I had so much fun writing this chapter and I honestly think it might be my favorite chapter so far. I hope you all enjoy it!

The only bounty hunter in the galaxy to win the Obsidian Sphere Tournament five times, Rasticore Chaosus Disastervaine was a legendary member of the Assassin's Guild. No one, not even the Septarian himself, had any idea just how many beings he had killed for a contract. After a while, he stopped keeping track. He was feared, a ruthless, cold-blooded killer for hire.

And he was stuck washing dishes.

Every evening, Rasticore would adjourn to the Zakaras cantina, hidden away in the kitchen where he would scrape food remnants off plates and polish metal drinkware and utensils. This was his penance for breaking the Zakaras code.

He found it demeaning.

After his first night on the job, he asked the Twi-'lek who ran the cantina, Zoro, if he could escape his sentence if he were to purchase an automated dishwasher, or at least a droid who could do the same task, for the cantina. Zoro retorted that Rasticore was certainly welcome to do so, but he would find some other way for the Septarian to repent for his wrongdoings, such was the way of the Zakaras code. He could not buy his way out of trouble.

And so, Rasticore washed dishes, night after night, for three weeks. But he was not remorseful. Not the least bit. A cold-blooded killer does not feel remorse.

But he does seek revenge.

Not revenge against Zoro, of course. Zakaras may not have fallen under the jurisdiction of any law, but the code was not to be broken. He had unarguably broken the code, and thus, penance was a requirement. He could live with that.

But that princess? He wanted her dead.

No target had ever evaded Rasticore. No being had ever escaped his wrath. No one, that is, except for the infernal Butterfly family.

Nearly four years prior, a fellow Septarian named Toffee had hired him to terminate the King and Queen of Mewni. Rasticore would have done the job even without the promise of a massive bounty. It wasn't like he needed the motivation when the target was the traitorous Mewni royal family. He'd been provided a holo of the King, Queen, and Princess. "The Princess will not be present at Butterfly Castle," Toffee had assured him. "Her execution will have to be a separate operation. But, as she will inherit the throne upon her parents' deaths, surely her presence will be requested on Mewni once the King and Queen are disposed of, which will place her in a much more suitable location for assassination."

"No difference to me."

Rasticore spent a week planning out every last detail of his stealthy infiltration of Butterfly Castle. It would not be easy. He entered via the highest window of the north tower, gaining access by landing a glider on the roof. He crept down through the tower, positive that he had alerted his presence to no one.

And then he turned a corner.

"Hellooooooo!"

A tiny, blue man, floating in the air before him. Rasticore jumped back in surprise and lashed out with his claws to silence him, only to find that the miniature being had vanished.

What?! Eyes frantically searching for the blue man, heart pounding, Rasticore was at a complete loss. Am I losing my mind? He listened carefully, but heard only silence. Rasticore shook his head and carried on.

He didn't make it far.

"Sooooo...who are you here to kill?"

Rasticore nearly jumped out of his skin. The tiny blue man had materialized on his shoulder. "What the-?!"

The blue man floated in circles around his head.

"You know, I probably shouldn't even be telling you this, but I thought you might like to know..."

Rasticore fumbled in the air attempting to grab the little loudmouth, his claws never managing to land.

"...I've alerted the guards to your presence and they're already on their way."

There wasn't much more of the story to tell. For the first time in his bounty hunting career, Rasticore had been caught in the act. He jumped out a window and ran, but found himself cut off from his ship. He was forced to disappear into the forest, but they caught up with him eventually, and he was captured and turned over to the Galactic Republic. Trial, guilty verdict, jailed.

Eventual escape.

The contract on King and Queen Butterfly had been the very first Rasticore had failed to fulfill. He still could not figure out who that tiny, floating, blue man was, nor how how he had given away his presence.

His recent encounter with the princess was a different story. He'd been caught before he ever got close to the King and Queen. But never once had a target been literally in his sights and gotten away alive, much less completely unscathed. And that girl...that stupid, insignificant Mewman teenager...hadn't suffered even so much as a scratch. How could she possibly move so fast? How did she seem to know exactly where he would shoot before he even pulled the trigger? How was she still alive?

