Factory Judge
Tag:
Oleander
The slums of Nar Shaddaa sprawl endlessly beneath the looming towers, a maze of cramped walkways and rusting durasteel shanties stacked one atop another. The streets are narrow, littered with refuse and glowing faintly from the fractured neon signs that sputter and buzz in the haze. The air is heavy with the smell of fried street food mixed with burning oil, sweat, and spice smoke drifting from hidden dens. Crowds push shoulder to shoulder, their voices drowned out by the constant hum of speeder traffic overhead and the echoing roar of freighters docking in distant platforms. In every corner, eyes glint from the shadows, gangsters, scavengers, and those who’ve long since learned to stalk the desperate. For those who walk these streets, the line between hunter and prey is thin, and every step deeper into the slums feels like treading into the heart of Nar Shaddaa’s restless hunger.
The sight of Beskar seemed to have been numbed to those that had lived on the Smuggler's Moon, the countless amounts of Mandalorian Hunters that had come to the planet for Bounty or for reward. Renn's presence blended in to the everyday movements of the world his eyes focused on a slim Rodian man making his way through the crowd, the Vizsla's stride was smooth but true, his path zig-zagged behind as he followed the target he had been contracted to apprehend.
Turning the corner the Rodian man made his way into a side alley, Renn followed shortly after peeking around the corner as he watched his target stride down the narrow street. Renn put his hand on his holster as he turned the corner, "Hands where I can see them, there is no need to get feisty with me today friend." His voice would be low and steady, like a warrior who has seen too many battles, measured, direct, and carrying the quiet authority of someone who doesn’t waste words, but ensures every one of them counts.
Renn's eyes followed the target as his hands slowly reached towards the sky as the Mandalorian kept a steady eye on the man, his hand slipped the blaster from his hip as he pointed it at the back of the Rodian. Renn's stride caught up to the Rodian in quick easy strides, "No funny business and you get to keep all your fingers." The Mandalorian muttered to the Rodian, his hands patting down the Rodian for any weapons, his fingers finding the hilt of a Vibroblade tucked in the waistband of the targets pants, all Renn could do was shake his head before attatching the knife to his belt as his fingers wrapped around a set of Stuncuffs.
The Rodian’s twitching fingers were the only warning. A half-second later, the alley exploded into chaos.
The flash came from the side, a concealed blaster rig mounted beneath a garbage chute, rigged to the Rodian’s commlink signal. Renn’s visor flared with crimson light as the bolt struck him across the side, burning through the plating just above his abdomen. He staggered back, the air hissing through his teeth as pain flooded his side. The Rodian lunged, shoving past with a sudden burst of desperation. Renn’s gauntlet came up, firing a dart that hissed wide into the durasteel wall. The target vanished into the crowd as a trail of smoke rose from the Mandalorian’s armor.
“Dank ferrik…” Renn muttered, pressing a hand against the scorched plate. His HUD flickered, systems briefly shorting before recalibrating. The wound wasn’t fatal, but deep enough to slow him. He holstered his blaster, scanning the crowded street before ducking into a narrow side corridor where the neon light dimmed to nothing but sickly blue shadows. He could feel his pulse pounding against the wound, steady, controlled, but each step was heavier than the last.
By the time he reached the lower sectors, the air was thick with decay. The slum’s underbelly was quieter, but only because danger here spoke in whispers. Renn’s breath fogged inside the helmet as he found a flickering sign half-buried beneath layers of grime: “Medical: No Questions, No Credits, No Problem.” The kind of place that saw more blaster wounds than broken bones.
The door hissed open with a reluctant groan. Inside, the light was harsh and cold, buzzing off rust-streaked walls. A Devaronian doctor looked up from his table, one horn chipped, one eye cybernetic. “Mandalorian,” he rasped, voice gravel and smoke. “You bring trouble or just the bill?”
Renn leaned against the doorframe, helmet half-tilted, voice even despite the pain. “Bit of both.” He reached down, unfastening the damaged plate, revealing the seared edge of flesh beneath the undersuit. “Patch me up, and you’ll have neither.”
Not how he wanted to start the night.
Last edited: