Now

" Wait, please." I begged him. He couldn't leave now, not after everything we'd been through. Not after all we had lost.

He grasped my hand tighter, and pulled my gaze to his. His eyes were serious.

"I love you. For all that the word means, I love you. And even if I die right now, I would have no regrets, because finally, finally, you know."

I couldn't breathe. Sure, I knew that we were best together. But hearing him say those words with such fervor and so, so much sincerity nearly shattered me right then and there. But somehow, I found the strength to pull back my tears and say goodbye.

" I know you have to go. But I'll never be the same without you."

A sad smile came to his face. He brushed a stray white curl from my face. " I know, cyare, I know. May The Force by with you, forever and always."

And just like that, he was gone.

Then

I always hated mornings.

It wasn't the waking up part that had irked me for so long–it was the never-ending, redundant and idiotic routine that followed. Threaten a thug, shake him up, then get the goods. Like the directions on a bottle of cleaner. Rinse and repeat.

Rinse and repeat. Over and over.

Today, the filthy Nar Shaddaa air was permeated with an even worse stink, one that could stick to your clothes for months despite your thorough washes. After twenty-five attempts to get my socks and boots clean, I gave up and adopted the grubby soldier look. My hair was always pinned up to the left of my head in a messy ponytail, and my clothes had switched from prim and clean to loose and dirty. These days, a smuggler didn't need much more than a blaster on her hip and a stern expression to earn respect around here. Lucky for me, I managed to learn both within a month of hitting this place.

" Oy, Alz! Get your kriffing sweet hiney' out here before th'boss sees you sleepin' on the job!"

I groaned, and checked my busted chrono. With a faint glow of life, it reported I had only five standard minutes to find my blaster and boots and my cheery expression.

I ignored the missing ponytail and charged out of my room, miffed. My boss, Kult Rillen, a stodgy old Twi'lek, was leaned against the wall rubbing the dirt out of his pristine blaster. The way things worked around here, if you actually managed to get a job without the dangers of spice, you just shut up and took your shoddy blaster with a smile. He looked and smiled, looking me over once. He whistled. " Y'always manage your look o'regal poodo. Eve' the Hutts keep away from your stench, love."

I managed a very unladylike comeback and patted the blaster on my hip. Kult only laughed and started to head out, waving me behind. I sighed internally, hoping this new job would be quick. Kult finished primping his blaster and hooked it to his belt, and began to crack each of his knuckles. He then brushed a speck of dirt off his jacket, checking over himself thoroughly as we exited onto the streets.

His speeder, the standard thug's boat, was waiting just a few meters from where we stood, and was surrounded by two Rodians and a Ithorian, all carrying heavy-duty blasters on their belts. They seemed to all share that stupid, vacant and pathetic criminal look.

Kult chuckled and approached the three.

" Wha' seems to be the problem, friends?" Kult's first hint. If we were expecting a fight, he'd always refer to the idiots as pals. My trigger finger itched as my hand rested on the butt of my blaster.

The apparent leader, the Ithorian, spoke in Huttese and began ranting. " Friends? Friends! How dare you–you piece of poodoo-infested–"

Kult scowled at that. He hated having his appearances insulted. " If you've got somethin' better than a younglin's guide to swearin' boy, by al' means."

The Ithorian finally stopped his hissing. " I want back what's been taken from me, and I want it now. You promised me payment for that shipment of rocket launchers three months ago and what do I get? Friendship and a handshake! Screw you, and screw that little boss of yours, that no good son of a–"

Kult seemed to have had enough, he only paused a moment before cleanly snapping his fist straight into one of the four throats of the Ithorian. I took the cue and whipped my blaster out, setting it to kill. The first Duros to my left flanked me and sent a crushing kick to my knee, but I ignored the pain and took him head on.

His first hit was beginner's luck–he seemed to have little training at all. He swung his fist at me. Effortlessly, I grasped his arm, pulled him forward and elbowed him with my free arm straight in the face. He cried out, but I wasn't finished. I twisted his arm against its alignment and popped the shoulder out cleanly. Now incapacitated, I sent a shot into his back. The second Duros looked at his partner, grimaced and began to run. I raised my blaster to his back and looked at Kult, who had already killed the Ithorian. He shook his head.

I shrugged and holstered my blaster. Orders.

Kult brushed off his outfit once more, and smiled. " Goo' job Alz. The boss'l be very happy. One less moron plaguing the business." He hopped into the speeder and patted the seat next to him.

" As you say," I hopped in to the seat and laid back.

Encounters on the street were normal enough–not a single passerby bothered to look at the new corpses littering the street. I started rubbing the green blood out of my shirt.

This was what I'd been hired for. A piece of muscle to enforce the law of the Rogue Twelve, a bunch of arms dealers with a hand in every business transaction from the Black Suns to the Hutt clans. As long as I looked the other way when things got ugly and punched the snot out of anyone they asked, I got a bed and protection.

It also meant purpose, something I'd lost so easily a few months back.

Nar Shaddaa–the place of broken dreams. Easy to get lost in, intentional or not. Hard to get out.

I jumped. Kult had been speaking to me. " What, boss?"

He frowned. " I said we're going to see Maizel Fint toda', so keep your blaster to stun. The boss stricly' mentioned no kills. Apparently it makes the deal go soft."

