Qrylo Qykk
Blaster-Resistant
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YEARS AGO
DURO, ORBIT - SATELLITE CITY ‘CEIRUS’
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The clank of boots on a loading ramp. Hot air at his neck, vents depressurising. Hard edge of a blaster barrel poking at his thigh. Qrylo cracked a thin smile. Some things really never did change.
Even the storm of Ceirus, wild cacophony of shouts, smells, dingy streets; ten years ago or today, still the same geostationary sewer.
Back then, he’d run guns from the Outer Rim for a family of Duros here. High-level, deregulated cocktail blasters, all in the name of one gang war or another. Liberty in the hands of someone or another. The job seemed superfluous now. Even the credits'd been bad. Every Bith, Gran and Twi'lek was armed to the teeth now, old or young; from each shop-front and Caf joint, gunmetal gleamed in the flickering light, and trigger fingers itched. An orbital time bomb. He'd armed it, Qrylo supposed.
Someone had to. That was why he got paid.
Speaking of Twi'leks.
'Blue'. Blue, coincidentally. Hardly conspicuous. Ceirus was to Twi'lek lowlifes as a scrapheap was to Jawas. Flies to Bantha dung. But, whoever she was? She had enemies in the wrong places. The expensive kind. Worked for Qrylo. Word in the Merchant Quarter had been tight- she'd clearly set the right impressions. Coronet tended to do that to people. Nothing a Weequay fist couldn't ease, that was.
There was a gift that really kept on giving.
Qrylo absent-mindedly flexed his fingers. Joint was sore, and the dockyards fast approaching. Paid to be ready. Chadra-fan had said old 'Blue' had parked her freighter here. Sleeping in it, maybe? Perhaps he'd been chasing too much spacer trash recently.
His broad silhouette slipped from shadow to shadow in the orange lamplight. Fingers crawled across his holster. Tonight was the night, that much was sure.
Electricity in the air.
[member="Tan'yill"]