With every dish he scoured, Rasticore wondered how he could exact his revenge on the Mewni Princess. He'd have to tread lightly. Zakaras was his safe haven, no different than anyone else who resided there, and he could not risk being exiled from the hidden Takodana mountain range. Last he'd heard he'd been high on the Republic's wanted list, less for being a cold-blooded assassin, and more because he'd managed to escape from a Republic prison. He wasn't entirely sure where he stood with the Empire, but he had heard from newcomers to Zakaras that the Imperials were cracking down on the crime syndicates. As skilled and as deadly as he was, one Septarian was no match for the entire Imperial Army, who would certainly swoop in and converge on his location the instant they caught wind of an escaped convict.

Rasticore washed a lot of dishes over the weeks. He concocted a lot of plans, too. But every scheme he thought up always had that loose thread, that one little detail that could trace the princess's death back to him.

Oh, well. He'd think of something eventually. He always did. No one ever escaped Rasticore Chaosus Disastervaine.

He dried the last dish and set it atop the neat stack of clean plates, wiping his damp hands on the towel before aggressively throwing it over the edge of the wash sink and stalking out of the kitchen. Zoro was sitting at the bar, inputting values for various food stuffs to be ordered on a value pad. "I'm done," he told the Twi'lek with a soft snarl.

Zoro did not spare the Septarian a glance, keeping his eyes fixed on his work. "Very good."

Rasticore took a step forward. "How many more days I gotta do this?"

"Hmm...let me see..." Zoro changed screens on his datapad and looked over a spreadsheet of numbers. "Another four days, and I think you will have sufficiently worked off the cost the damages."

Rasticore growled. "I gotta leave town a few days. Tomorrow. I got a contract to fulfill."

"That's fine. You can always complete your penance when you return. But it'll be an additional three days."

Another annoyed growl as Rasticore's hands clenched into fists. "Fine."

The next morning, Rasticore prepared for his hunt. He laid out his weapons, cleaning his LL-30 blaster pistol and long-barreled D7 blaster rifle with solvent and a rag. The blades of his knives were checked and polished and slid into their sheaves, and the blaster pistol into its holster. The D7 hung on a strap across his back, but he could not wear it while piloting his starfighter, so it would be carried in hand until he reached his ship. Locking up his shack, Rasticore headed for the landing field on the other side of the village square.

As he passed through the small open marketplace, a flash of red and blue caught his eye, and he quickly ducked around the corner of the cantina. Even without getting a good look, he knew his eyes had not deceived him. It was the princess and her male companion. No one else in Zakaras dressed in colors that vibrant.

Rasticore peeked around the corner. The two teenagers laughed as they spoke with the Gotal behind the market's largest table. His grip tightened around the stock of his D7 and he narrowed his eyes, thinking how incredibly easy it would be to shoot them both at this distance. Killing them here was out of the question, though. It was the middle of the day, and there were quite a few people milling about the marketplace. Too many witnesses. Everyone would know it was him. He watched as they loaded their produce into their packs and bid the Gotal goodbye, turning and taking each other by the hand as they strolled into the thicker forest beyond the village.

Taking note of their direction, Rasticore hurried across the market and found his starfighter parked amongst a dozen other ships in the landing field.

The Xanadu Blood was a Rogue-class Porax-38 painted a drab dark green. The starfighter had a storied history. Starting life as a CIS military ship designed for use by MagnaGaurds, it had been part of a bounty payment to the legendary bounty hunter Cad Bane, who had its livery changed to its current state. Following the bounty hunter's (brief) capture by the Jedi, the ship was taken to a Republic impound yard, where Bane recovered it after slipping away from Jedi Master's Kenobi and Windu. But Bane would eventually be captured and sent to prison again, and the Xanadu Blood would end up back in that same impound yard once again. It eventually would be stolen a second time. This time, it was Rasticore who made off with the ship, and, despite the fact that Bane managed to escape prison yet again, he had yet to come around looking for his starfighter.

