Tatooine is a remote planet, occupied mainly by slaves and gouged largely of ore. Its cities are few in number, but they stand tall against the horizon. Littered with thieves and hunters, scoundrels and smugglers. Stinking of spice and what ex-Marshal Cobb Vanth thinks oughta be thousands of different types of drugs.

Well, maybe not Mos Espa. But Cobb isn't in Mos Espa.

He's in Mos Eisley, a place as lawless as the mines in the middle of nowhere.

He hates it with all his guts.

But any contact worth anything out here is shady, and the shady folk know where it's best to plant their feet; there's nowhere else on Tatooine useful to them that happens to be tolerable of their type. Not with Boba Fett on the throne.

It's hard to be a good man on Tatooine, Cobb's long-since learned. Someone like him has to have questionable contacts to get by. A tragic irony, given that he's a lawman. Was a lawman. He doesn't know what he is, now. It doesn't matter much, though, because there's people of all types in this city.

Hence why he's here, why he's so deep in the city for the first time since the slaver started sending out his hunters again.

Cobb needs a tracker; a tracer. Because, a man of his background hasn't had the opportunity to learn such skills in technology. He's good with that he's got, but this is new. And he wants to keep it under wraps.

He knows a guy. If he's still alive.

The speeder bike that Cobb's chosen for the trip is an expendable one. Plain, one that could be stolen and be of little consequence to him. He almost never brings his podracer into Mos Eisley, wary of the Jawas and scavengers that pop their heads out when a man's back is turned. No sense in being taken for a fool, after all. Only a naïve man would head in on their most valuable possession- and they certainly wouldn't be leaving on it.

He feels painfully bare atop of the skeleton frame, the hairs on the back of his neck rising with unease beneath the stares of some of the people. Many know him. He's hardly a stranger here, needing somewhere to buy supplies in the years he'd avoided Mos Espa after he liberated his people. But he's not come past the outskirts in recent months.

Word of Bane's actions has undoubtedly spread; the Pykes had been based here in Eisley, after all. The inner-city folk probably thought him dead- stars, he hopes his contact is receptive to him.

As if he's not got enough souring thoughts. Cobb hates going in blind like this, almost as much as he hates being here at all. He wonders how people live off of this kind of lifestyle and stay relatively sane through it all. His jaw is clenched so tight that his very teeth hurt. This was a bad idea. I should've just taken it to the palace.

But they can't know. Din would catch wind of it, and Din wouldn't let him offworld like this if that's where the damned hologram traces back to.

So, he keeps on. The speeder glides forward over the sand with surprising grace beneath the occasional spasm of his arm. He's not got far left to go. Three blocks, to a small establishment only a handful of streets away from the spaceport. The scenery meshes together around him as he goes the final stretch, blurring around him, and he's drawing up to a halt in front of the place not but a couple of minutes later. His eyes flick around at the people milling the road as he climbs off the bike.

"Vanth, you dog, you're alive!"

Cobb whips around to raise a hand in dejection of a pair of spread arms. It doesn't take him more than a moment to recognize the Mythrol coming at him- because, really, it's a wonder there's any on Tatooine.

"Whoa, there. Keep to yourself, Vitzen." He taps the holster at his hip. "It's good to see you, too."

Vitzen takes the warning to heart and backs off, arms falling back to his sides. No doubt he remembers their first encounter, where he and six other thugs had tried to mug Cobb. The others had all been shot dead on the spot for it. The man before him has learned since then, it seems, his smile ruefully subdued.

"Shot by one of the biggest bad in the galaxy, an' you haven't changed a bit." He huffs abashedly. "Should've known. Unkillable son of a gun."

The smile that Cobb forces in return doesn't reach his eyes, but he doesn't intend it to. "Forax still around?"

Vitzen's guard raises. "You gonna kill him next?"

"All goes well, I won't have to kill anyone today." Cobb says. "I jus' want to talk to him."

The Mythrol jerks his head to the door of the building. "He's inside, put my tab on the house earlier."

He nods once, keeping his hand down by his blaster and side-eying the other as he passes him by. Never too cautious. His fingers press against the panel, and the door slides open, but Cobb pauses and glances back. "Do me a favor an' leave the bike there, would you?"

And Vitzen nods right back, so hard it looks like it might even hurt. "But of course, Vee! I'd never touch it."

"Right." He rolls his eyes. "Stay out of trouble, Vitzen, you're an interestin' fella."

Cobb ducks through the doorway and palms it shut behind him. He stands still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden decrease of lumination, taking in the lively crowd that occupies the room. He doesn't remember what the place itself is supposed to be- perhaps one of those illegal nightclub, it's never mattered to him- but he does know that this is where Forax has always operated out of. And if Vitzen's not just lied to him, the man should still be here. Somewhere.

He grits his teeth against the grating sound of the music, and draws his shoulders up. There's no point lingering, he supposes, and makes his way across the room towards the bar with a practiced presence that could almost make him pass as a regular.

