Kurik Otela – Coruscant
The underworld of Coruscant was a grisly sight to behold.
In the darkening of the sun, a canyon of neon signs and shifty thugs became a world in stark contrast to the blinding spires and civilized serenity of the top stories.
Down at the lowest levels, however, it was little more than a scrum for the lowest of lowlives, from the most common of thieves to the savviest assassins. Kurik had seen plenty of locales fall to its criminal underworld, but he'd never expected to find one so well-developed on the underside of the Republic's center.
He stayed close to the Jedi Knight and the clones, determined to remain with those whose mere existence struck a fear in the criminals steering very clear of them on the crowded streets. Only those who were part of the daily bustle—workers, those in the service industry, and soldiers off-duty—dared to pass close to the Jedi and the clones, seeking some fleeting safety in the presence of the moving military unit.
They'd received a tip from some scavenger that General Durel knew, a fearful and twitchy little Rodian who'd seen fit to launch them at a club some distance away. The clones had been sure to strong-arm the alien informant, reminding him that if they didn't find anyone at the club, they'd be quick to revisit.
It was all a familiar dance to Kurik, who'd seen the tactics employed by those with a much lower reputation than the clones. It was only jarring that it came from the upstanding soldiers, who'd seen little problem in muscling the thugs.
Perhaps it was just a rosy-eyed view that had developed from seeing the clones and the Jedi only in combat. They'd seemed like paragons of all that was just and true, a near-sickening perfection that had seen Kurik want to gag. It gave him some perverse pleasure to see them dragged down to the same ethical plains as the rest of the galaxy.
At least, that was his thoughts on the clones. With General Durel, however, he found himself strangely disappointed. He was just glad that Dreamer wasn't there to fall in his metaphorical eyes.
"Alright, this is the place," Tank said, looking up at the Jedi Knight. "How should we go about this?"
The club was a dingy little place, the kind of squat establishment built entirely of smokey dark rooms that allowed its patrons the privacy they desired to conduct all manner of illegalities. It wasn't the kind of place Kurik would take much of a liking to, but it was exactly where he would go if he was looking for a job.
"Hm." The pilot saw a small wisp of blue peel off from the Jedi Knight and extend toward the bar before he started rubbing his thumb against the hilt at his hip. "Desperation, anger, fear...not a lot of confidence in there. If we walk in, somebody's going to run. Someone who has something to fear from us, I would think."
"You walk in there, General, they may all just scatter. You're authority, they're almost certainly criminals to a man."
"Fair point." His gaze turned to Kurik, and the pilot knew what his answer would be before he even spoke it. "You, on the other hand, this is your domain."
"He's not, but I am," Dilt replied. "Come on, kid. Let's show these Republic types how the rest of the galaxy actually works. Rest of you, we'll flush him out. You'll need to ring this place so we can catch him."
"I've got your back," Kurik said, a needless assurance that he was ready.
The interior was exactly as dubious as the ramshackle construction outside had implied. The air reeked of stale smoke, while every piece of what could charitably be described as 'furniture' looked worn in and filthy. The lights were dimmed—as was to be expected—while the only bright points in the room were the bar and the cantina band in the corner playing a song he'd never heard before but still managed to sound altogether familiar.
The patrons were no less undistinguished than their surroundings, each of them rendered a mere shadow by the lack of light, a shadow all the more swirling in his vision. Yet each one seemed nonetheless familiar to him.
After all, he'd been to this kind of place before. On world after world, every cantina and bar seemed to look the same. He paid none of the patrons any mind, instead following his captain as he took a seat up at the bar. Instead of sitting directly next to him, he took a seat at an unoccupied table, to create a passing appearance that they weren't particularly together.
And within five seconds, Dilt spoke.
"Got him," he said, nodding over to a table in the corner.
Sabacc was the game being played, and Kurik saw the contours of a Weequay. The gnarled, twisted alien was cursing quietly, hand playing across the butt of his blaster at uneven iterations.
"How do you know it's him?" Kurik asked.
"He's armed heavier than anyone else in here. Look at him, that's way too much equipment for just hunting a bounty, smuggling, or a mercenary showing off. He's getting ready for something big. Come on, kid. Watch me work."
It would be a boring event, that much Kurik knew. Among other things, Dilt was a masterful sabacc player, one whose luck was only matched by his dishonesty.
Ingratiating himself to the other three players was no grand feat. After all, despite the suspicions and paranoia endemic to such an establishment, every amateur gambler welcomed a chance to make more money at a table.
Especially someone that Dilt had pegged as being deep in the hole.
From there, it was almost a methodical dance. The cards were familiar, and Dilt's plays even more so. The talk continued, and Kurik simply sipped at an empty cup, pretending to be occupied as he kept an eye on the proceedings.
The captain had robbed two of the gamblers of their credits within minutes, and the other two looked disgusted by his run of cards. He was in the middle of a run, the other opponent folding, when he looked up at the Weequay and spoke.
