The city is unsurprisingly less-majestic down on the ground. The streets and alleyways are about what Cobb would expect of somewhere so industrial, some of it more similar to the worker's district of Mos Espa than he'd have thought. It's just grayer. And darker. The air is warmer than the shady atmosphere- and that's about the most surprising thing that Corellia's Golden City has to offer him.

He quickly comes to understand that most of the people are like those in Mos Eisley- thieves, smugglers, bounty hunters; the damn planet is as rotten as he'd suspected. But he knows how to get around these types of people, reckons he'll be fine if he plays it careful. Cobb's good at careful. He just has to find somewhere to hunker down and listen, to get pointed in the right direction. He's good at that, too.

After he retrieves his blaster from lockup, he lets himself wander a bit. Not so much exploring as it is getting a feel for the place, looking for moderately-populated establishments he can lay low in. He puts some distance between him and the spaceport, leaving the busiest spot in the city behind.

Even still, it's a huge place and there's still more people around than he'd like after he's crossed more than two hours of it on foot. Things are a little seedier this deep in, though, and he reckons it'll be somewhere near here that he'll catch a lead.

He ducks inside a cantina, finds an open spot at the bar, and kicks back for another long afternoon.

The cantina turns out to be vastly different from those on Tatooine. The drink options, the music genre playing from the back- Cobb can't say that he's a fan. He's lucky enough to find a couple of drinks that are familiar, and goes with one of them. It's not one that's ever had much of an effect on him, though, and it doesn't quite drown out the herglic rage-metal.

It's a sad thing when a man misses Tatooine's high-pitched jizz.

He keeps his ears open, his eyes peeled. But of all the people hanging around, there's not much serious talk going on. Not much talk at all, really. Most of the occupants seem too busy drinking, dancing, or playing sabacc. And a younger couple had gone down in one of the empty booths a little while ago; they haven't surfaced yet.

Any conversation is of interest at the moment.

But he hadn't expected to be addressed himself.

Which is about why he flinches when a Twi'lek suddenly appears on either side of him, the one on his left leaning forward on the bar and placing a hand on his forearm. He has an idea of what she's going to say before the words leave her mouth, and he's only amused by the ones he hears:

"Those lips are looking pretty lonely. If you're feeling down, handsome, we can feel you up. I've always been told that good things come in threes."

Cobb doesn't try too hard to suppress his smirk. "Is that so?"

She smiles wide, leans further into him. There's alcohol in her breath, but she's still as sober as he. Her green-toned partner looks a bit more out of it though, he notes when he glances over. But he's not worried:

He knows these kind of folk, too. He'll play along, and send them on their way long before they get what they're after. While he has no use for their company, he might as well get some humor out of being here if he doesn't end up getting the answers he's after.

"That's right." The first whispers, and the hairs on his neck raise beneath the heat that comes from her mouth.

He pretends to consider it, drawing up an expression of playful thought, clicking his tongue. "Hate to break it to ya, darlin', but I reckon I'd need a few more drinks b'fore I go takin' anyone up on requests."

"That can be arranged." She purrs into his ear, fingers digging into the hair on the other side of his head to hold him still.

Teeth nip at his earlobe, the partner's hand dives into his shirt, and he's almost tempted to take them up on their offer. But Cobb is a man of honor, and he wouldn't agree to such a thing even if he hadn't kissed Ann before he took his leave. He'd put these days behind him, well over a decade ago.

He turns the trunk of his body slightly, just enough so that he can get a look at the room over the Twi'lek's lekku. Target acquired, he tilts his chin down to her own ear. He can barely hear himself over the raging music. "You're pretty fine lookin' yourself, darlin', but that fella over there looks a might more lonely than me. Prettier, too, I reckon."

And, for good measure: "And if there ain't anythin' else, I think I've got my sights set on somebody else tonight."

Their hands linger as they pull away from his skin, and he points out the poor soul he's chosen as their next stooge. He sees the glance that the two Twi'lek exchange before they bid him a pleasant evening and leave him to himself. Cobb rolls his eyes as he watches them head off, and sets to readjusting his clothing. He almost forgets to fix his hair, too.

He settles back into listening for word of Zerem, and the afternoon draws on.

Hunger draws him out. Well, and the need for a walk.

But the only diner Cobb had seen was back up by the spaceport- not that he minds, he's been wanting to get a look at the water, anyway- and that's where he finds himself going. The sun is hidden behind the buildings, and the city is far darker now than it was when he'd arrived that morning. He makes his way through the crowds with ease, weaving past strangers and keeping his distance from the shadiest of them.

He finds the diner again with little difficulty, and he's in luck that the prices are cheap. What credits he has with him won't last him forever, and he needs to keep a firm hold on them for when they'll really be necessary. He buys something light, because eating still hurts, and scrounges down as much as he can manage.

It's a wonder how different the food here is from what they've got back home. Nothing like what he's used to.

Cobb feels eyes on him on his way out. He thinks nothing of it. Just pays and walks out, though his pace might be just the slightest faster than before. Just in case, because a man in his condition can't be too wary. A lawman in his condition can't be too wary.

It's not long before the ocean is in sight, a long stretch of water as deep and endless as Tatooine's sands.

The transport bridges and slipways are all but empty, and it's not hard to guess that there aren't any more ships scheduled to come or go for the remainder of the day. There's something soothing about seeing a busy place so empty, and Cobb settles himself down on a small patch of the sand that remains near the water's edge. The sand here is softer than the stuff on Tatooine- weathered by the sea as it's been- and that's a bewildering thought indeed.

