She awoke the next morning to the dulcet, melodious tones of someone banging on the engine room door. The noise spurred her to her feet, and she wrapped herself in her robe before opening it. Atton stood outside, hair still stuck up at awkward angles while he pulled his jacket on.
"Mornin'," he said, though he somehow sounded even less chipper than she felt. He ran his fingers through his hair, combing the more problematic strands down, and she drew a deep breath. Why, she wasn't entirely sure. "Got caf ready for you. Looks like the guy above Saquesh took the bait."
"Huh?"
"We got a message from another squid-head, Visquis. You'll want to hear it."
Trista nodded, closed the door, and pulled on her clothing as she shook the last vestiges of sleep out of her mind. Once ready she joined them in the main hold, taking the cup of caf Atton handed her and patting T3's head as he plugged himself into the table.
"So what's up?" She took a sip. Atton cued up something on the holotable and the image of another Quarren, this one wearing much fancier clothes than Saquesh, hovered over the table.
"T3 picked up the message about thirty minutes ago," Mical said.
"Play it."
T3 chirped, and Atton hit play.
"Welcome, Trista Morace." She frowned. "I regret this message has taken so long in reaching you, but I only just became aware of your presence on Nar Shaddaa." The hologram bowed. "I am Visquis, representative of an... exchange of shipping interests on the smuggler's moon. I extend an invitation to join me in my private lounge within the Jekk'Jekk Tarr, where we may speak without being disturbed."
Trista took another sip of her caf. "Why does that sound familiar?"
"It's the bar the various alien species frequent," Atton said, "the one that's poisonous to pretty much everyone here?"
"Statement: I am immune to poisons—"
Atton grumbled. "Apart from droids, yes."
"Oh, and... come alone. One human in my presence is more than enough."
The image vanished, and Trista took another slow sip of caf.
"Well, it's a good thing it's not a trap," Atton said.
Despite her best efforts, Trista smiled behind her mug. However, the sarcasm shot about a kilometer over Mical's head. "No, Atton, I think it may be a trap."
"Could you lighten up for, like, one second?"
"Atton," Trista said. "Mical, that's called 'sarcasm.' It's clearly a trap."
"Yes." Kreia's voice had adopted its usual musing tone. "It may be a trap, but traps work both ways. This... Visquis, his kind are spread through the lower reaches of Nar Shaddaa, and he may have the information we seek. But if you go, you must go alone, as directed."
Trista nodded again, taking another sip of caf. "Guess I'm going to the Jekk'Jekk Tarr."
"Alone?" the Handmaiden asked. "You cannot expect us to let—"
"I can, and do. This is our best chance to do one of two things: find out where Zez-Kai is, or get to Goto and discuss this bounty like civilized people. And if I have to go alone, so be it. I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."
"What type of gas they use?" Mical asked.
Atton's tone was flat with unspoken frustration. "Cyanogen."
He frowned. "You'll need an environmental suit to get through unscathed. Cyanogen can be absorbed through the skin, so a breathing mask alone will not be too useful."
"Just so happens we have one of those lying around from Peragus." She drained her caf.
Atton was still frowning, more deeply than she'd expected. "In that case, I wouldn't keep him waiting. If you got his attention, you attracted the attention of someone else, too."
"Agreed." She set her mug down on the synthesizer. "This will run like wildfire through the bounty hunters, so I'll grab the suit and get started. Unless anyone else wants to stop me?"
The Handmaiden frowned. "I can only say this is a foolish course of action."
"I agree, but such is my life. See you on the other side."
#
The silence, as she entered the plaza, struck her first. Like the poignancy of entering a long-forsaken tomb, or a battlefield as the dust settled after the fray.
For the first time, the moon felt still. Shuttles still whizzed over head, but the plaza was deserted — something she hadn't seen in the weeks they'd been here. Her instincts made her draw back against the walls, slipping along the shadows under the imagined weight of a thousand eyes.
Though, perhaps, not so imagined given the circumstances.
