Private Strange Bedfellows

[Damos Vakaro]

Tags: Whottoomuzz Chantin
Location: Cheketa Spaceport, Iridium​

Damos had started taking trips out of Diarchy space out of his own expenses. Usually imperials would spend their off time going to resort worlds or spending time at their residence. But Damos was a workaholic. Although if going to a run down spaceport on a backwater planet scouring with pirates can be considered a vacation, then Damos was glad to be seeing the sites of such a world. There was more to it than that though. Recently, the Diarchy had put Yaga Minor under its control, their production output increased significantly, and as such Damos was looking for connections that could feed the Diarchy's war machine. Reliable, tough, and resourceful individuals who can be an ally that could provide supplies, weapons, for information to assist the Diarchy's expansion.

Damos was at the cantina drinking down whatever cheap alcohol they had on tab. He was sitting on his lonesome in a common spacer's drab with nothing but his lightsaber for company. So far his search for reliable businessmen had been unsuccessful. But then again he was only here for 2 hours. It wasn't like great beings just feel in your lap, and even then such a coincidence was rare. But a conversation piqued his interest that may just be a stroke of luck.

"You know the hutt that got kicked out of Black Sun space?" Asked a male rodian to a male weequay.

"Yeah, what about him?"

"Turns out Kadar and his boys cornered him at the warehouse outside of town. They even brought a forklift." Asked a male rodian to a male weequay.

"Did they even need blasters? Not like hutts are known to put up a fight."

"This one has apparently. Looks like-" The rodian was cut off as his commlink went off. "Kark. Looks like he needs us." The rodian shot up from his seat with his weequay cursing with his unfinished drink and rushed after him.

Damon's interest was peaked as he stood from his seat and with the force was able to maintain his speed while running behind the two aliens who seemed to be accomplices of the bounty hunters who were seemingly taking down a tough hutt.

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

Spoiler: Whottoomuzz Chantin Combat Loadout

Shyran Dol: Chantin Heirloom Armor

Melee Weapons
• MagnaGuard Electrostaff – Charged melee weapon effective against Force-users
• ZX Wrist Flamethrower – Cone of high-heat fire for crowd control
• Double-Bladed Vibrosword – Heavy melee weapon for cleaving and sweeping

Ranged Weapons
• DLT-19 Heavy Blaster Rifle – Suppressive long-range firepower
• A280 Blaster Rifle – Armor-piercing rifle for general infantry use
• Ion Rifle – Disables electronics, droids, and shields

Heavy Weapons
• E-Web Heavy Repeating Blaster – Tripod-mounted anti-infantry cannon
• RPS-6 Rocket Launcher – Homing, high-yield warheads
• Personal Energy Shield – Wearable generator for temporary defense

Gadgets & Tools
• Life-Form Scanner – Detects biological entities through walls
• Scomp Link – Terminal hacking tool
• Jetpack – Short-range vertical mobility
• Stealth Field Generator – Temporary active camouflage
• Electro-Grappling Line – Tether that stuns and restrains

️ Deployables
• Probe Droid – Recon and support drone
• “Gonk Bomb” (Modified GNK Droid) – Walking explosive payload
• Portable Energy Shield Projector – Ground-deployed stationary defense field

Consumables
• Stimpack – Emergency healing injection
• Power Cells – Refuels weapons and gadgets
• Smoke Grenade – Obscures line of sight
• Ion Grenade – Disables droids and shields
• Thermal Detonator – Devastating high-yield explosive
• Fragmentation Grenade – Anti-personnel shrapnel blast

There was a warehouse.
There was a forklift.
Then there were screams.

Spoiler: Historical tangent

Long before the name Chantin was etched into contracts or whispered in criminal corridors, they were Shell Hutts—a minor clan, physically identical to their kin but spiritually divided by durasteel. the Hutts of Circumtore lived shrouded in smog and radiation, sealing their flesh into durasteel sarcophagi powered by repulsorlifts.

A delusion that weight could be conquered by leverage alone. Attackers had wrapped Whottoomuzz in repulsor chains like netting around a festival beast, even tried to hoist him up on the platform—until the chains screamed and the lift groaned.

Then came the grinding.

Not of metal. Of bone.

A Nikto screamed as the entire forklift pitched sideways—not because it failed, but because Whottoomuzz twisted, dislocated both arms from their sockets, and brought the full unforgivable weight of a born-again war Hutt down upon the machine. One squelch. One crack. One blaster going silent under twisting durasteel.

A gout of napalm surged from a forearm-mounted sprayer. The warehouse’s plastoid siding caught like paper.

Then, stepping from the wreckage, his flesh split in two dozen places where repulsor chains had tried to carve a boundary into him, came Whottoomuzz Chantin.

Armored like a baroque tyrant.
Bleeding like a crowned god.
A mirthless smile behind the helmet.

​

"...Ee uba gee gee bai jeejee mo goola."​

The Vibrosword scraped the duracrete as he raised it. Not in threat—in invitation.
A dozen eyes turned.

The Chantin sigil on his chestplate was unrecognizable from the grime and mud of the past few days.

And Whottoomuzz waited.

Damos Vakaro​