An icy wind blasted through the darkened streets of Coruscant's Grungeon Block. Befitting its location, here only the lowliest creatures resided. Of those with the misfortune to be outside on this moonless night, the majority took no notice of the hooded figure striding swiftly past the decaying buildings. In the Block it was safer to scuttle directly to your dwelling through filthy puddles than raise your head and risk a confrontation. Only the district's hookers deliberately sought the stranger's attention. By a doorway two young females of indeterminate species called out to the man whose boots briefly reflected the flicker of the neon sign above their heads. But the stranger walked on.
Raising a black-gloved hand to his shadowed face, the man fought back the urge to retch. At a distance unthinkable for an ordinary human he could smell the prostitutes' fear, sweet and rancid in his nostrils. They risked death to feed their addictions, and their desperation tasted bitter, like bile. Swallowing the unpleasant sensations the man strode on, ignoring the familiar tension coiling in his stomach.
If he didn't have pressing business to attend to, he would have toyed with the idea of turning back, of taking what they offered before ridding them of their miserable lives. It would not be the first time he'd taken pleasure in cleansing Coruscant of that kind of filth. But not tonight, he mused. Tonight he had an infinitely more satisfying prize in mind.
Smooth white skin, trusting brown eyes, the scent of Noobian lilies. The trophy he deserved for all these years of patience, of putting up with fools, old men part of an Order dead on its feet, past its time. Oh, and patient he had been, weaving his web of deceit with intricate detail, playing his part with caution and control. But now he sensed the moment was near. Around him the Force creaked and groaned, like an ancient ocean ship about to break apart at sea. Finally, everything was in place. The rest of his plan was a matter of mere detail.
Tonight, he would set a fool on task, on a course that may as well be suicide. There was a simple satisfaction to be gained by the twisting of a feeble mind, a pleasure in persuasion that could be performed, unaided, with words alone. Especially when the persuasion would lead to the idiot's own doom.
Realising he had been caught up in his thoughts, the man paused to take in his surroundings. The journey had indeed gone more quickly than he expected and his destination lay just across the street. A soft scuttle sounded at his feet as a rodent beetle paused to sniff his boot. Raising a foot he squashed it quickly under his heel, took one last glance around him and ducked through the rusting doorway.
Behind a scratched plexiglass screen, a fat Besalisk female watched a holovid terminal with glazed yellow eyes, her open mouth dripping stringy drool onto a stained grey jacket that at some point must have been part of a uniform.
"Yes?" The clerk didn't look up as she spoke.
"Room for two hours please. My guest will arrive shortly." The man's vocalisation was low, but his accent was distinctly cultured Coruscanti. The Besalick leaned closer to the terminal, too absorbed in the Ojom soap opera to notice that the customer's voice belonged many levels above.
"Twenty credits per hour tonight. Name?"
If the clerk had been paying attention, and if the man's face hadn't been shadowed by the black hood of his robe, then she might have seen a green flash of excitement in grey-blue eyes. There was a certain thrill in not bothering with a pseudonym when visiting places as vile as these.
With a dark gloved hand the man slid a credit chip through the slot in the screen and bent to lower a bearded face closer to the audio transmitter.
"Kenobi. Obi-Wan Kenobi."