Rasticore hopped aboard the single-seat fighter, tucking his long blaster rifle beside the seat and lowering the canopy. As quickly as his reptilian fingers could move, he fired up the engines and coaxed the Xanadu Blood into the sky. As the ship rose above the tree tops, Rasticore pointed it in the direction of the path he'd seen the two teenagers take into the woods. He eased the ship forward, gliding slowly over the trees, eyes scanning the forest below.

He almost missed it. The ship itself was concealed well, nearly invisible, but a few of the branches acting as camouflage sat at unnatural angles. If Rasticore hadn't been specifically looking for something out of the ordinary, he likely never would have noticed it.

So that's where those kids are camped out...

For now, all he could do was make a mental note. He didn't have time to plot new revenge schemes. There was a target due for termination.

He shoved the throttle control forward and pulled back on the control yoke, tearing away into the clear Takodana sky.

Trask. Perpetually damp and gray. A relatively small moon in the Kol Iben system, it's inhabitants were mostly fisherman, and they were most typically of amphibious species: Mon Calamari, Quarren, Ishi Tib, and the occasional frog-like humanoid of indeterminate species. Trask was not a destination one chose if they had any other option, unless, of course, they had business to conduct.

Or, you know, if you were hired to kill someone conducting business there.

Already annoyed, Rasticore's surly mood was further aggravated the instant the cockpit canopy of the Xandanu Blood opened. Never mind his reputation for being a cold-blooded killer, he was, as a Septarian, literally cold-blooded, which meant his internal body temperature was affected by his environment. He downright refused any job that might take him to an ice world. The weather on Trask was above freezing, but with the wind and eternally damp atmosphere, it was about all he could stand. Rasticore traded his cape for a black, insulated cloak, flipping up the hood as he grabbed his D7 blaster rifle. He left the ship on the dock and headed for the harbor town.

Trask was most widely known to the galaxy for its major export: fish. It supplied seafood to upscale restaurants in the Midrim as well as backwoods taverns in the Outer Rim. But while fish was the moon's biggest export, most of the beings traveling there to conduct business had no interest in the price of saawfish fillets. They were there for black market trading.

Rasticore was well acquainted with the business. Often, his clients were black market smugglers, traders, and buyers who were tired of other smugglers, traders, and buyers who didn't hold up their end of a bargain. It was a recurring theme.

The inn was a good place to start. There weren't many places to acquire food in the port town, especially hot food, and there certainly wasn't anywhere else to obtain temporary boarding. Nearly everyone in town came through the inn sooner or later.

Inside was dim but pleasantly warm, and smelled of hot chowder. Rasticore found an empty table and sat, lowering his hood. A old and grumpy gray-skinned Nautolan sporting a scar across his left cheek approached. "You want som'thin'? Food? Drink?"

Rasticore took a thin holodisk from the pocket of his cloak, holding it in the palm of his hand as he flicked it on. "Information," he growled. The blue holo showed a Felucian: small, oblong head with tiny eyes, thin, spindly neck, pear-shaped body, long, thick legs. "Name's Turo Chrilla. Seen 'im?"

The Nautolan squinted, pursing his lips. "Hmmm...dunno. Maybe. Don't get a lot of Felucian's through here." His mouth curled into a grin as he narrowed his eyes at the Septarian. "Perhaps you could...refresh my memory?"

"Gladly."

The Nautolan suddenly found himself starring down the barrel of a blaster pistol. His smile vanished, eyes growing wide. "P-Please! D-D-Don't kill me!"

"Then start talking."

"Chrilla lives here in the port, but he does business all over the planet."

"Where's his residence?"

"I don't know! I swear!"

"Where's he now?"

"Couldn't tell ya! I ain't seen him for five or six rotations!"

Rasticore narrowed his remaining organic eye at the Nautolan. "You're of no use to me."

The Nautolan shut his eyes, wincing as he awaited the inevitable blaster bolt.

"He ain't worth it. Leave 'im be."

Rasticore slowly swiveled around in his chair, his blaster still trained on the terrified innkeeper. Seated at the table behind him, head covered by a cloak, was a middle-aged Quarren man, hunched over a bowl of chowder which he refused to avert his attention from. Rasticore frowned. "What's it to you, Squid-Head?"

