LN Dean FanFiction

Chapter 1

Four years after the end of the Clone Wars on a planet with no official name…

Rob Bannon was a dead man.

Warm blood mixed with cold rainwater streamed down his face as he frantically pushed his way through the busy streets of Johner's Point. It took three excruciating long weeks of interstellar travel to get there. During which, he was cramped into dark bellies of cargo transports, eating nothing but tasteless grey goop and sharing his personal space with dozens of other strangers. Bannon sold everything and spent his last credit to get here. It took him less than an hour to completely screw it all up.

The angry shouts of his pursuers grew louder as he searched for an escape route. The crowds were quickly thinning as the storm worsened. It wouldn't be long before he was the only one in the street, which would lead to his swift capture and inevitable death. A flash of lightning from above illuminated the darkness. In the light, he saw a side street from the main road, which seemed to be his best option. He turned his head to look behind him to see if anyone had caught up to him. The only thing he could see was his own distinctive size-thirteen boot prints, which would lead them right to him.

I have to get inside.

Bannon accidentally pushed a dug street vendor to the ground as he turned the corner, who shook his weird leg-arm as he yelled profanities. "Sorry!" he called back. The rain rapidly turned into a torrential downpour so intense that he couldn't even see ten meters in front of him. He ran blindly through a gaggle of miners who were singing obnoxiously in the middle of the road.

The road suddenly turned ninety degrees, which forced him to rapidly change direction. The inertia of his heavy backpack awkwardly torqued his upper body which made his feet slip out from under him. He landed hard in the mud with a tremendous splash. The fall was painful, but he didn't have time to worry about it as the shouting drew closer. The deserted alleyway ahead was a dead end, but It was too late to backtrack to find another route. Bannon frantically wiped his muddy hair from his face, desperately looking for somewhere to hide. Bright neon signs that advertised dilapidated storefronts which illuminated the area around him.

Come on…think!

Nine meters to the right, Bannon saw a red neon sign that spelled out "B-A-R." It was the exact place he was supposed to look for when he first landed. It was unfortunate that he decided to make a short detour instead…. He scrambled to get up from his hands and knees, but nearly fell over a second time. With great effort, he caught himself and straight-lined towards his target. The doors crashed open with a loud thud. He tried to stop once he was inside, but instead, his muddy boots caused him to slide right into a wall. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he gasped painfully for air.

It took Bannon a few moments to catch his breath. The inside was just as dreary as the outside, but at least it was drier. A thin haze filled the air and a dull roar erupted from the patrons as they conversed amongst themselves, tending to their drinks and other addictions.

A crusty voice broke above the noise floor. "What the hell is going on!?"

Bannon straightened up and composed himself. "I am terribly sorry! It's just—it's raining outside."

A short human with dirty, mangled hair peered from behind the bar counter. "Yeah? No shit! Order a drink or get out!" the bartender yelled.

Bannon peeked through the window, but all he could see was rain hitting the glass.

Might as well get a drink.

"I'll have a lager, if you don't mind," he said as he casually strolled over to the counter towards the bartender, unshouldering his heavy pack. It wasn't until he sat down at the counter that he noticed that the bartender was strapped into a motorized wheelchair. The wheelchair didn't seem to be a hinderance though, as the chair maneuvered with ease despite the limited space behind the counter.

The bartender returned and slammed a mug on the counter. "One lager special for the shithead covered in mud. Anything else I can get ya?" he asked sarcastically.

Bannon moved his messy wet hair out of his eyes and looked over his shoulder. "No, thank you, sir," he replied. He was about to take a sip of his drink when he changed his mind. "Actually, sir, there is something else."

The bartender raised an eyebrow exaggeratedly. "Go on…" he pressed his oversized lips together.

Bannon leaned forward and quietly spoke, "Any minute now, about four or five mercs are going to barge in through the front door and kill me." He pointed at his own face. "One of them did this to me, but man"—he grinned—"you should see what I did to him."

As if on cue, the door crashed open. "Looks like I'll get to see it sooner than ya hoped for." The bartender said flatly.

Bannon shrunk into his chair as compactly as he could. "Sir, I know you don't know me and couldn't care less what these goons are gonna do to me... But I respectfully request your assistance. If you help me out, I swear on my life I'll do anything for you."

The bartender folded his arms across his chest, as if to contemplate the offer.

"Hey! There he is!" a livid voice called out.

Bannon's body tensed. "Please!" he whispered.

The bartender's face remained expressionless.

A heavy hand fell onto Bannon's shoulder. He spun around to see a scowling duro stared back at him with red eyes. The duro was flanked on either side by two scraggly-looking humans. "Is this the one?" the duro asked.

A rodian wearing an orange vest pushed the thugs aside. His snout was visibly swollen and one of his antennae was limp.

The rodian answered in Huttese, "This is the one." His words sounded robotic but were laced with rage. Faster than Bannon's mind could perceive it, the rodian unholstered his blaster. "I've been looking forward to this."

