dying thing. The Daggerfall held the hyperlane steady, her engines muttering in that old Corellian way, the kind you do not hear much anymore. She was a relic, patched and retrofitted until the weld lines told more truth than her hull plates. Not built for beauty, but for survival, and survival is a prettier thing than any polished chrome.

This run was the kind of work that stuck to you. The kind you only get after weeks of planning and a few quiet lies to the right people. The kind that drags you out to the Rim to crawl on your belly for someone you do not respect, or put a hole in someone you almost do. I did not know which way it would go. It did not matter. My part in it was already decided.

I was reluctant to smoke my iho at the console. Not because I worried about ash in the readout, nothing anywhere near as considerate as that. It just felt cheap, made the place seem dirty, used. I liked things clean. Nothing ever stayed that way, not out of Imperial Center.

I never understood why they changed the name. Everyone still called it Coruscant. Even an agitated official let it slip on a holo-chat two nights before I shipped out for Tatooine. I nearly spat my drink, knowing one of my colleagues would be waiting after the broadcast to have a word. Maybe she’d be back on the air after a stern talking-to. Maybe she’d be sent to a penal colony. Or maybe she’d end up like so many do, face-down in some lower level, two blaster shots in the back of the head and a couple of credits in her hand for the poor sleg who found her. At least someone thought to leave a tip. Calling that in can ruin your day.

That bell had been set to warn me as we approached Tatooine. Part of the fringes of the so-called High Republic these days, this part of the galaxy changed allegiances more frequently than a Zabrak changed their undergarments, if you catch my drift. They didn’t much care who paid their credits, as long as they were real and in healthy supply.

I thumbed the trim controls, watching the attitude readout settle a fraction closer to centre. The navcomp began its final sequence, spooling down the hyperdrive while I nudged the sublight thrusters awake. A green blink on the proximity array told me the planet was coming up fast, all atmosphere and trouble.

The Daggerfall shuddered as we punched back into realspace. Tatooine hung in the viewport, a pale, burning coin against a field of dust and stars. I brought her nose down, riding the re-entry corridor the port authority handed me. They still called themselves the High Republic out here, all banners and ceremony, but the officials in Mos Eisley wore the same bored stares as any customs desk in the Core.

We broke through the haze, city domes and spires giving way to the skeletal frame of the spaceport. Landing beacons winked me in, the repulsors growling as I eased her down onto the pad. The heat hit first, even through the hull you could feel it, then the tang of oil and scorched durasteel as the seals hissed open.

Dockhands in faded uniforms ambled up with datapads, logging the ship’s ID and my travel code. One waved me toward a customs station where an officer in High Republic blue waited, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. The airlock cycled. I stepped onto the ramp, boots hitting the grit of Tatooine, the sun already clawing at my eyes.

The officer didn’t bother with a greeting. He just held out the datapad, eyes flicking from my face to the ship and back again like he was looking for a reason to care.

“Purpose of visit,” he said, voice dry as the sand underfoot.

“Transit,” I answered. No explanation, no smile.

He tapped something in, slow and deliberate, then looked over my ident. “Chandrilla,” he read aloud, as if tasting it. “You’ll want to keep that quiet around here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. I didn’t.

He handed the datapad back without ceremony, still watching me the way a man watches a stray animal wander into his yard. “You’re clear to dock for seventy-two local hours. Overstay and your ship’s impounded.”

I gave a nod that wasn’t quite a thank you and walked past him into the noise and stink of Mos Eisley, the sun pressing down like a hand on the back of my neck. I had a target to find and he wasn’t going to be an easy catch.

Kazimir Tragovic. That was the name on the docket. Six foot three, weapons-grade psychopath, zealous fanatic, a real cocktail of Imperial bat-shittery the OIT would love to have back in their good graces, back under control. So they sent me. Pious Tapp.

I’ve seen action. I was there the first time we tried to scour Coruscant, when that mad genius Solipsis drove a Star Destroyer straight through sections of the skyline. Made things tricky on the ground. We did our best, but a lot of us didn’t make it out. Too many of us.

Kazimir was one of COMPNOR’s pet hounds, a man with a taste for off-the-books work. Built like a loading droid, eyes the colour of old brass, a mask welded to his face in everything but name. Ex-Hutt muscle turned NIO trigger-man, the kind of operator who gets the job done, then leaves you stepping over the bodies to thank him. Again with the careless bodies.

I had a couple of leads that told me where to look. Now it was just a matter of waiting him out. I was in uniform, field officer by trade, a full-blown lieutenant, no less. They reward you for walking out of places like Coruscant alive. No such luck for the friends who didn’t.

The cantina was my hunting ground. I stepped inside, scanning the room. Nothing. Not so much as a gnat’s wind to stir the low conversation. The music wasn’t on yet; at this hour, only the professionally drunk or the dangerously unbalanced were in attendance. Perfect. I found a corner and set up shop. Two drinks, both for me. No chems, no stims to cut the boredom. I was on the clock now, seventy-two hours and counting.