I nodded and looked away. Despite its age, the speeder got us to Maizel Fint within the hour, and soon we were waiting in his doorway for further instructions.

The hideout the guy built was a makeshift citadel. It was crawling with bounty hunters and was one psycho short of being a Hutt palace. Even at the doors, we were being watched like a rancor with its meal.

" I don't like this." I muttered.

Kult didn't move, but he swiftly looked at me. He didn't either.

Finally, the doors opened. A swift little droid–an old communications droid, I think–waddled from behind and bowed.

" Welcome travelers," It said in a nasally wheeze. " I am Y2-X9, your chaperone for this evening. The master has been awaiting your arrival. Follow me please."

I snorted and walked in toe with Kult. " Chaperone? I didn't think there was a High Coruscanti accent setting for rust buckets like those."

He didn't smile. " Mr. Fint can program his droids howeveh he likes, it makes no difference to us. The boss sent us for'a job, so we'll do tha' job. Now shut-it you."

I stiffened and nodded.

We followed the droid through a dark corridor and into a brightly lit room. The room was dressed up spice den for the scum of scum. Twi'lek slaves danced hypnotically in cages to a thumping beat being shot out of an aging Togruta band. I wondered how long they'd been enslaved, for their entire life or as a result of the Empire's invasion.

The smell of sweat and liquor permeated the air in a heady, seductive tangle. I felt my brow moisten as soon as we entered, and already I felt my inhibitions lowering.

The droid lead us past this room, through a hallway, and finally to a pass code-protected door. With a polite request to turn away, the droid punched in the code and ushered us through.

The room we entered was filled with clean, crisp air. I welcomed the change and gulped in a lungful of it. There was a slight chill to the air as I breathed in. I froze in horror when I realized what the chill was coming from.

In the corners of the room were crates stuffed to the brim with Dead Wives'.

Dead Wives' was slang for untested Republic thermal mines. They were deemed unnecessarily destructive and too dangerous for the war, despite their potential. The problem was with their hair-trigger reactive cores that detected the slightest warmth within a twenty-meter radius. The only sure way to transport them was to keep them ventilated and in Hoth-cold containment crates.

This guy didn't even bother. He stuck the crates on his cooling vents and popped the lids off.

Kult didn't let an ounce of his worry show. I followed his lead and adopted my cool, vacant look. A table with two chairs was shoved into the corner, and one hooded figure was already seated. Kult put on his 'charming' smile and sat down, while I took position as close to his right side as possible, terrified my added presence might set the mines off.

The droid waddled to the figure's side. " My master, Maizel Fint, has other business to attend to. He has sent his brother, Hal Fint in his stead to oversee negotiations."

Kult raised an invisible eyebrow. " Negotiations? The business deal betwee' Maizel Fint and m'boss was already finished. We're jus' here to transport."

The droid looked like it was going to speak, but it was cut off. " Silence Whytoo. I have no interest in speaking with this slave and this Hutt's toy any longer. It's clear our proposition wasn't being taken seriously."

Kult's smile started to falter. It was true he'd grown up an Imperial slave, but it was hard to tell after years and years of Huttese had marred it. Kult earned his freedom after killing his slaver and stowing aboard a cruiser–which was headed straight for Nar Shaddaa.

" Now, there's no nee' for that. Let's talk abou' this." He leaned back in his chair and grinned. " We all have our own agendas. Maizel Fin' came to us wit' his, and we said yes. Now, truth ave' it, we didn't want the shipment because it's too heavy. But Maizel'll pay us well and give us a good word. And the boss says, 'Never take a–"

A blaster was shoed into Kult's throat. I immediately yanked my blaster out and pointed it at the figure.

Kult was the one to break the tension. " Easy, easy now. There's-no need for such misbehavins'. Sweet Alz an' I will just leave you be and tell the boss wha' happen. Have we got ourselves a deal, jack?"

The blaster pressed deeper into his throat. I flipped the safety off.

The figure chuckled darkly. " Still you believe this is all business. I'm sorry, slave, but this wasn't about you or your little arms' business. I'm afraid this is quite personal."

Kult grimaced at that. " Are the Imps still mad I pumped my slaver full of shot?"

" Oh no," It purred. " That's not it." And then the blaster pulled from Kult's throat, and Kult relaxed. My blaster didn't move.

Unceremoniously, the figure pulled back the rim of the hood, revealing a stone-white bald man. His eyes were rimmed with black, and creased from years of hatred. Blood-red tattoos marked his mouth and forehead.

Sith.

Wordlessly, I withdrew my blaster. No shot would hit a Force-sensitive even if I tried. The Sith smiled, more carnal than delighted. " Now, then."

Kult backpedaled. " Listen friend, if you need arms', my boss'll ave' them in no time, no time at–" The Sith raised his hand, and suddenly Kult was clutching at his convulsing throat, making guttural noises that ate at me.

With a frigid expression, he swept his gaze over to me, and smiled. Fear skewered me in place.

With Kult's throat in one hand, he menacingly laughed. " No, the one I want is not you, slave."

With a twitch of his fingers, he dropped the Twi'lek. Kult collapsed on the floor and coughed violently. I didn't stir, mesmerized by his every movement.

With his bloodshot yellow eyes, he locked me into place, a single sentence on his pale lips.

" I want her."