Bannon stared down the blaster's barrel, but surprisingly, he wasn't afraid anymore. He sighed loudly. "It took you long enough to find me. I bet it was hard after I put you into a submission hold with your little deely bopper there!" He felt the muzzle press against his bloody forehead. "They must be sensitive. I bet me tugging on it turned you on too! That's probably why you're so mad about it," he taunted, daringly pressing his head forward against the blaster.

The rodian met the resistance and sneered, "You will die now, human!"

"Do your worst, you green, slimy bastard!"

Click—Clack!

"I would reconsider yer choice, Greedo," the Bartender warned. Somehow, during the last few moments of chaos, the bartender quickly, but silently, moved his motorized chair out from behind the bar and pointed a very large double-barreled scattergun directly at the rodian's head. "This asshole belongs to me. He owes me a debt and I will have it repaid in full."

Bannon smirked. The surprised terror in the eyes of the duro and his human companions was quite enjoyable. However, his amusement subsided once he noticed that Greedo's blaster was still in his face. The rodian seemed unmoved by the turn of events. Bannon looked at the bartender, who was entirely focused on Greedo. No one moved or said anything for several tense moments.

Finally, Greedo raised his blaster up towards the ceiling and took a step back from Bannon. "The day will come when your status with my employer won't protect you"—he glanced at Bannon—"or anyone else, Vriess."

"One day, Greedo, ye're gonna pull a blaster on someone, but they're gonna shoot ya first"—Vriess lowered his scattergun slightly as he spoke— "and then ya will finally get what's coming to ya." He gestured his head towards the exit. "Go on, git!"

Without a word, the would-be assailants slowly backed away towards the door. The bartender kept his scattergun aimed at them until they left. Once the door closed behind them, Bannon called out "Next time, I'll rip off that antenna and shove it up your—"

"Shut yer mouth!" Vriess yelled. "I did ya a favor there, and at no small personal cost." His face was redder than the duro's eyes. "I wasn't lying, ya owe me big time." He maneuvered his chair back behind the counter. By the time he returned, his scattergun had disappeared back into its hiding spot. "So, who are ya and what are ya good for?"

Bannon cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I'm Rob Bannon." He placed his hands on the counter. "And I came here specifically to see you. They say that Vriess can get you any job in the galaxy. He's the ultimate match-maker for freelancers and mercenaries looking for contracts." He extended his right arm over the counter. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Vriess." They shook hands.

"Right then, what are yer skills, Bannon?"

Bannon explained his expertise—that when it came to bypassing any security system in the galaxy, he was the one who could do it better than anyone else. In a previous life, he was regarded as the best security systems engineer in the industry, designing custom-made Class-VII security doors, automated defenses, hyper accurate sensors, and impenetrable safe rooms for clients all over the Core Worlds. No one else could make a better infiltration specialist.

Vriess was unimpressed. "So, if ya were so good at yer job, why did ya give it up to be a petty lockpicker?" he countered.

Bannon's felt his face flush with anger.

Calm down! Not again….

He took a deep breath, "That…is personal."

Vriess shrugged his shoulders. "Fine with me. So, let's cut to the chase." He pulled out a data-pad from the side of his chair. "Ya want to work as a freelancer, and ya owe me a debt"— he typed as he spoke—"I match contracts with contractors and I normally charge twenty percent of their payout for my services."

Bannon sat back into his chair and drank his lager, which was surprisingly light and refreshing. "Sounds like a deal!"

"I'm not finished!" Vriess scolded. "Ya owe me. Therefore, to pay off yer debt, ya will spend the next three years working exclusively for me." He lowered the data-pad and stared Bannon directly in the eyes. "For fifty percent."

Bannon threw his arms up in disbelief. "That's unfair!"

"Well, boy, if ya don't like it, I'll just call yer good friend Greedo back here and ya can negotiate a better deal with him." Vriess challenged.

The two glared at each other. But, after considering his options, Bannon decided he had only one choice. He broke eye contact and huffed, "Fine." He extended his right arm again. "I accept your terms, sir." Once again, they shook hands.

"Excellent!" Vriess declared, his tone changing. "Let's get started then," he continued triumphantly. He typed aggressively on the data-pad. After a few moments, he handed it over to Bannon to see. "Well, my query returned over a hundred potential contracts in the local area."

Although he didn't quite understand what he was looking at, Bannon was taken aback at how easy the process was. He thought this part of the job would have had a more cloak-and-dagger feel to it.

"Now, when it says, 'local area,' what that really means is anywhere in the surrounding fifty-ish star-systems." Vriess leaned forward in his mobile chair. "Seeing as ya have just agreed to contract through me exclusively, I'll filter the search results to only reflect open contracts at Johner's Point." He retrieved the data-pad to update the listing. "Looks like ye're in luck! Right now, there is exactly one open contract requesting someone with yer skillset." He showed Bannon the data-pad.

Bannon frowned, as he rarely didn't understand what he saw. "How do you read this?"

After few minutes of explanation, he understood the user interface. The contract in question was actually a sub-contract that offered him a meager seven percent of the total payout upon completion of all the terms. Bannon would be working with other freelancers and mercenaries he had never met to perform a job on planet he had never heard of before—LV-426. No information was given about the client itself, or even what the total payout amount would be. Vriess explained the ambiguity was just a part of the trade, as it preserved the identities of clients and obscured the time, location, and identity of the target for obvious reasons. The only useful tidbit of information he was given from the contract's description was the time of departure—ASAP.

This is stupid….

"Sign me up, I guess." He decided to finish his lager in one go and slammed the mug on the table.

Vriess picked the tablet up off the counter and submitted the request. "Congrats, partner!" he exclaimed. "Ya have officially bided for yer first contract." He poured Bannon another drink. "This one's on the house—it's the weekly special." Vriess one for himself and raised the mug towards Bannon. "To us!"

Partner? This deal seems rather one-sided.

Bannon raised his own glass in response. "To us." They both drank. To his surprise, this drink was even better than the last, which caused Bannon's mood to improve slightly. It was the first decent drink he had in weeks.

Vriess finished in one big gulp. "Good stuff! Now, this is for yer face." Vriess wrapped a bag of ice in a towel and plopped it on the counter. "Looks like the bleeding stopped. And, this is for yer hip, I won't be around to save yer ass next time." He then placed a blaster pistol and a belt holster onto the counter.

Bannon carefully picked up the blaster to inspect it.

"Ya've never held one of those before, have ya?"

"Never needed to." Bannon said flatly, as he intently studied the weapon with a mixture of fascination and skepticism.

The blaster's black protective coating had been worn away from years of use and abuse, exposing bare metal in some areas. The pistol-grip was wrapped in grey repair tape, but it filled his hand comfortably. The front muzzle was covered in a charred ozone residue that smelled like burnt meat. Although the firearm appeared to be perfectly functional, he would need to scrutinize its internal components and test fire it. He would never rely on equipment to save his life unless he personally vetted its quality.

Vriess also provided Bannon with a small pouch with one tibanna gas cartridge and four power packs that were good for up to 200 total shots, more than Bannon would ever need. Just one plasma bolt from a blaster pistol had enough energy to instantly vaporize unprotected soft tissues.

"Ya can have the blaster free of charge," Vriess said with a smile. "Nothing ends an argument like the sound of a scattergun slide being racked. Can't do that with a dinky, little blaster pistol," he said proudly. "And if that doesn't work, giving 'em the end of both barrels ought to do the trick."

Bannon nodded in thanks as he put the blaster into its worn leather holster. He decided that, despite his rough demeanor, Vriess wasn't so bad once you were on his good side. He thought that maybe this so-called partnership could work out after all, if only he could eventually talk Vriess down from fifty percent. Bannon sat in a contemplative silence as he iced his face while Vriess helped his overwhelmed server catch up on drink orders.

As Bannon started to feel the weight of his recent decisions, he was struck with the gut-wrenching feeling of unease. To his disbelief, on his first day at Johner's Point he had already signed up for a potentially profitable contract, albeit with unknown dangers and a fifty percent reduction in his cut. In his previous line of work, he knew every detail before he ever signed a contract. Also, he had never worked in an environment where he had to defend himself with a blaster. He was completely out of his element. "What am I in for, Vriess?" he finally asked anxiously.

Vriess laughed. "Relax, kid. It takes time for contract bids to be processed, maybe a couple of hours at the earliest. In the meantime, enjoy the present moment, ya never know what the next moment will bring." Vriess leaned forward. "Now, I have some advice for ya." He pointed a fat finger at Bannon. "Never—." A loud beep interrupted. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "I've never seen it go through that fast." He picked up the data-pad. "Yer contract has been accepted. Ya are to report to hangar 18-07. The access code is 1-9-8-6—don't forget it. Ya must depart immediately. Yer new friends take off in thirty minutes."

Bannon downed his drink, then stood up. His worry was instantly replaced by excitement. "This is happening!" he announced loudly. "Thank you, Vriess. Pleasure doing business with you. Once I get back, I'd like to discuss future percentages with you," he said in a calmer tone as he firmly placed his mug on the counter. He grabbed his gear bag and the blaster and left without another word.

Vriess waved Bannon off as he picked up the empty mug. As he quietly cleaned it with a wet rag, he thought to himself. Although the information was withheld, he knew just by the way the contract was written who the client was.

That boy was probably gonna die.

Vriess had sent many contractors to their death over the years. However, he had never liked any of them on a personal level. He was starting to like this kid. Bannon had spunk, but also had manners, which reminded Vriess of an old friend who had died long ago. An uneasy feeling took hold of him as he stared off into oblivion thinking about that last job. That job went wrong. Wrong in every way possible…

Author's Notes

Han shot first. Still waiting for Disney to fix that scene…