She rounded the last corner to the docks, her shoulders giving when there was no waiting army of teamed-up bounty hunters. And at the last vista between the docks and the haven of the ship, she drew a deep breath, tightened her grip on the bag with the exo-suit, and took a single step into the archway. The flickering neon on the other side, still reading -OCKS, bathed it in a sickly, pinkish aura that played off her hands like a fickle sunset. She drew another breath and started into it.
You're a godsdamned idiot. She hated the times her conscience sounded like Revan. Putting all your faith — the faith of the galaxy, if Kreia's to be believed — in a few flimsy layers of cloth and glass.
Yeah, pretty dumb. Not as dumb as half the things they got up to in the war.
She had entered the hall when a few running steps echoed off the metal behind her. Her hand dropped to her lightsaber as she turned before she recognized the feeling.
Atton.
He jogged to a stop behind her, and she shook her head, fighting to summon the most disapproving forwn of her life. "You should be with the others."
"Yeah, yeah." He waved her off. "Look, just... be careful, all right?"
"I will." She almost believed herself.
"Well, I won't be able to get in touch with you if something happens, and I bet squid-head knows it." He took a deep breath and passed her a handful of capped syringes, wrapped together with a leather cord. "Blondie whipped these up a few minutes after you left — says they're to clear your system if your suit gets breached. Just inject 'em fast. Trust me, once the seizures start, you're as good as dead."
"Comforting." Trista secured them in one of her robe's pockets. "Thank you for running these to me, and thank Mical for making them."
"Yeah, no problem. Look, uh..."
She raised a brow. "You okay?"
"Just, you know, be careful."
Trista rested her hand on his arm. "Atton, I'll be fine."
He nodded, and to her surprise, concern flickered past his usual screen of rakish impassivity. He opened his mouth like he would speak, but brushed a loose lock of hair away from where it rested on her cheek instead.
She was just about to extricate herself, probably with something like "well, I better get going," or "Visquis is waiting for me." But instead, he took another step and kissed her.
For a second shock rooted her to the ground as she froze in place, before, almost unbidden, she buried her hand in his hair, leaning in as any will to stop it fled her. And for a moment there was nothing, no shuttles or dying hot-pink neon signs or thousands of eyes that seemed to blink for just one moment.
Then, she remembered where she was, presumably at the same time he did. They both pulled back, with Atton looking away and clearing his throat. She stared at the flush burning its way under his collar.
"Yeah, so, um, just watch yourself, and don't take too long."
Yes, Trista agreed, we'll never talk about that again.
"I'll do my best. I'm sure I'll be fine. If you haven't heard from me in two hours—"
"Rescue mission. Got it."
Trista responded with a sharp nod and turned on her heel. Behind her, his steps echoed as he also retreated.
And as she exited onto the docks — all with the same silence as the plaza, even with the starships idling in their berths — someone cleared their throat behind her. She snapped around.
A red-haired human woman leaned on the crates behind her with her arms crossed over her chest. She wore mostly black, save for a green crop-top that tied over her breasts and left little in that region to the imagination. A blaster, professional-grade and illegally modified, hung in easy draw range at her hip. And the confidence in her stance indicated her profession of choice, even to Trista's unfamiliar eyes.
She jerked her thumb at the plaza. "Didn't think Jedi were into that sorta thing."
Trista ignored the jab. "Can I help you?"
She straightened. "Yeah, you can. You've been running around sticking your lightsaber in everyone's business — seriously, what are you trying to do? Save everyone here?"
"I was trying to get the Exchange's attention. Given the situation, I succeeded."
"Typical." She motioned to herself. "Mira. Best bounty hunter on this moon — and that's not opinion, that's a fact. And I need to talk to you, pronto."
Trista pointed back at the Jekk'Jekk Tarr, the sign flashing across the way. "I have an appointment."
"Yeah, it's a trap. Visquis is going to start a fight, then bundle your corpse up and deliver you to the boss, saying you attacked him."
"You're acting like I don't know that already — I can handle a Quarren with delusions of grandeur. And I don't have any other way to get this bounty settled."
Mira shrugged. "Sure, whatever. That's not the biggest problem, though."
"Okay, enlighten me."
"If I know about this meeting, so does every bounty hunter in this system, and that means the truce is off. This place is gonna start jumping, and not in a good way."
"I can handle a few mercs."
