*Come to Nar Shaddaa. Pack for 3 days. Fate of Galaxy at stake.*
~Asmodeus Halcyon
They had all received the same message. Each and every one of them briefly contemplated not showing up, and each and every one of them did.
Oryon was used to this sort of thing by now. It wasn't the first time that Asmodeus had gathered them all together to face some perceived cosmic threat. Every now and then Oryon would get a annoyingly cryptic message in the mail, and it always wound up being some colossal waste of time.
Not to say that there were not real threats, Asmodeus was always watching the scanners, keeping watch for anything that might have followed them out of the Nexus wormhole. In his mind, a tear in spacetime could bring any untold horrors to this galaxy, and he felt responsibilty in holding them back. No, the waste of time was the part where he believed that only "The Halcyons" could or should be responsible for taking action. No one ever put it to a vote, no one ever said "Hey, this galaxy is not exactly short on manpower, we can let them get this one." No, it was always decided by Asmodeus, and therefore every few months all the members of the Halcyon lineage (which was a tricky enough concept to begin with) piled on to one ship and flew out to the far reaches of space where some big Nasty was wreaking havoc. It had grown mundane.
Still, here he was, checking into the Nar Shaddaa spaceport, booking a hangar for his ship. He was so annoyed with the process that he did not hear the footsteps behind him, and had no time to react when a blaster muzzle pressed between his shoulderblades.
"Pew pew, karkface."
Oryon raised his head and closed his eyes, thinking fast. A dozen scenarios ran through his mind in a flash, weighing and calculating the odds of various actions available to him. 2 seconds passed before he concluded that each scenario ended with him sporting a fresh smoking hole in his chest. However, 3 potential actions ended with him taking his assassin down with him. Oryon swallowed hard and prepared for his final act.
"Put it away, nephew." A familiar voice came from over his shoulder. Volaro stepped up next to Oryon and rested his pack on the counter. "Oryon has no interest in your childish theatrics."
Oryon allowed himself to relax. Bakurro, Volaro's rash nephew had joined their ranks only a few weeks before, but had already ingrained himself to Oryon as a right pain in the ass.
The blaster disappeared from Oryon's back, and he turned to stare down the very large Cathar who was looking down on him and grinning.
"Heh, I gotcha doctor man. Could have killed you any time I wanted. Recognize."
Oryon's expression was cool as ice and he leaned in very close to Bakurro and spoke right in his face. "Draw a gun on me again, and I'll hit you with a syringe of the nastiest bowel-cleansing diseases compiled from around the galaxy. You'll be in the 'fresher for a week."
Bakurro chuckled, "I'm too good for you, old man. I'd see you coming a parsec away. You'd be ash before you ever got close enough to touch me."
Oryon picked up his bag and turned away. "Remember what I said."
"Hey! I wasn't done blueboy! Come back here and-" Bakurro collapsed on the floor when he tried to walk. His face met permacrete hard enough to make him see stars. "What the druk?" He grabbed his left leg and shook it. "I can't feel my leg!"
Oryon smiled as he walked away, placing the anesthetic injector back into his coat pocket, and Volaro howled with laughter.