He gets settled easily enough, and the sigh that leaves him takes the pressure of a several hours' space travel with it. Almost takes away the headache that he'd gotten in the cantina, too, but he's not lucky enough to shake it completely.

Across the gangways, the sun's rays bleed through gaps in the spaceport. The light reflects off the water, their colors melting together on the surface, and it might just be the most beautiful thing that he's ever seen; the view from Fett's palace back home is pretty tough competition, though, and Cobb wishes he could see both side-by-side to compare.

The blazing, soft tincture on the water ripples when he tosses someone's abandoned wrench out into it, the small waves rolling up to kiss the boots at the ends of his crossed legs.

And to think there are places in the galaxy with more color than this.

Cobb's willing to bet that he's the only man from Tatooine who's seen such a sight that will ever return to Tatooine, the only man willing to smother that galactic curiosity with the safe stability that he knows is awaiting him back where he came from. A younger version of himself might've kicked him for thinking such things; he'd hated Tatooine, once, for a while- had wanted to pull his head from the sands and never go back.

If he sits here at the oceanside long enough, lets his mind drift too far, he might even be able to pretend that the water before him is the flat plot of land that Freetown itself sits upon.

It's funny. How time changes a man.

There are voices, back behind him somewhere, at the edge of the catwalks. Cobb can't hear them from where he sits, but he strains to listen anyway. He's quick to catch onto the fact that whomever it is, they're not speaking Basic. It's some language that he's probably never even heard of. Because he knows Bocce and Huttese, and it's neither of those either. He purses his lips. Something feels off.

His muscles tense up with the rest of him, leaving him on edge. He feels cold, suddenly, his back exposed. His fingers twitch with the urge to clasp around the grip of his blaster. Refusing himself that is one of the hardest things he's ever done.

And potentially one of the biggest mistakes he's ever made.

Something grabs the back of his jacket and pitches him forward into the water.

He goes under fast, shallow as it is, his vision blurring for just the briefest second as his airways close tight around themselves. His eyes sting. The closest he's been to this was in the bacta tank, and it turns out that water is still thicker than he'd have thought. He almost chokes, and that alone is enough time lost for something to pin him down to the wet sands below.

His lungs burn and his stomach roils in protest to the pressure on his back, but all he can do is kick and thrash against whatever might be holding him down. Hell, and Cobb thought cave ins were bad. He can't breathe.

The air in his lungs is escaping faster than he can find it. But there's no way he's letting himself lose consciousness, not now. I promised.

So, he gathers his strength and bucks that weight right off.

He emerges with a hefty gasp, coughing and sputtering as he shakes wet hair from his eyes. And then, he punches a man square in the face because he's surrounded and they're clearly trying to kill him.

Whoever he hits falls back to the water with a loud splash, but he doesn't spare it a moment's notice. He throws an elbow at someone behind him, and ducks aside a knockout blow from his right. The first chance he has, he whips his jacket off- because it's heavy with water and no use at all- and lashes it across someone's chest before he lets go. The assailant staggers back at the force of it, and one of the others merely sneers.

And then his attackers are stepping it up, and Cobb's lost his opportunity to draw his blaster on them. There are too many of them, too few of him, and he's still breathless from the impromptu bath.

He's a scurrier caught in between the claws of a womp rat.

A foot slams heavily against his spine, and he's nearly thrown off of his feet when he staggers forward, only to catch a right hook and stumble right back. He doesn't have time to hope that his teeth are all still slotted in place, ignoring the sting of his jaw in his efforts of evading a cuff thrown at the side of his head. He barely catches it in time, jerking the offending arm the wrong way before spinning to face his attacker and throwing his boot into their groin. He hears a yelp as they go flying backwards, and he grunts as something sharp slices into his good shoulder.

The sharp tang of blood hangs in the air, but Cobb can't stop to worry about just how bad they got him. His arm still works, better than his other, and that's all that matters; he can get out of this yet.

Or so he thinks, before someone stronger than the first man tackles him back into the water and presses him down.

For a moment, Cobb panics. His thoughts blur together into a current of their own, a tide that threatens to overwhelm him. If he drowns out here, he realizes, his body will simply be dumped into the ocean and left there. He'll drift away, will never be found. He'll never return home to Freetown. No one will know what happened to him. Ann will be alone.

He can't let that happen, he has to keep his promise.

And that's the thought that steadies him, wet sand scratching his face as the rest of the precious air in his lungs slips past his lips. Do this for her.

He resumes his struggles with vigor, dividing the attention of the man atop of him. The hold on his bad arm loosens significantly, and Cobb subtly begins to slide his hand from beneath him, down toward the holster strapped around his thigh.

Even as a hand closes around the back of his neck and squeezes, his fingers latch onto the grip and pull the weapon free. He redirects the barrel somewhere and fires without a second thought. He sees the beam of red in his peripheral, and it's an unfortunately welcome sight to his waterlogged eyes.

He lets loose a couple more shots, and catches a cry of alarm from where he lays submerged. The bruising grasp on his neck is gone entirely, and another couple of angle adjustments have the weight on his back falling away altogether. It's no question that he's hit his target, and he doesn't even hold still long enough to feel that sharp relief before he surfaces.

His body shakes with wracking coughs as water sputters from the depths of his lungs, but Cobb doesn't let himself have the mercy of breathing before he unleashes his fury upon the rest of the thugs. Three fall before they take flight back to the catwalk, and he doesn't stop there.

As he sits there, burning holes into the backs of the fleeing thugs while the sea leaks from his mouth, Cobb thinks that maybe Ann was right.

The water pooled around him is red.

Maybe, he shouldn't have left Tatooine after all.