"Look, the rumor in bounty hunter circles is that you're streetwise, elusive, and a damn lot brighter than most people in the galaxy. Right now, you're not living up to that."
Trista drew her mouth into a thin line. "Then what are you telling me?"
"You're not the person to worry about."
It took a second for Mira's meaning to register, and she took a step back for the plaza before the hunter grabbed her arm. "I have to—"
"Your friend just painted a huge target on himself, but you don't have time to go back. Come on."
Mira dragged her back toward the docks, and Trista tore her commlink off her belt.
"Atton? Atton, can you hear me?" The only response was an ear-rending burst of static, and she swore.
"Yeah, they're already jamming comms. Come on."
Trista, only half-consciously, stumbled after her. After a few more tries on the comm, she shoved Mira's hand off her arm. The woman stopped, hand falling to her blaster, and Trista straightened her robes.
Atton knew Nar Shaddaa better than any of them, and he could handle himself. The others were together, on the ship. She was alone with a bounty hunter of unknown motives.
It was time to worry about herself.
"I can walk without being dragged, thank you."
"Fine. This way."
Mira led her back into the warren of cargo rooms-turned-apartments off the docks, to the blank wall at the very far end. She slid up a wall panel and entered a code on the keypad, and the wall slid up with a well-greased whoosh. "In here."
"You aren't going to lock me—"
She rolled her eyes. "Just get in." Trista stared at her, crossing her arms, and she sighed. "No, I'm not, okay? Satisfied?"
Trista frowned but stepped inside without an answer. Mira followed, pressing a button to close the door behind them, and Trista memorized its location.
"This is one of my safe-houses. It isn't pretty, but it's private."
She sniffed, coughing on the thick smog from the idling ship engines. Nar Shaddaa could really benefit from some environmental regulation. "I'm sure the smell doesn't hurt."
Mira pulled herself up on a crate, letting her leg dangle from the top. "I've gotten used to it. Smells a hell of a lot better than the rest of the docks."
"Fair enough." Trista leaned up against the wall, one finger tapping on her comm as she considered trying to raise Atton again. "So why bring me back here?"
"Well, you already know about the trap in the Jekk'Jekk Tarr, so no surprises there. Thing is, Visquis probably intends to cut us bounty hunters out and deliver you to Goto personally, dead. Not too smart from where I'm standing."
"So you're going to stash me in here until things die down, then deliver me instead to keep me from meeting Visquis at all."
Mira chuckled. "You're not as dumb as you look."
Trista blinked, her eyelids oddly heavy as she did so. "You can't keep me here."
"I mean, I can."
She shook herself as her eyes tried to close again, and the tips of her fingers started tingling. "You're underestimating both me and my crew. I'm meeting with Visquis, and you won't stop me."
"Look, I can get you to Goto alive, and I will. So you can talk about this bounty, or kill him, or whatever you plan on doing. Just not until after I meet with Visquis."
"You?" A small coughing fit interrupted her, and Trista caught herself on the wall as her knees shook beneath her. "That's some imagination you have."
"You don't have a choice." Trista shook out her hand again as the tingling spread up to her wrists. "That smell you noticed? Yeah, it's working through your lungs right now. Anyone without my olfactory blockers—" Mira tapped her nose. "—is gonna start getting dizzy, which you've noticed... then fall unconscious."
Trista stumbled as her leg gave out on her and slammed back into the wall, struggling to stay on her feet as she slid down it. The bag with the exo-suit fell from her hand, and she fixated on it. Force, she was frakking dense. "You can't keep me here" indeed.
Mira pushed on her shoulder, settling her back against the wall as the edges of her vision darkened. The bag with the exo-suit was pulled from her hand and it dropped, uncooperative, to the durasteel a second before she blacked out.
#
"No, no, I'm not here for the night life. I'm not sure about why I'm here sometimes. Oh... yeah, a bit lower, that's the spot."
Atton only half closed his eyes as the Twi'lek behind him dug her knuckles into a spot on his shoulder, keeping his gaze on the one in front of him as she massaged his hand.
"I mean, there's something about this woman I'm traveling with that gets under your skin, makes you stupid."
