CHAPTER TWO

Not As Intended

Nar Shaddaa had, as Zeph's Master had shown the young Padawan, a life of its own, a pulse that was actively perceivable through the Force, like an incessant whisper in the background, telling thousands of stories at once. Coming from Coruscant, Zeph was used to the network of reports, to the rumor and agitation, to the flux of mixed emotions and thoughts coming from everywhere and assaulting his young, open mind. But this was different; the Smuggler's Moon belonged explicitly to two categories – those who were hiding and those who tried to find. Coruscant's trait was organized variety; Nar Shaddaa's was purpose.

Invariably, he made that same realization each time he walked the platforms, separated from a fall into what looked like the endless void by only an ensemble of durasteel bars, too thin to actually look like an obstacle. Somehow, it felt as if the whispers came from down there and spiraled upwards, into the distant sky above the tops. It would have been no wonder if most of what he perceived really did come from there; basic instincts and primitive impulses, like those of the savage descendants of the Evocii, who lived down below, were far easier to detect than the intricate thought patterns of a more complex being.

It was all that which prevented the young Padawan from realizing that someone else was tracking his own steps, following him. Among so many searches, he did not distinguish the one that had him as its target. Not until he was grabbed by the shoulder and brutally turned around to face a Devaronian, who looked none too friendly. By the aggressive behavior and the brown-and-white calico fur, he guessed it was a female. Luckily, the Padawan, on his way to become a Jedi Consular and thus required to know many languages, could understand her.

"Jedi," the Devaronian hissed harshly. "Why did you give the datapad to the huntress?"

"Huntress?" Zeph questioned amiably, while subtly trying to shake the alien's clawed hand off.

"The Mandalorian woman," answered the female Devaronian, refusing to let go. "She goes by the fake name 'Acid Rain'; she hunts for credits."

She was... a bounty huntress? Zeph thought to himself. He could barely believe that the chaotic woman whose datapad he had returned was the same as this 'Acid Rain'.

"There must be a mistake," he said politely.

"It is no mistake," the Devaronian pressed on. "What I saw was clear, and by now my employers know also." She raised her other hand, flashing a communicator in front of Zeph's eyes, to prove her claim.

"Look," Zeph tried to buy time, as his mind worked assiduously. "The datapad was given to her by the Jedi. I fail to see how--"

A more violent snarl from a Devaronian whose patience was closing in to a limit interrupted him. "Wrong datapad, human," she warned. "That one missed the trash collector and fell below."

"Uhh..." the Padawan acted innocent and helpful, trying to smile apologetically. "I'm guessing I gave her something yours then. I can, perhaps, help you recover it?"

"No," the alien shook her head. "The Hutts don't like you knowing of their deal with the Exchange. You and the female must die."

Not very brilliant, are you? Zeph thought with a mental sigh. I didn't know about it until you told me.

"Wait!" he said loudly, as he was already calling upon the Force and raising a hand; he waved it in front of the Devaronian, concentrating as hard as he could. "You will let me go."

"I will let you go," the Devaronian responded mechanically and did just that, as her eyes widened a little and seemed to lose their focus.

"You have never seen me, nor talked to me," Zeph continued.

"I have never seen you, nor talked to you," the alien repeated faithfully.

"Good evening," the Padawan wished her, bowing a little, before he hurried to put some distance between them.

The scene had taken place only a few steps away from the apartment complex's entrance and Zeph was quick to slip inside before anything else happened and he actually had to hurt somebody. Not that he hadn't already done so indirectly and unintentionally; the bounty huntress was probably in a lot of trouble by then. Of course, helping her would be quite out of his league. With that thought haunting him, Zeph knocked on one of the doors; answering a command from the inside, it glided open and the Padawan could enter.

He found his master, a middle-aged Arkanian by the name of Valai Dral, sitting on the floor, legs crossed and eyes closed. "Where have you been?" the motionless serene figure asked gently.

"I've... walked," the Padawan answered, instantly lowering a loaded gaze to the floor.

"I see," the Master mused, opening his eyes to look at his student. "As usual."

"Actually?" Zeph began guiltily. "... I've caused some trouble."

