PART I
INT. RUN-DOWN APARTMENT, NAR SHADDAA - EVENING
THATCHER CORDELL wakes up. He is laying shirtless in the bed of his messy apartment. Visible through the large window next to his bed, the dazzling skyline of Nar Shaddaa is outlined against the dark ruby sky. Thatcher sits up and rubs his eyes, visibly exhausted. He sighs and rolls out of bed, walking across his room and through the door to his small bathroom. He washes his face in the sink and then gazes at himself in the mirror. He is ruggedly handsome, with ruffled brown hair and dark brown eyes. Stubble runs across his face, and he is sporting a black left eye. He taps the door of the drug cabinet next to the sink and it automatically slides open, revealing numerous bottles of medicine and pills. He takes out a bottle of bacta cream and a roll of gauze. He squirts some of the cream into his hand, then rubs it on the bruise around his eye. It fades significantly, but remains visible. Thatcher then looks to his right hand, which is wrapped in a white bandage. He unwinds the bandage and peels it off, applies cream to his heavily bruised knuckles, and then re-wraps it with the gauze. Finally, he puts both the bacta cream and the gauze roll back into the cabinet and closes it. He then posts his hands on the sink and stares at himself in the mirror for another moment, then lets out a tired sigh and drops his gaze. Suddenly, the sound of a roaring crowd begins to rise in the background.
JUMP CUT TO:
INT. WAREHOUSE, NAR SHADDAA SLUMS - NIGHT
A clenched fist slams into Thatcher's face, and he stumbles backwards as blood spews from his mouth. In front of him, a large weequay, his opponent, laughs, taunting him. Thatcher shakes his head and swings a right hook at the weequay, who dodges it with ease and swats Thatcher's arm away, pushing him into the crowd surrounding them. Thatcher collides with a spectating rodian, who then shoves him back towards the weequay. Thatcher wipes the blood from his mouth and raises his fists, and the weequay does the same, though it is clear he is not at all worried. The weequay swings and Thatcher ducks under it, then jabs the weequay hard in the face. The crowd boos as the weequay staggers. The alien retaliates by swinging blindly with anger, and Thatcher deflects it before delivering another heavy blow to his opponent's leathery face. Blood leaks from the weequay's nose, and he is visibly furious. Thatcher takes another frustrated swing at the large alien, but this time the weequay ducks it and delivers a brutal uppercut to Thatcher's jaw. Thatcher drops to the ground, landing hard on his bottom. The weequay laughs and raises his arms in triumph, and the crowd cheers before dispersing, leaving Thatcher alone on the ground, nursing his bruised chin. An older man, GORNALDO, walks up from behind him, holding a shirt and jacket in his arm. He extends a hand to Thatcher to help him up, but Thatcher waves it off and stands up by himself.
GORNALDO
Really gave you a beating.
THATCHER
I know. I was there.
GORNALDO
Least you got a few good hits in.
Thatcher takes the shirt and jacket from Gornaldo, pulling them on. He runs his hands through his sweaty hair and spits blood on the ground.
GORNALDO
Come here. Look at me.
Gornaldo cups Thatcher's face in his hand, studying his bloody lip and swollen eye. He shakes his head.
GORNALDO
You know, I really didn't know it was possible, but I think that weequay made you even uglier.
THATCHER
Piss off. Let's see you square up with a guy that big.
GORNALDO
Luckily, I don't have to. My fighting days are long over.
He lets go of Thatcher's face. Thatcher pulls a cigarra out from his jacket pocket and sticks the tip in his mouth, then lights the other end.
GORNALDO
You know, you're costing me a lot of money, kid.
THATCHER
I'm not a kid, Gornaldo. I'm thirty-two.
GORNALDO
What a funny coincidence. That's just about the number of fights you've lost in the past thirty-three matches.
THATCHER
You're exaggerating.
GORNALDO
Maybe a little bit, Thatcher, but not as much as I'd like. I can't afford to keep buying into these bouts if you're going to keep losing them. There's no performance pay in underground fighting. If you don't win, we take home nothing.
THATCHER
I'm aware.
GORNALDO
Good. It's why I've decided to put you off for awhile.
Thatcher exhales, choking slightly on the smoke.
THATCHER
What? Gornaldo, you're kidding.
GORNALDO
I wish I was.
THATCHER
I need the money.
GORNALDO
We're not making any money! And look at you. Black eye, bruised nose, busted lip. And not all of those are from this fight, either. You're getting your ass kicked faster than the bacta can patch you up.
THATCHER
Gornaldo...
GORNALDO
No, Thatcher. Go home. Get rest. Talk to me in a month or so. We'll see how you're doing by then.
THATCHER
Great. And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?
GORNALDO
Find other work. Aren't you supposed to be some kind of private eye?
THATCHER
Private eyes don't get a lot of business on Nar Shaddaa. Most of the time, people here end up dying before the case is over.
GORNALDO
Well, I'm sure you'll find something.
THATCHER
Yeah. Probably not. Take care, Gornaldo.
Thatcher turns and walks away. Gornaldo calls after him.
GORNALDO
It's for your own good, kid.