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The Last One (yet)

Neskar A'toll

Hail to the King, baby
The cantina was crowded. Full of hapless miscreants, waging their sorrowful lifestyles over a game of dice and a shot of whisky. Neskar despised them, but he had to mingle with the bastards. The job called for it. And he hated the job as well. He was a proud Mandalorian, not a dogsbody, not one to do rat work. It was a way of life for him; offering his trigger hand for the highest bidder. The highest bidder usually turned out to be the most unscrupulous being, a rule that had persisted throughout his twenty three years. The rule was present here. The boss was a scrawny looking Rodian, and at first, Neskar wondered how the alien kept company with the vile mannered beings he employed. He did it through harsh measures, forging a reputation as a crime Lord of the old way. The Rodian, Neskar never deigned to learn his name, pronouns did wonders in this line of work, was a plotting, scheming bastard who used underhanded tactics to forge his ways. Beatings, intimidation, killings were his ways, but Neskar only did the latter, as a Mandalorian, his services in the field of killing were valued. It made a change, at least. Neskar despised the alien. The Rodian had never been in a proper fight, and was a coward.

Neskar walked slowly into the cantina, clad in his purple and burgundy beskar'gam, and towered over the lesser mortals in there. The crowded room parted at the sight of him, and conversation became stilted and artificial. It was not the first time his stature intimidated people and it would not be the last. The Rodian was on the other side of the cantina, and so Neskar forged a path to his table, the largest, most circular table in the entire establishment. The table was in a corner, and in the corner space, sat the Rodian. At his sides were two burly bounty hunters, without a shred of honour between them. Neskar despised them as well. Treading almost silently to the table, Neskar stared intently through his buy'ce, the classic T-shaped helmet of the Mandalorians, directly into the black eyes of the alien, the dark visor obscuring Neskar's eyes. The table became aware of him finally, but the Rodian had seen him coming from a mile off. Neskar spoke first.

"The job is done." Neskar intoned solemnly. His voice, aided by the external speaker in his buy'ce, drowned out the menial voices of those at the table. The Rodian gave no sign of appreciation, and spoke back. He did not speak the language of his people, but Galactic Basic, the one language they shared. It shamed him to even share the same vernacular as this vilified lowlife, but the job must be done.
"Last job." the Rodian replied, guttural and raw. "Non payers. Refuse business of mine. Try to take customers. Kill them. Three of them. Apartment 226. East Quarter. Pay, fifty thousand credits.
"Seventy five. No less."
"Seventy five." Neskar replied, almost lazily planting an armoured hand on the handle of his ripper. The threat was bare.
"Better." Neskar replied. He smiled under the buy'ce and sharply turned, striding out of the cantina.

Neskar A'toll

Hail to the King, baby
Apartment 226, East Quarter. A slum if anything. At the base of the vast apartment complex, Nar Shadaa's finest, n0 doubt, Neskar raised his view, counting each floor in groups of ten, before reaching 230 and going down four levels. That was it, he assumed. He started up the jet-pack, and it lifted himself up into the smoggy air. The street around him was empty, deserted due to the slum-like nature of the area. The apartment block rose sharply and straight, spearing into the sky, and craft flew about at the top of it. There were similar apartment blocks beside it, of a similar height and similar build. It was nasty, even flying straight up, Neskar could see the grime in the windows and general misuse of appliances. He rose quickly, and stopped at the 226th storey. The long, opaque window was about the same height as him, and stretched all around the circular building. Each flat seemed to get a storey for itself, Neskar assumed, as he slowly looked it over and smiled under his helm. Hovering in the air, he raised his right arm, and placed a finger from his left hand on the gauntlet of the right. Instantly, two rockets rose from the wrist, two short, stubby miniature missiles. One was a concussive missile, used for shattering things, coincidently, like windows. The second was a mixture of napalm and high-explosive, used to destroy, coincidently once more, organic material. This would be fun. Pressing a second button, the concussive missile flew a short distance from the gauntlet, aimed squarely at the top of the window. Slamming into the glass, it imploded, sending a visible shock wave into the glass, sending vast amounts of splinters and cracks down the window. It made a mighty noise, without the helmet it would've hurt his ears, surely. A second shock wave followed that one, the force of which shattered the already weakened glass. The entire window, the part facing him, seemed to collapse into ten billion pieces, going into the apartment mostly and falling down onto the street below. The shock-wave, blasting through the glass, had also came into the apartment room, scattering furniture, appliances, foodstuffs. Four people were sat, on chairs, around a square table. They were playing some card game. As one, they turned, and saw the floating Mandalorian, arm raised with a second rocket pointed straight at them. The group were still. Neskar was still. Now it begins.