"That old geezer can't help you." The Quarren dipped his spoon into the chowder, navigated the utensil past his facial tentacles, and slurped up the steaming liquid with painstaking slowness while Rasticore and the innkeeper watched, one with annoyed impatience, the other with tense fear. "But I can."

The Septarian lowered his blaster. The instant he was not staring down the barrel of a firearm, the Nautolan quickly made himself scarce. Rasticore, meanwhile, turned his chair around to face the Quarren. "Alright, Squid-Head. Talk."

Another painfully slow slurp of soup. "What the geezer said is true," the Quarren said of the innkeeper. "Turo Chrilla lives here in the port, and he conducts business all over the planet. But he stores and prepares his merchandise for shipment in a building in the warehouse district. He owns the building, so he probably lives there, too."

"Take me there," Rasticore growled.

"Sure. When I'm done my chowder."

The Septarian slammed his fist on the table, still holding the LL-30 pistol, now pointed at the Quarren. "No. You'll take me there now."

The Quarren didn't even so much as flinch. "You shoot me, it'll take you far longer to find the warehouse than it'll take you to wait for me to finish my lunch."

Rasticore growled in annoyance, mostly because he knew the Quarren was undeniably correct. He holstered his weapon and leaned back in the chair. "Fine. Make it snappy."

A light drizzle had begun to fall as Rasticore followed the Quarren down alleyways, stepping over trash and debris and splashing through puddles. He was feeling sluggish from the cold.

"Hey, Squid-Head. How much further?"

"Nearly there. Just around this corner."

They turned the corner and found themselves at the back door of a fairly large building, big enough to park a light freighter inside and still have plenty of room for merchandise storage.

The Quarren gestured to the door. "Here we are. This is Chrilla's warehouse."

Rasticore glanced at the door control. He was almost positive it was locked, but he tapped the button anyway. The door remained stationary. So he buried his fist into the control panel and ripped out a handful of still sparking wires. The door, almost as if it had been intimidated by Rasticore's show of force, obediently slid aside. The Quarren gave barely any discernible reaction.

Rasticore began to step through the doorway, but stopped. He turned back to his recent acquaintance, glaring skeptically. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because Turo Chrilla is a scoundrel," the Quarren said matter-of-factly. "He made a fool of me, and he does the same to lots of honest folk here." He shook his head. "Being Felucian, he looks innocent and weak. He's anything but. That's how he takes advantage of people. Now, I ain't a violent man, but if someone else wants to hang 'im...well, he's only getting what he's got coming." He leaned in closer. "Why are you after him, Bounty Hunter?"

"Never said I was one."

"Son, I've been around the asteroid belt a time or two. I know a bounty hunter when I see one."

Rasticore supposed he couldn't argue with that. He answered the Quarren's question very curtly. "He made a fool of someone. Someone with a lot of credits."

"I see..." The Quarren stepped back. "Well, I wish you good fortune in your quest." And with that, he quickly left.

Rasticore stepped through the doorway. The warehouse was dark, but that was no matter to the Septarian. He closed his organic right eye as his cybernetic left one auto-adjusted to the darkness. He could now see just as well as if it were daylight.

The warehouse was packed with crates and miscellaneous unknown objects concealed by tarps. The only open floor space to be found was a large pad just inside the large overhead door at the other end of the building where a freighter was clearly meant to land for loading.

Rasticore strolled between the stacks of merchandise, inspecting the labels on each one. Despite the impressive collection, it didn't take him long to find the ones he was looking for. The labels identified the cargo within as jogan fruit; origin Lothal, destination D'quar. That shipping label contained three lies, but it was all for show to get it past Imperial inspectors.

Having accounted for six of the missing crates, Rasticore moved on toward the rear of the warehouse. He forced his broad shoulders through a doorway that was clearly not intended for someone of his stature and found himself in what looked like a small but lavish apartment. There was deep, plush carpeting and wood paneled walls, and a very comfortable-looking chair much too small for Rasticore positioned in front of the holoviewer over to the right. He found the light control beside the door and flicked on an extremely gaudy chandelier hanging overhead. On the left, there was a small but elegant table and two chairs, and beyond that, a tiny kitchenette featuring brand new top-of-the-line appliances.