Master Dral didn't even seem to process that last sentence for a while, still refusing to move. He didn't scowl or frown, as the Padawan had expected, nor did he have any harsh words. Finally, he gestured for his student to sit down, and so Zeph complied. It looked like his usual obedient attitude and tendency to stay in the background, obscure and unknown by any, had saved the young Jedi from a reprimand. Or maybe his Master had seen he felt guilty enough by himself already.

As usual, he found that the more experienced Jedi had a sympathetic ear ready for him, while the story of how things had gone by unfolded. When Zeph finished, the both of them stood, and the Master summoned his deactivated lightsaber through the Force, from the nearby desk.

"Come," the Arkanian called gently to his student. "We should help her."

There were no words to describe how grateful and relieved the Padawan felt upon hearing that. He followed his Master, wondering why he had questioned his patience and good will in the first place. Jedi weren't like that...


By the time Kim's growing headache became quite unbearable, she had nearly reached the recluse platform where her ship, a rather old and battered thing she had bought off a retired Republic veteran, was docked. Its name was Jealousy, but the identity of its first owner, who was responsible for that, had been lost over time. Though old and cranky, the ship could still hold through a few simple battles, should that need have arisen.

Jealousy was a light freighter, arranged in a three-pronged shape in such a way that it pretty much resembled the letter M; that was why many called such ships M-wings. The prong at the top was the one holding the bridge, while the other two below it could easily hold cargo or passengers; not that Kim had any, unless she needed to deliver somebody alive. Its only weapons were two pairs of turbolasers, but Jealousy's were in such poor condition that only one of four turrets functioned correctly, while the others risked to overload and suffer a most undesirable fate, such as an explosion. The bounty huntress had at least made sure the vessel's shields were up and working right.

Kim was a decent pilot and, with the help of 3C-NV, her little astromech droid, she could calculate and set enough courses to get her, mostly, to any part of the galaxy. And being what she was had its clear advantages – it was for the benefit of all if no one shot her down and she was allowed to continue her work. Not that someone as generally level-headed and cautious as Kim would have given anyone dangerous a reason to shoot at her. She wasn't a very considerate and social woman, but she knew when it was better to play tactfully.

But, despite her various accomplishments, the bounty huntress deeply loathed what her life had become. Her people had suffered a defeat recent enough to still mark them with its irremovable stain and she, one of the few Mandalorian remnants, had suddenly found herself homeless and without a social status that mattered. She had been obligated to learn the rules of another society and to strip herself of all that defined her people, of everything that was the Mandalorian conduct, for the sake of survival. And as if those reasons weren't enough for her to dislike Jedi, fate had brought her together with a freighter named in such a way that it would constantly symbolize how jealous she was of their power.

"If they thought I'd eat up the religious nonsense on their datapad..." the woman muttered some more, when she recalled that incident.

Mentioning it seemed to be an ill omen, for the exact moment she did so she took a wrong step that twisted her ankle for a moment. The awkward move required to reinstate her balance was enough for her to realize that something was in her back pocket. She reached behind and pulled it out, only to be surprised at the sight of a datapad.

"Hey!" she exclaimed rhetorically, expressing frustration. "I'm positive that I threw you away..." She squinted, in order to see a few details about its make, and then realized. "Wait; this is another datapad, belonging to--"

"--the Exchange."

Life could be so funny sometimes; nothing happened when you were bored, then, at the worst possible time, when an occurrence swept you off your feet, everything else came to pile on top of it.

Kim didn't need to be a genius to realize that the orange-skinned Twi'lek female she saw standing there when she turned around had been the one to complete her spoken phrase. The two knew each other vaguely, as their goals occasionally coincided and they clashed in a competition that would prove which of them were better. Of course, the Twi'lek was no declared bounty huntress, like Kim, but the Exchange used its mercenaries on multiple fronts.

"Velsa Daral," Kim identified her calmly, doing her best to act like she and the Twi'lek were equals. At the moment, of course, they were not, the latter aiming a blaster at Kim, and the bounty huntress felt as if every single bone in her body had been recently broken anyway.

"Really, Kim," the Twi'lek mocked her. "Shooting you will be the best thing I've done in over a year." She took her time, to aim the shot accurately, seeming not to have decided on whether it would be the head, the chest or stomach that received it.

"That's really sad..." Kim remarked, trying to at least die proudly, or something of the kind. She didn't really care in her current state of mind.

She waited for a shot that never came.