His eyes scan the scenery with careful precision, and he ignores the surprised stares of recognition that a small few of the patrons shoot at him. It's almost funny how deep the rumors of his demise rooted themselves, but this is no time nor place for Cobb to lose his focus. Not unless he actually wants to die. Which he most definitely does not.

He orders up a shot of spotchka when the unfamiliar woman behind the counter asks what she can get him, and nurses it in his hand when he turns his gaze back to the rest of the club, quietly searching for any sign of his elusive associate. Forax isn't expecting him, won't know to hide from anyone seeking him out. But the place is full enough that it's a challenging task anyway, a blonde head of feather-hair tucked somewhere behind the dancers on the floor.

Cobb takes a moment to review what he already knows about Forax: the man, while being an outstanding tracer, owns the club around him. Owns a handful of the businesses in town, in fact, his disagreeable occupation earning him many credits. But this is his main hangout. Forax practically pays the workers here to pour cheap alcohol down his verminous throat; he has to be here.

He downs his drink in one go, and this variant burns more than what Taanti's got back at his cantina. It makes his lips curl. His eyes scan the room once more, and he orders another. He drinks it more slowly and tries to blend in. This might take some time. Time, that's already starting to blur together around him.

Cobb sighs, and leans back against the counter. Might as well get comfortable.

He really hopes that Forax isn't wearing a cloak. He'd hate to hang around in the musty establishment any longer than necessary.

Cobb leaves the club with a migraine. And a name. He's not yet sure if it was worth it, probably won't be 'til all is said and done, but he's a step closer to his goal; a step closer to killing Zerem. Bray and the others that have been unwillingly sent out and killed, they're a step closer to being avenged.

The suns are low on the horizon, and he's so tired that he almost laughs when he finds his speeder bike in one piece right where he left it. He takes a long drag of water from his flask, mounts up, and sets back out across the Dune Sea.

He'll sleep with the dawn of the morrow.

As he passes the first house on his way into town, Cobb knows that he's just tripped the perimeter alarm on Issa's holocam setup. He hopes, for her sake, that it hasn't woken her. Not that he goes to check- him visiting certainly would get her up quick. She's always slept just as lightly as himself, something that had been handy when they had partnered together in the past. In a place as quiet as Freetown, it's both a blessing and a curse for those of their profession.

The triple moons are well into their descent, the dark shadows of the buildings stretching long across pale sands. A couple hours more, and the suns will rise again.

Cobb pulls the speeder bike up to a halt alongside his parked podracer, and cuts the fuel completely. The thrum of the engines whines, chokes, and dies. It's quiet once more, the silence more befitting of the hour. But the air also holds a familiar chill, and Cobb stumbles off the speeder to head up his porch, dully hoping that the inside of his home is warmer.

The difference is minimal.

He lights a candle and settles in close to it, trying to will the dancing droplet of fire to generate enough heat for it to be meaningful. A tremor runs from his chest out to his fingertips, and his stiff joints ache anew. At least the couch is more comfortable than the speeder's saddle.

A few minutes pass, and the wax starts to melt. He watches a thin stream of it trail down to pool in the base tray. His head is heavy, but there's an unfortunate new muscle memory that drags his fingers to his pocket and pulls out Bray Ealdel's holoprojector. His thumb clicks it on, and his tired eyes are drawn to the flickering blue image that appears where he'd left off at.

Cobb wonders if a Jedi could kill someone just by looking at a graphic of them. He's suddenly glad that no one who's ever come after him has had those kind of abilities. He and Freetown alike would be long gone, otherwise.

He shakes his head at his wandering thoughts, and rises to fetch himself something to eat from the kitchenette.

He's been awake all day and all night, yet he's not ingested anything solid. Makes sense that he's so exhausted, then, running off of nothing but alcohol and water; it's no way to live, that's for sure. Especially if he wants to keep himself running long enough to see through whatever his subconscious has started planning.

His eyes stay on the blue Pau'an atop the central table as he works. The whole time.

Cobb's stomach rumbles with the first mouthful of haroun bread, and the motion of swallowing gives birth to a shuddering pain that almost makes him spit the stuff right back up. He manages to keep it down, though, and closes his eyes in a mix of shameful relief. Four months ago, he'd been the marshal of this town. He'd been nice and fit- and how the hell he's thinking it possible to kill Zerem like this is beyond him.

He forces down the rest of the meal, and stops by the refresher on the way back to his spot on the couch. The gaunt face in the mirror is almost unrecognizable to his eyes. Trimming his beard and straightening his hair hardly helps; there's not much in the way of meat on his bones, and it's a wonder he didn't retire sooner. He'd been quite the looker, once.

And he'd still intimidated Vitzen.

Cobb laughs. Hard. He's wheezing when he finally makes it back to the couch; he should be dead. He should be dead, Vitzen had overestimated him, and he's not. His life has never made any sense to him.

He's glad.

Silence falls upon the room once more, his breath steadying out as the chuckles fade. He settles back into the cushions, gets comfortable. Stares at the hologram. His chrono ticks with the start of the next hour. Then the hour after that.