"Hit me." Another card, and Dilt grinned up at their partner across the table. "Bad luck you've been having, my friend."
"That's twenty-two," the momentary dealer said. "I've only got twenty-one. The Devaronian captain wins."
The pirate grumbled something mutinous, and a small credit stick was pushed Dilt's way. The captain grinned, pulled the tiny device to his side of the table, then looked back down. By now, dozens of shady types had gathered around the table, a dark mass that left the Miralukan's hand close to his blaster.
"So," Dilt said, another pair of cards coming to his hand. "You seem pretty unsteady. Got business tonight?"
"What does it matter to you?"
"I'm a smuggler, see. Most everything in the galaxy needs to get from one place to another. Whether that be goods or people, whether it be an escape or an infiltration, my services are often in high demand. So I wonder, whatever you're doing, you need a hand?"
"No."
"You sure? Might even give back one of these credit chips." That brought a pause to the gambler, who glanced up at Dilt over his hand. "After all, you're running out of cash, and it's making you nervous."
"What do you mean?"
"Either this isn't your money, or you need it for something soon. I'm betting the former. Me and the kid here need work and I'm given to the suspicion that you're..." He trailed off, craned his head up at Kurik, then looked back down. "Working on something big. Something...definitely not in the interest of the Republic."
A narrowing of the eyes, a snarl, and Dilt's eyes grew wide from some unseen signal given by his partner.
The cry of a blaster was all too distinct, a sound that cut through any lethargy Kurik might've felt from the familiar noise and tedium of seeing his captain winning a game of cards once again. Dilt stiffened, a smoking hole in his chest, then he toppled from his chair.
Kurik managed to get both hands under his captain as the thug who'd shot him dashed for the door. All around, the music carried on, and the patrons didn't seem to even mind that one of their own died on the floor.
As always, the shady underworld in which the two inhabited lived on with or without their involvement.
"Shot in a game of cards." A cough, followed by a spurt of blood from the wound. "Were there ever a nobler way for a scoundrel to go."
"Dilt!"
"Hey, it's alright, kid," he said, voice growing faint. "Take the ship. Get out of this life, understand? Find something..."
Whatever temerity drove his last wind collapsed, the life fleeing from his eyes as his muscles slackened and drove the full weight of the captain into Kurik's arms. After ten years together, the rascally Devaronian had finally met his end.
Theirs was a fleeting life, often riven with sudden death or constantly shifting alliances. But Dilt had given Kurik much, more than he ever had to, and it left the Miralukan hollow at the dead man in his arms. A sweeping wave of emotions fought one another for supremacy so they could escape his throat.
As it often had in such cases, a dogged want for revenge won the scrap. He'd have plenty of time to see to the captain's body and mourn him. For now, though, his killer was getting away.
Kurik wiped away the tears, grabbed the captain under his shoulders, and dragged him toward the back of the bar. Once he found the door, he shoved it open with the Force, leaving his hands free to continue pulling Dilt along.
It was already a mess outside. One of the clones was down, as were a trio of civilians. Jedi Master Durel was missing, but Tank was attending to the injured. At Kurik's exit, he looked up.
"Dammit," the clone said. "He got Dilt, too?" Kurik nodded. "Dammit. Alright, General Durel is tracking our escaped thug. Let's finish up with the wounded here, get a team sent to pick them up, then we'll give chase. In the meantime, help Hot-Round with that one, will you?"
The captain pointed to one of the civilians, where a lone trooper was having some trouble with the thrashing man.
"Y—Yeah," Kurik said.
He rushed over to attend to the civilian, wrestling him down with both muscle and the Force. The clone started to apply a wrapping, until Tank called for him, leaving Kurik alone to finish the process.
Once he'd finished bandaging and sedating the older man, he looked up from his task for more guidance from the ranking member of their group.
Kurik saw someone speaking to the clones, some robed figure. He couldn't see much more, too busy trying to tend to the wounded civilian. Once he was done, however, he looked up from his palm and to his fellow clones.
"Timetable's been moved up," Tank muttered to his fellow brothers. "We take them out first, then follow our orders."
Kurik wanted to ask what they meant, wanted to ask for explanations, but Tank always knew what he was doing. If there was something the pilot needed to be filled in on, he'd tell him. As he pulled shut the last wound, though, one of the clones approached from behind.
"Maybe you should take that one to medical, Kurik." The pilot flinched at hearing Raze calling him by his first name. He looked up to see Tank watching. "There should be a civilian clinic a block down from here. With what happened to your captain, maybe you should get out of the way on this one."
Kurik didn't think twice.
"No," he said. "No, the police can handle this one. I want to help bring this one in."
"As you wish."
And as he walked away, Kurik realized there was something uncomfortably ominous in the clone trooper's tone. He wasn't sure what it was, but he didn't like it, and it served to worry him even more than Dilt's death had.
So he made sure his blaster was loose in its holster. Just in case.