A central hallway led deeper into the living space. Rasticore found a storage closet, a refresher, a bedroom, and an office. Just like the other door, he had to force his way inside the office.

Only two items of interest occupied the room. Directly opposite the door was a small, finely crafted desk and backed stool. The desk held a computer console. Against the wall to the left was a large durasteel safe.

Rasticore went for the desk and attempted to access the computer. It was encrypted, but he had expected as much. From a compartment on his belt, he retrieved a palm-sized datapad and stylus, wrapped with a set of leads. He unwound the wires and plugged the leads into the computer. Slicing through the encryption did not take long. Rasticore was no computer whizz, but he was a decent code breaker, and many of his targets used rudimentary encryption that was little more than child's play.

Now with full access to the computer, Rasticore set about searching Chrilla's files for any bit of information that might illuminate his current whereabouts. The best clue came in a copy of a landing permit for a docking bay on Trask's opposite hemisphere. It was only valid for two rotations, which just so happened to be the current rotation and the following one. Typically, finding such a clue to a missing target would be encouraging, but not in this case. The landing permit was for a docking bay in the city of Cromwell.

Which was under Imperial control.

"Kriff," the Septarian muttered under his breath. The last thing he needed was to be walking around a city crawling with Imps, but he had a job to do, and a time limit in which to do it.

Growling with aggregation, Rasticore left the office.

It was raining steadily by the time Rasticore reached Cromwell. Without a landing permit for the area under Imperial control, he'd had to take the ferry across the bay from the little port town, and then a hop a shuttle from there to the controlled zone. He tried to keep his face hidden beneath the hood of his cloak, but he still stuck out so badly he may as well have been a Hutt.

Fake identification was presented to a stormtrooper as he exited the transport and Rasticore quickly hustled out of the shuttle service building.

Cromwell was the largest city on Trask by a large margin. It was in fact the moon's only spaceport. The landing permit Rasticore had discovered in Chrilla's office was for docking bay C32. Now all he had to do was find it.

The search took him deep into the city. Despite being out of the control zone, Rasticore moved stealthily, making sure to keep his face obscured. In addition to the armed Imperial stormtroopers patrolling the streets, the Empire had recently grown fond of mounting security cameras and checkpoints in areas where they had presence. The city of Cromwell was no different.

Paranoia-backed security wasn't the only spreading infestation. Imperial propaganda was plastered everywhere. Banners hung from walls and cluttered up storefront windows, Aurebesh text urging the commoners to "JOIN THE RANKS OF THE IMPERIAL ARMY TODAY" and "BECOME AND OFFICER — ENROLL IN THE IMPERIAL ACADEMY", and the circular Imperial emblem popped up anywhere the Imps saw fit.

Rasticore passed through the city center. Cromwell was by no means a wealthy city, even the street beneath his feet was no more than gravel, but if there were public amenities of any kind, they were here.

A large holoscreen mounted to the side of the largest building in the square faced the street, playing a propaganda video featuring some high-ranking Imperial officer. Rasticore paid it no mind. When the video ended, however, a slideshow began. Each holo urged "Do your duty-report sightings of these dangerous criminals to your local Imperial Authorities." Any known information about the criminals depicted scrolled by to the left side of the screen. Rasticore wondered if he ranked among these "dangerous criminals" or if he'd been off the Imperial radar for so long that he'd been pushed off the "most wanted list." He had a feeling that a good portion of the list were Jedi that the Empire had yet to track down. For a moment, he paused to read some of the names. The first was Caleb Dume, a human male who couldn't be more than fifteen. The screen labeled him as a Jedi. Cal Kestis, another human male, even younger, was next, and again, identified as a Jedi. Ahsoka Tano, a Torgrota. Quinlan Vos. Obi-wan Kenobi. All Jedi. Rasticore smiled to himself. They couldn't care less about an old jail breaker like me. All they want are the Jedi.

The holo changed again. Another young human male, dark hair, mole beneath his right eye. The information beside the holo identified him as Marco Diaz, yet another Jedi. Rasticore frowned. Wait a minute...is that...?