Light starts to slip in through the cracked shutters, the darkness creeping back into the corners. The suns will begin to rise, soon.

The blue image wavers more strongly than before, and Cobb remembers that the power cell needs replacing. His brittle old bones are heavy, the warmth of the swiftly-approaching dawn gradually leaking into the air and settling in his limbs. He sighs. Keeps his tired eyes trained on the hologram. He doesn't quite fancy moving- and, so, he doesn't. Not now. He's got nowhere to be. The holoprojector can hang on for a little longer.

He loses track of time.

His shoulder jolts him out of the beginnings of a doze with its next aching tremor. There's a knock at the door right after, and he turns to blinks at it. He can't find the energy to get up, though, and hopes it's nothing urgent, that it's not Issa in immediate need of his second opinion.

Cobb rests his head against the back of the couch once more, and glares into the hologram's soulless eyes. The door hisses open behind him, and he recognizes the footsteps that follow to be Ann's. His wiry muscles lose the rest of their tension upon her approach, and he almost leans into her touch when her hand smooths over his outward shoulder.

She doesn't say anything, and joins him in looking at the slaver's headshot profile. She's a smart woman, she already knows who the Pau'an is. Doesn't even have to ask.

"I'm goin' after him." He says, and suddenly he knows it with absolute certainty. "He's off on some city-world named Corellia."

"Are you sure?" She questions, voice quiet.

He nods. "Positive. Had the best tracker in Mos Eisley on it."

It's a long moment before she speaks, and he knows she's trying to find a way to talk him out of it, to convince him not to go. But it's already far too late for that. "Will you go alone?"

"He's goin' to keep sendin' hunters after me, Ann." Cobb points out, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers, willing her to understand. "I have to put an end to that b'fore anyone else is caught in the crossfire."

"What happened to Bray wasn't your fault-"

"-Yes, it was." He cuts her off. "I should've dealt with him a long time ago, you know that as well as I do.

"You know how many of his hunters I've killed? I think about it every day, how many of 'em might've still been chipped like Bray." His mouth twitches, and he turns away before he can lash out in his anguish. "I can't keep lettin' him do this.

"An' I can't risk takin' anyone with me. This is a score that I have to settle alone."

He takes a couple of days to recuperate and gather supplies. He eats as much as he can, to try and regain some lost muscle, and sleeps whenever he has the time; he doesn't know when he'll be able to do either again. Before he knows it, Cobb has everything he can foresee himself needing and it's time to head out.

Ann comes by again, the morning he's to set out, to try to talk him out of it one last time. It turns into an argument, and every word of it hurts. He doesn't want to leave her.

"I have to do this." He reinforces desperately, knuckles white around the canvas of his pack.

"It's dangerous out there."

"Can't be any worse than Tatooine, can it?"

"Cobb."

"I'm serious." He is. There can't be a place in the galaxy more despicable. The suns kill almost as much as the people here do, and most of the people do worse by the day.

"So am I!" She exclaims, and he can see the despair painted into her features. The tears haven't spilled over yet, but she's crying, begging. It makes him want to give in, consequences be damned. "If something happens to you, we'll never know, Cobb. He could kill you."

"Then I go out with a bang." Cobb says as nonchalantly as he can, spreading his arms wide in a gesture near to a shrug. He points back at his own haggard features. "Better than whatever the hell this is."

He could've gone to Tuk. Still could. But there's no guarantee that replacing his arm will fix the other parts of him that have already been messed up by the busted shoulder. In his mind, it's not worth it. He's as good as dead. Might as well actually die trying to do some good for the people he'll be leaving behind. Zerem won't stop until he's dead. Cobb knows this better than anything. He can't leave Freetown to pay for the things he'd done even after he's gone.

"I've made up my mind, Ann. I have to do what's best for the people."

"Why can't you ever do what's best for you?" Her voice breaks, and he very nearly lets himself cave to her desires just to calm her, just so she doesn't look at him like this. He'd spent all those years distant for good reason.

For a long moment, he doesn't know what to say. He's at a loss for words, his silver-tongued charm failing him. And it shows. He knows it does.

Even before she steps into his arms and presses her lips to his.

The tears have let loose and are streaming down her face before they're done, and his own eyes burn with the traitorous desire to allow himself the same. All these years he's yearned for her- to let himself finally give in just before he leaves the planet, it's a cruelty to them both. And the way Ann presses her forehead to his, the way she doesn't yet leave his embrace…

Cobb swallows back a surge of emotion rising from deep within him. It's hard, especially when her hands grip onto his new coat with ferocity, fingers curling into the lapels to keep him close to her. He tilts his head, and initiates the second kiss himself. She melts into him.

The moment doesn't last nearly as long as it should. But there's an understanding in the air, now, and there's less fight in Ann when they part.

"Don't be a martyr." She whispers against him. "Please. Come back to me."

"I will." He promises, and slips out the door with his gear. Don't got a choice, now.

In the Mos Eisley spaceport, a transport begins to rise. Cobb Vanth is aboard it, and he decides that looking over the land from a ship is mighty different than it is from the cliffs in the Wastes.