After he recovers from the attack and tends to his shoulder, Cobb heads back up to the cantina.

With the night approaching, workers will be heading to taverns and such to get in a good drink before they return to their homes. Cobb's sure that offering to pay for a few rounds will get a couple of men drunk enough to spill the information he wants, and he finds that true long before the dawn.

He finds a room to rent and finally lays down to put the day behind him.

He ends up sleeping longer than he'd have liked, but he feels well-rested enough to get back to work. He mends the tear in his shirt, pulls on his now-dry coat, and turns himself to the streets once more.

It takes some asking around to get directions to the address he'd been given, but he's finally properly en-route after a couple of hours. But this is the easy part, he knows, because he has absolutely no idea of what to expect once he arrives. He doubts that he'll be on his way back to Tatooine by nightfall, and it truly is a good thing he'd paid his rent ahead for four nights. After the previous evening, something tells him that sleeping on the streets is a death wish for a non-local like himself.

Cobb keeps a careful eye trained on his surroundings during the extent of his search, his lesson learned- he should've known better than to have let his guard down, anyway. He gets a few odd looks, though, and clearly he's not being subtle enough. Oh well. It doesn't matter- perhaps those around him being aware that he's on the lookout is warning enough for them. No one leaps out at him.

The journey is rather uneventful, actually. A surprising thing, given that it's a twenty klick walk to the place from the motel. He's tired enough when he arrives that he decides to consider investing in renting a speeder, too. But that'll depend on how long he ends up sticking around for. Hopefully not for too long.

He stops in front of the building to take it in. There aren't any visible guards on the exterior.

Tatooine has more plantations and mines than it does factories, but he knows a factory when he sees one- and the towering smokestack on top is the biggest giveaway, rundown as all of the exterior walls appear to be.

Zerem's hideout is quite the large facility, shaped like the High Republic letter L, and wraps around the smaller building on its left. A walk around the outside reveals a flat expanse of metal in the ground that Cobb thinks is large enough to support an underground hangar- and that makes sense, because he'd done his research and learned that Corellia's biggest export is starships. Part of him already knows what kind of folk oughta be building the ones that come from this particular manufactory.

Nothing like a blast to the past, Cobb sighs, and begins scouting for a way in.

His entrance ends up being a bent panel in the back wall, a piece of durasteel peeled away from the building by someone like him. It's not as tight of a squeeze as he expects, and he knows that he gets through so easily only because of how much weight he's lost in recent months. Never thought that'd be an advantage.

The inside of the factory is dark, the minimal lighting sparse and just enough to get by with. It makes the place feel a bit more ominous than the outside did, and for a moment Cobb wonders if his intel was wrong. But then he remembers how rundown the home of his younger years was, and the doubt fades. This is the right place.

There's not a noise to be heard in the warehouse, and Cobb practically holds his breath as he makes his way through it, sticking to the shadows unless there's no choice. Rust and grease linger in the air stronger than he's ever caught wind of before, and he finds himself envying the Mandalorians and their helmet filtration systems. But he's smelled worse things, and his focus on pushing forward keeps him from wrinkling his nose.

He falls so deep into concentration that the scuffing of his boot on the floor nearly scares him out of his own skin when he doesn't raise his foot high enough. The decision to lead with his blaster is unanimous after that, and it puts him at ease enough to continue.

After a few good minutes of trying to navigate the room, he catches sight of a large open doorway. With it comes light, and noise. Voices. Tools. Machines. Cobb lowers his blaster to point at the floor, because he already knows what he's going to find. He doesn't want to spook them. These folk don't deserve that.

He slips along the last few crates and presses his back up against the wall, lining himself up with the doorframe. He pauses. Listens. Checks to see if he's judged the situation right, or if he should leave while he's still alive.

There's fear in the air, thick and heavy, but he doesn't hear any guards. Cobb holsters his blaster.

Perhaps it's his gut leading him, perhaps the morality to do right by these people, but he knows one thing: he needs to enter this room. It doesn't matter if Zerem's not there, not yet. Cobb has time on his side- but he can't say the same for the bastard's slaves, and they feel important.

Let's do it. He takes a steadying breath, raises his head, and pushes himself off of the wall.