I opened a copy of some literature I had picked up in the terminal, all about the High Republic’s social programs. Seemed they had some good ideas here. I would not want my superiors to hear me say that. I would be shipped out as fast as that news anchor had been. I made a note to request the report, see what had actually happened to her. It would pass a few minutes, no doubt. That was what kept us entertained since taking over the Core, the misery of others.

I sipped my drink. It was acidic, with a creamy aftertaste that turned my stomach. I wanted to vomit. These backwater animals would not know good taste if it came into high orbit, announced itself, and fired a superweapon into the side of the planet labelled “good taste.”

I chuckled at the image. Say what you will, the Emperor loves a superweapon.



Kazimir Tragovic Kazimir Tragovic
 
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Pious Tapp Pious Tapp

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Theme

The sand kicked up as Kaz lowered his speeder bike outside of the dusty cantina, finding its way into whatever gap it could find in his clothing. It used to aggravate Kaz something awful, but as with most things in life, he got used to the discomfort after enough exposure. He snickered at the thought of the High Republic's efforts to civilize such a backwater dustbowl as he stepped from the bike, shaking his head as he thought about the utter futility of it all. These Republic tools thought they could bring the planet into the present, as if the very dunes themselves could be shuffled off and swept away. And that didn't even account for the literal centuries of scum and villainy that had weaseled its way into every nook and cranny across the entire world. Whatever efforts the current regime could muster, it would matter little, if at all. Tatooine was a hellhole of a planet, and no matter how many fresh layers of paint you lathered onto it, they would always eventually get worn away, becoming another victim of the wind, sand, and rust.

He entered the cantina, his mask covering his face, albeit with the addition of a set of goggles. There was no way one could ride in the dunes without them, and as far as Kaz was concerned, he would prefer to keep his eyes intact. After all, it would make hitting a target rather... inconvenient otherwise. His gloved hand moved to the goggles, pulling them up over his eyes and resting them on his covered brow. His eyes quickly scanned the room as he approached the bar, his awareness at its usual heightened state. It had been years since he had served, well... anyone, really. Not a master to serve except for himself. Nevertheless, you could take the operator out of the operator out of the battle, but you couldn't take the battle out of the operator.

The bartender, a rather robust, hefty man with a cybernetic limb and a bad leg hobbled his way to where Kaz stood, his thumb pointing toward a bottle of bottom shelf swill behind the bar.

"You want your usual?"

Kaz simply nodded, throwing some credits onto the bar as the man began pouring the rather vile looking liquid into a glass before promptly sliding it down the bar, straight into Kaz's waiting hand. Kaz wouldn't call it a quality drink, by any means. Hell, it was barely drinkable. But it was cheap, and it got one more karked than a Zeltron firing on all cylinders. He let out a strong exhale, preparing himself for the torment of swallowing the sludge. He would reach for his mask, only to stop as a rather obnoxious voice filled his ears.

"Eyyy, you got one of those for me, friend?"

Kaz didn't need to look at the man to know who it was.

"Afraid not, Ondhu. Guess you're gonna have to find your own bottle to crawl into."

The scrawny Weequay leaned his elbow against the bar, his demeanor filled with a certain brand of swagger held by those that hadn't earned that level of bravado. Ondhu's eye's narrowed, a slick, stupid grin expanding across his wrinkled face.

"Oh come on, is that any way to treat an old pal? Come on, just one round."

Kaz's hand tightened around his glass, almost enough to shatter it. Behind his mask, he gritted his teeth for a moment, only to let out a sigh of annoyance.

"It's funny... the last time we met, I seem to remember you leaving me for dead. Matter of fact, I also seem to recall you leaving with all of our loot."

The Weequay emitted a strong belly laugh.

"Hey now, you know how these things go. Sometimes things work out, sometimes they don't. But hey, come on, friend, let's have a drink!"

His hand moved for Kaz's shoulder, as if he were a soldier having a jovial jab at his former comrade. Only Ondhu was not a soldier, and Kaz was not his comrade.

His hand quickly snapped up, catching Ondhu's arm by the wrist. It was only then that Kaz's weight shifted, finally looking the Weequay in the eyes.

"You keep calling me friend, but you aren't my friend. You're less than bantha poodoo."

With that, he shoved Ondhu away, causing him to knock over another patron's glass. The bartender quickly stepped in, his mechanical hand gently rising up.

"Now, there's no need for escalation, gentlemen."

Kaz's finger snapped in the direction of the barkeep, his eyes never leaving Ondhu.

"Stay out of this, Sven."

Ondhu looked to Kaz, his eyes narrowing as the room fell silent. A finger twitched, a hand moved... and before the Weequay's blaster could clear leather, Kaz had drawn his own pistol and put two bolts into his chest. Once Ondhu's lifeless body hit the floor, Kaz stood over him, planting one final round into the bastard's head, just to make a point. He knelt down, rummaging through Ondhu's clothing. He stood, producing a handful of credits from the Weequay's pocket.

"Cheap fool. I knew you had the creds."

He quickly tossed them to Sven, who hadn't moved an inch since Kaz told him to shut up.

"For your trouble, Sven."

As the barkeep quickly snatched up the credits, Kaz quietly returned to his drink as if nothing had happened at all. Just another day in the dusty hellhole... just another dead scumbag lying on the floor.

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