Neskar A'toll

Hail to the King, baby
He grinned under the helm, but to the people in the apartment, he was a faceless figure, a fearful adversary. Leaning forward a touch, the jet-pack edged him towards the now shattered window, and he stuck an armoured foot and and deactivated his jet-pack. Strolling into the apartment, almost lackadaisical, his boots crushed the glass underfoot, and walked ominously towards the square table they were sitting at. A dim light was on, dangling from the room, illuminating the room from the inky blackness of outside. Stopping short from walking into the table, Neskar's eyes fell to what seemed their leader, a Corellian, not unlike himself. Nar Shadaa was no place for anyone, and the man looked young. It was almost a shame, he mused sadly.

"You've been shirking. Shirking's not good." he began, staring squarely at the man. His right hand rose from the side of his body, and grabbed the grip of the ripper, lifting it from the holster. Lazily, he held the hand-cannon up, resting it on his shoulder. "You see, the Boss has a reputation, you must've heard. Who hasn't? Anyways, you look busy. Playing cards? I'm a dab hand at Pazaak, if that's what you're playing."

The boy stared at Neskar, a fearful look in his eyes, his three companions in a steely silence. All were humans, and seemed to look the same. Relatives? I feel almost sorrowful. Clearing his throat, he held a shaky hand in front of his mouth and coughed. Removing the now spittle-covered hand from his face, he talked shakily. "Yeah. Pazaak. Listen, sir... The Boss is mistaken! We meant to send along the money tonight! And.. I feel like we got off on the wrong foo-"​ he profaned, an ever-so innocent look on his face. Neskar shook his head, and dropped the aim of the ripper, squeezing the trigger and firing a round shot into the table, scattering the cards and punching a great hole in the table. The four men almost leapt out of their seats, staring at the head-sized hole created by the hand-cannon. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I break your concentration?"
"Send it along... after you finished your card game and drank your ale and went to sleep for the night? It seems to me that seemed to be your plan. Perhaps it's all an elaborate ruse then, and the Boss sent me here for no reason, and destroyed your beautiful grime-covered window for no reason. What a shame, at least I'm being pai- Oh. I'm not being paid for this unless I bring back your karking head, you little poodoo. Don't think you can talk your way out of this." Neskar snarled, a look of disdain under his helmet as he glared at the youth, the boy's eyes looking around frantically, trying to find a way to escape.
"Let me ask you something. And, to guarantee an answer..." Neskar raised his hand with the ripper in it, dropping in front of the youth's head. Almost falling out of his seat, the boy stared down the barrel of the hand-cannon. "My question is... what does the Boss look like?"
"What about what? What does the Boss. Look like?"
"What?! Why?!"
Neskar cocked the hammer of the ripper, jamming it against the forehead of the youth, standing over the table now, casting a shadow over the cards and the occupants.
"Say what again! I dare you! I double dare you, motherkarker! Now! Answer my karking question! What. Does. The. Boss. Look like?"
"H-he's a Rodian..."
"Yes, go on?"
"Green skin, black eyes..."
"Does he look like a queen?"
At this remark, Neskar dropped the ripper's aim downward, and fired a slug into the thigh of the boy. Blood erupted upwards, showering Neskar and the boy with his own blood. A scream came from him, and he clutched his new ruin of a thigh. Gasping for breath, the boy stared at Neskar, the most scared look in his eye.
"Does the boss. Look like. A queen?"
"W-no! No, he doesn't!" the boy struggled to get out, his voice almost strangled by the pain.
"Then why are you trying to kark him like a queen?! Eh?!"
"I wasn't, I swear!"
"I don't believe you, nor does the Boss. Debts must be repaid, and yours only by blood, young man. Sorry about this, it's just business." Neskar stepped back from the boy, turning his back to him. Almost in an instant, Neskar spun around, lifting the ripper into the air, aimed squarely at the boy's head. Squeezing the trigger, a thick slug erupted in a ball of fire from the barrel of the hand-cannon, spinning through the air until it made contact with the lad's forehead. His head almost seemed to cave in, and the force of the shot sent the boy flying from the chair, slamming into the floor where his wreck of a head spilt all over the floor. Neskar shoved the Ripper back in the holster and walked away from the table, leaving the other three in shock. Activating his jet-pack, Neskar strolled to the shattered window and went to leap out. Almost seeming like he had forgotten, he turned his head, looking over his shoulder. He spoke to the three remaining.

"Don't think I forgot you tricky karks either. Good-night, gentlemen." Neskar raised his gauntlet, his right hand pressing a green button, raising the napalm/high explosive miniature missile mix, and then slammed the red button, activating the missile and a small stream of fire erupted from it's behind and it flew through the air, where it soared over the table. The three men stared at it all the time, and opened their mouths to scream. No noise came. The missile activated, due to a timer inside it. A volcanic explosion of fire and liquid flame came from the miniature missile, instantly consuming the men, scorching their flesh until only bone would remain. Ducking out of the window, Neskar leapt from the apartment, just before a bellow of flame blew from the window, licking at his heels when he activated his jet-pack, skimming across the air until he landed on an opposing roof. Landing on his feet, he regained his composure, giving a brief glance backwards, seeing the apartment consumed in flame, a stark figure across the inky blackness of night. He sighed, and slowly walked away. The last one. The last one. The last. One.