The holo changed again. A young human girl, long blonde hair, big blue eyes. A heart-shaped mark on each cheek. There was no question about that one. Star Butterfly: A Jedi.

The Mewni Princess...is a Jedi?

For a moment, Rasticore found himself rooted to the spot. If the princess was a Jedi, that certainly explained how she was able to evade his attacks in the cantina.

And then, all at once, the pieces fell into place. Rasticore knew exactly how to get his revenge on those stupid kids without breaking the Zakaras Village code. If he was lucky, he might just even be able to get himself off the Empire's wanted list, too. It was perfect, and he would barely have to do a thing.

But first, he had a job to do.

Before long, Rasticore located docking bay C32. It was sealed off from ground level, but that wasn't much of a deterrent. He looped around to the back side of the building where he would not be visible to passersby. His powerful legs shoved off the ground and he leapt at the side of the building. Despite being made slick by the rain, his claws provided sufficient grip to hold him just long enough to push off again and launch upward. He repeated the process until he made it to the top three stories up, where he perched on the wall surrounding the docking bay. The top of the building was open to the sky, and Rasticore could see the ship, a YT-2400, parked in the bay below. The ramp was extended, but there was no one in sight below.

A ring of narrow lights mounted about two-thirds of the way up the wall circled the docking bay. Rasticore dropped down, grabbed onto the light directly below him, then pushed off from the wall and grabbed onto the hull of the ship. From there, he was able to safely drop to the floor.

Rasticore climbed the boarding ramp and checked out the interior of the ship. He encountered no one until he reached the cockpit. A green astromech unit squealed in surprise at the presence of the intruder. Rasticore calmly drew his blaster and shot the droid in the dome.

No one was aboard, but that was okay. The ship's owner would be back eventually. Rasticore could be patient.

Turo Chrilla smiled to himself as he inserted the code cylinder into the console beside the long loading door and unlocked the docking bay. The Felucian ducked underneath before the door reached the top of its travel, humming happily as he strolled toward his ship with a carefree attitude. He carried a vassal beneath his left arm, the thin bag heavy with credit chips. He climbed the boarding ramp and made his way up to the galley. The ship's electrical system was powered down, and the interior of the ship was dim.

Perhaps a little snack before I return home...

Chrilla opened a cabinet and found a dried fruit bar. He turned to head up to the cockpit and found an intruder standing in the doorway. Chrilla jumped back in surprise, dropping the fruit bar but clinging to the vassal beneath his arm. The intruder towered over the tiny Felucian, and his broad shoulders filled the entire doorway. He was shrouded by a hooded cloak, and the only feature visible to Chrilla was a violet glow from a cybernetic eye.

"Hello. Turo." A flash of light glinted off a tooth as reptilian lips curled back into a smile. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"Wh-who-who are you?!" the little Felucian stammered, backing up until he bumped into the cabinets.

A guttural chuckle, an evil sound from deep within the Septarian's throat. "My name is Rasticore Chaosus Disastervaine." He slowly stepped forward, lowering his hood. Chrilla trembled at the sight of his intruder's face. "And this little scam of yours has just come to an end."

"Scam? N-No, sir, you have it all wrong! I-I'm just a simple farmer! I-I brought my family's crop here to sell to the distributor! Honest!"

Rasticore's smile only grew. "Yes. A farmer. A farmer who left his home to smuggle spice for the Hutt Clan. And then skimmed product off the top of his shipments and sold it on the side for a quick profit. And from the looks of your warehouse, the Hutts aren't the only ones you've been taking advantage of." He towered above Turo, who literally trembled in fear. "It's unwise to take advantage of someone wealthy enough to put a bounty on your head."

Turo looked down at the vassal of credits tucked beneath his arm. "P-P-Please d-don't kill me! I'll gi- I'll split the profits with you!"

The cold durasteel of a cybernetic hand was suddenly wrapped around the Felucian's spindly neck, effortlessly lifting him off the floor. The vassal tumbled to the ground as Turo's hands clutched madly at the metal fingers, desperately trying to pry them from his windpipe. Rasticore's free right hand drew a knife, and he delighted in the fear etched across Chrilla's face as he caught sight of the shimmering blade.