He'd had them pegged the moment they'd stepped into the cantina after him, let alone when they'd approached him with an almost simpering, servile manner. That itself was a red flag. He'd been here often enough to know they weren't employees.
And, well, the concealed weapons and following him from the docks gave it away.
He sighed. "But the two of us don't see eye to eye, and I don't think she likes me much."
"You don't need her," the one behind him said. He'd give her credit — she gave a damn good shoulder massage. Bounty hunters weren't known for their massage techniques.
"It's not just her. I mean, I don't even like the people I travel with, but for some reason... eh, I don't get it."
"You don't need them, either." The one in front of him gave him a winning, seductive smile, as her sister leaned down to his ear.
"We will take care of you... as long as you stay here until the Exile returns. That is all we want."
"Really?" He didn't move. "Damn, well, it's a good thing I didn't have you both soon as I walked in. Didn't realize so many bounty hunters had turned their trade into murder, but I guess you two must be desperate."
"He thinks we kill for credits?" Neck-Twin said.
"He does not understand."
"The beautiful Exile... she goes to the Jekk'Jekk Tarr. She will not return — but she may, for you."
"We saw what happened at the docks." Good, that's what he wanted.
"Submit, or we shall kill you and find someone else close to the Exile. And we will use them as bait instead."
Atton rested his free hand on the side of the chair. "Why don't you two schuttas try it, and we'll see what happens?"
"If that is what you wish..." Hand-Twin twisted her hand, locking her fingers around his wrist. "Then we shall end you."
Neck-Twin moved, and a thin blade pressed to the side of his neck. "It has been too long since we have killed."
"So just like that, huh?" His hand gripped around the seat. "Honestly? Same."
He threw himself to the side, dragging the chair and the Twi'lek at his wrist with him. As he fell, he swept his legs under hers, throwing her off-balance and forcing her to release him. He rolled before grabbing the chair and blocking the other as she swung a sword down toward him. The other rolled back to her own feet, snapping her sword out of its concealed sheath. He blocked another strike from the same sword, trapping it with the base of the chair and forcing her to fumble as he twisted it. It clattered to the ground, and he threw the chair at the other twin and lunged for it, beating its original owner and rolling back to his feet. The blade sat light in his hand and he circled it, feeling the even weight as he did.
"Nice balance. I see why you like these." He drew his blaster with his other hand and fired, drilling the weapon's owner in the chest with one shot. The other twin shrieked and charged. "Ah, hell."
Atton caught the sword as she swung. Then caught it on his blaster as she swung again, her strikes rage-filled and still, somehow, precise. When she struck again he stepped back, the sword singing by him.
"You should have submitted when you had the chance," she snarled, the blade cutting so close to him he felt the wind as he dodged back.
"Lady, I've fought things way scarier than you."
He blocked her next swing, then swung his blaster under their blades and fired. She jerked back as the shot hit her arm.
"You know nothing of fear, or of rage." She swung again, and he blocked. "But I will ensure you know pain. Perhaps that will draw her to me, just as your life would."
Ah, crap. That might.
"You'd be surprised just what I know." As she swung again he kicked her knee, knocking her leg out from under her. She staggered back, and he slashed the sword across her chest and, as she stumbled back to her feet, fired twice. She dropped.
"Bounty hunters," he grumbled into the cantina's sudden quiet. "Well, that truce is over." He chucked the sword back and, on his way out, tossed the stunned bartender a few credits. "Sorry about the mess. I'd get rid of 'em myself, but I've got to get back to my ship."
#
Her toes had feeling, as she lay in darkness — her first weird realization that she was regaining consciousness.
She lay on her side (recovery position, her barely functioning awareness said), her nose a few inches from a thin, scratchy mattress soaked in the same exhaust fumes that had taken her out earlier. Trista tried to move, but nothing responded. She took a breath and gagged.
Something touched her shoulder, startling her, though the feeling didn't translate down into movement. Her eyelids were still too heavy to lift, and for a second, her mind cycled through at least seven scenarios that mostly resulted in her dying.
"I know you can hear me."
With the first word, her panic changed. She knew that voice — it well, even. She struggled to speak, but her mouth wouldn't cooperate — but Zez-Kai Ell seemed more interested in a one-sided conversation.