Cobb enters the room cautiously- keeping himself toward the center so as not to hide himself from their uncertain eyes. He wants them to see him, and he wants them to understand that he's not a threat.

Even so, from the bunk areas that line the lengthy wall on his right, it takes the assorted group a few long moments to notice him. Those that do first are some of the few still returning from the oceanic workshop through another doorway on the left. They freeze as soon as their eyes land upon him, and the last couple hardly dare slip inside before the door hisses shut behind them. It's a sound of finality that seals a deadly silence, and those who hadn't yet spotted him do now.

For his part, Cobb says nothing yet. He lets them observe him, fully take in the sight of him. In turn, he does the same, letting enough curiosity show that those who cower in the corners slowly draw forth from them with their own. A dying bulb flickers above them, and he throws a glance up at it because it's better than studying the shadows between the men's ribs.

When the silence has gone on long enough to unsettle them, he draws his blaster, lowers it to the ground, and meticulously kicks it their way. He holds empty hands in the air for reassurance even as he speaks. "I ain't here to hurt you."

His rebuilt shoulder spasms in time with his words, backing him up; no hunter of any kind would show up to the job with such an injury.

The enslaved believe it, too, he can tell. They relax, even if only fractionally so, and their postures shift into more cautionary stances as opposed to fearful ones. Something in his own chest lightens at that, and the careful tension in his wounded shoulders eases. Nonetheless, he keeps his hands in full view, because he'd been in their place once, and he knows exactly how to spook a slave.

"Who are you?" Someone dares ask, and Cobb follows the voice to a dark teenage boy.

Cobb understands where the boy's coming from, he really does, but to give his name would be to alert Zerem of his presence.

That can't happen.

Thus, he pulls up a favored alias of old- the very same he'd listed his name under for the transport- and answers readily. "Now, it ain't my name, but you can call me Vance for now. I've come from Tatooine to kill your master."

They break off into fearful murmurs, and Cobb lets them. Their suspicion is valid- more than valid. After all, he is a stranger. They don't know him, but they do know Zerem's punishments for such rebellious activity- the Pau'an would make their lives worse tenfold if he knew of his presence.

"Why should we trust you?" The boy finally questions.

"'Cause I used to be jus' like you." He discloses, tactfully shrugging off his coat.

Deft fingers move to his shirt, and Cobb works that up and over his shoulders, too. He doesn't try to hide the seams of his right one, nor the bandages bundled around the left. His hands in the air again, he slowly rotates to offer the room a glance at the star-shaped scar between his shoulder blades.

"You're hurt." A small voice says, and Cobb almost laughs.

"Yeah, well, I'm new to the neighborhood." He fesses, and shoves his surprise-borne amusement back down. He almost slumps in relief at the lighter shift in the atmosphere. "A few of the locals tried to jump me."

And that's enough, it seems, the last of the tension seeping through the cracks of the floor until the next flood comes through. The slaves turn toward each other with bright eyes, chatter breaking out among them. Cobb finally lets his arms fall back to his sides, and the pressure that had begun to build in his shoulders gives way to quiet reprieve. He's ready for the further questions that get shot his way.

"How did you escape?"

"What happened to your arm?"

"Does Tatooine really have two suns?"

"Where did you learn how to shoot?"

"Why would you come here?"

He lets them draw on for a moment before he raises a hand to stay them. Lets them finish their final thoughts as he drafts up his own next words. "You want to know why I'm here?

"The lorda blew my parents' chips when I was twelve. Another family took me in, and the father went out the same way a few years later. The mother died of illness, then it was just me an' their son 'til I cut out my chip an' led everyone out. He left Tatooine. Showed up just recently, an' tried to kill me 'cause he never cut out his own chip and the lorda wanted me dead. He offed himself so I could live, so here I am avengin' all the folk that never escaped." Cobb smiles a little at a new realization. "I guess that means I'm rescuin' all of you as well, then."

Some of them are in awe of him already, and Cobb can feel how his heart has already pledged itself to them. He's going to need to revisit his timeframe. This game is certainly one that cannot be successfully beaten in just a few days, and there's no way he's letting himself fail. Enough blood has been shed.

Translations:

Lorda (Huttese) = boss/master