"Don't worry none about your money. You won't have much use for it any longer."

Turo's tiny eyes bulged as he watched Rasticore lower the knife out of his line of sight. "Puh...pl...ease! No! No!"

Rasticore ran the knife through Chrilla's heart, roughly yanking it back out again before dropping the dead Felucian to the floor. He bent down and wiped the blood from the blade on Chrilla's shirt, then returned the weapon to its sheath.

The job was done.

Rasticore flew the YT-2400 freighter back to the port town where his journey had begun and landed in the late Turo Chrilla's warehouse. He loaded up the stack of crates he had discovered earlier and then took off again, a very short trip by air to the dock where he'd parked the Xanadu Blood. He set the freighter down, got out, hopped into his starfighter, and turned it sideways, locking it onto the hull of the freighter via magnetic clamp. Then it was back into the cockpit of the YT-2400 one last time for the final leg of his journey.

He regretted destroying the astromech droid he'd found when it came time to jump to hyperspace, but the route he required was already saved in the ship's navicomputer, which prevented him from having to do the hard calculations himself.

He napped during the hyperspace trip, looking forward to reaching his destination, one much more pleasant (to him) than chilly, damp Trask.

He landed the ship in the hanger of Jabba's Palace on Tatooine.

The Hutt was waiting for him in the throne room. He called out in his deep, booming voice, speaking Huttese. The protocol droid beside him translated in a monotone synthetic voice.

"The Mighty Jabba is pleased to see you, Bounty Hunter. He hopes that you have completed your mission."

"I have," Rasticore growled, doing his best to sound respectful. "Turo Chrilla is dead. His body is onboard his ship, which is in your hanger, if you want proof. I also recovered six of the missing crates of spice, and this." He held up the vassal of credit chips. "His profits for selling the rest of what he scalped."

Jabba laughed heartily, and then spoke again in Huttese. The droid translated. "Jabba commends you for your fine service, and has graciously allowed you to keep the traitorous Chrilla's profits as a bonus in exchange for his ship and the recovered spice."

Rasticore bowed his head. "Thank you, Jabba. That is...very kind of you."

The droid fetched a case from behind Jabba's throne and presented it to the Septarian. "Your payment."

Rasticore accepted the case and bowed to his employer. "A pleasure doing business with you, Jabba."

The Hutt laughed before speaking again. The droid translated. "The pleasure is all mine, Bounty Hunter. I'm sure our paths will cross again soon."

"I am certain we will."

When the Xanadu Blood cleared Tatooine's upper atmosphere, Rasticore fired up the long-range transmitter. His job was complete. Now it was time to take care of his personal business.

It would not be wise to contact just anyone in the Empire directly, not when his chain code was still in their criminal system. But he did know someone he could contact, someone who would be just as interested in knowing the location of the Mewni Princess as he was.

It took a few minutes to get through. At last, the holoprojector lit up with a four-inch-tall recreation of another, much slimmer Septarian.

"Yes? Ah, Rasticore. It has been a long time. What can I do for you?"

"Toffee. I need a message passed on to Imperial Security..."

Security Officer Rosado ended the communication with Imperial Command, heart rate quickened with anxiety. He keyed his commlink. "Inquisitor?"

"What is it, Rosado?"

"I have news."

"What kind of news?" The reply was less than enthusiastic.

Rosado started to say "Good news," but he personally did not consider it to be "good news" so he chose instead to simply relay the information. "We got a hit on our BOLO. We have a location on Star Butterfly and Marco Diaz."

"...WHAT?!"

Taking Rasticore on an adventure of his own away from the main characters and plot really allowed me to use my imagination and make up all kinds of stuff. I honestly wanted to make it longer and more exciting, but I didn't want to get away from the main cast for *too* long.Especially considering what's coming next.

I'd wanted to include Trask as a location ever since it appeared in The Mandalorian and this seemed like the perfect opportunity, especially since so little of the planet was explored in canon. That gave me a lot of leeway to make stuff up.