"When I first heard you were here, I didn't believe it. I didn't think I could be tracked here — but I underestimated you. Perhaps I should not be surprised it was you." He sighed. "I watched you as you traveled the sector, interceding where I refused. And even exiled, you were more a Jedi than I. Know you have convinced me I can no longer stand by."
She struggled to lift her head, to push herself to her feet, but nothing happened.
"I know a young woman to whom I owe much went to meet with Visquis in your place, and I know he will kill her. I intend to keep that from happening. I will return soon, or not at all. If it is answers you came for, I have few." The fumes from the mattress overwhelmed her again, and she drifted off again. "But, be it that or revenge, I know you will follow me. For if I fail, you will be denied both."
When she woke again, this time able to open her eyes almost immediately, he was gone.
This time she staggered to her feet and checked the time on her datapad, still tucked into an inner pocket of her robe. She'd only been out for maybe thirty minutes — much better than she'd feared. She staggered for the wall, fumbling for the release. Her lungs burned, but behind that, determination burned even stronger.
Trista lucked into the release and staggered into the hallway, gasping for breath in the cleaner air. She turned the corner and, from a few feet away, a woman — Aaida, maybe? Her vision was still very blurry — gasped and touched her arm.
"Are you okay?"
She shook her head and didn't resist as Aaida pulled her into their apartment and set her down at a chair.
"Lootra, get me the oxygen canister, quick." She let Aaida press the mouthpiece against her face until she was finally able to hold it there herself, gasping for the oxygen as it pumped it out. "What happened?"
"Not important." Once she thought she could walk without staggering, she thrust the canister back into Aaida's hands. "Thank you. I have to go."
"Wait—"
But Aaida's complaint was lost as Trista made her way out of the makeshift apartments, able to stop holding onto the wall near the exit to the docks proper.
She made her way to the Jekk'Jekk Tarr amid the still silence of Nar Shaddaa, wrapping her robe around herself. What the hell was she doing? She had no way to survive now. No protection except three syringes that wouldn't be too much help.
Finally she stood in front of the entrance, unguarded, sitting open to the walkway, and shivered. She drew a deep breath, coughing in the constant ache in her lungs, and took a step inside. Then another.
Force, she was stupid. This was the stupidest thing she'd ever done.
Another step.
And that was accounting for half the shit she'd done in the Wars, when she was young and invincible and had the weight of the Revanchists and the Republic behind her.
Another step.
Man, if her sister was alive, and she made it out of this, and they ran into each other again? She'd never live this down. This had Revan's cocky-ass fingerprints all over it, not hers. She was the sensible one, the one that reined in the worst of everyone else's tendencies. Or... she was supposed to be.
Another step.
The airlock slammed closed behind her, and she stopped in her tracks, closing her eyes.
Another step.
The ceiling hissed, and she stopped again. That was the sound of gas getting pumped in, and for one of the first times, she froze, having to will herself to take another step. Her only hope was to run for it, to get as far in as possible before she had to inject one of Mical's syringes—
Her next step faltered as it reached the floor, and her knee buckled under her weight, and she caught herself on the wall. Her hand fumbled for a syringe. It slipped out of her fingers and clattered across the floor.
Then Kreia sighed irritably.
It was perhaps the first time she'd been happy to hear her, and Trista fought to hold her breath against a rising wave of pain and fear.
::Listen to my voice. Clear your thoughts.:: She didn't sound as irritated as the sigh had suggested. ::Still your breathing. Let the trace amounts of air in your lungs hold you, and the Force will sustain you. Listen to it. Let it keep you alive until you reach safety. It is an old technique, similar to the healing trance you are familiar with. Some Jedi have held their breath for hours, even days - for you, hopefully minutes will suffice. Now, be swift.::
::What about skin contact?:: The gas burned on her skin, singed at her eyes.
::A simple barrier should provide the protection you need.::
::You could have mentioned this when I brought up the exo-suit.::
But Kreia didn't answer, and Trista, fighting to focus on both not-breathing and not-feeling, strode forward into the Jekk'Jekk Tarr.
