Shadows Over Candor
Chapter I
The bloody sun of Candor cast a blistering glow over the jagged horizon, painting the iron-rich sands a deep crimson that seemed to smolder under the relentless heat. A dry wind whispered through the canyons, carrying with it the metallic scent of metal and the faint taste of dust that clung to the back of a dry throat. Above, the sky was a pale, washed-out pink, almost white where the sun blazed brightest, offering no respite from the searing daylight.
Perched atop a rocky mesa stood the palace of Candor's resident crime lord—a sprawling fortress of shadowed spires and fortified walls, cobbled together from the wreckage of starships and the bones of ancient beasts. The palace loomed like a predatory monster, its jagged edges jutting against the sky, cloaked in the perpetual haze of heat and sand. The air around it vibrated from the relentless deluge of dry heat, and the distant sounds of machinery echoed from the surrounding mines.
Inside, the palace was a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors and cavernous halls. Flickering lights cast long, distorted shadows that danced across walls adorned with trophies of its owners' conquests: blasters, helmets, fragments of armor, even bones—all tarnished reminders of those who had crossed him. The scent of oil and scorched metal mingled with the acrid aroma of exotic spices and the musk of countless aliens confined in close quarters.
In a secluded alcove off the main chamber, Buck slouched in a worn leather chair, its surface cracked and faded from years of neglect. The cool touch of the leather was a stark contrast to the stifling heat that permeated the palace. He lifted a bottle of old Corellian whisky to his lips, the amber liquid catching the dim light as it sloshed against the glass. The whisky burned as it went down, a familiar fire that settled into a warm haze in his stomach.
He turned his attention to a shattered credit chip resting on the low table before him. The chip's fractured surface reflected distorted shards of light, its once-gleaming golden edges now dulled and useless. Buck picked it up, feeling the jagged edges bite into his fingertips—a sharp reminder of his dwindling fortunes. He rolled it between his fingers, the rough texture a tactile echo of his frayed nerves.
The distant thrum of music vibrated through the walls—a discordant melody of stringed instruments and percussive beats, punctuated by the occasional roar of laughter or shout of anger. The sounds of his boss's entourage indulging in their hedonistic pleasures seeped into the room, a constant backdrop that was both alluring as it was suffocating.
A faint scent of spice drifted in from under the door, sweet and heady, mingling with the more pungent odors of sweat and unwashed bodies. It clung to the air, weaving its way into Buck's senses until he could almost taste it—an intoxicating blend that threatened to dull his already hazy thoughts.
He sighed, leaning back as he took another swig of whisky. The alcohol did little to quiet the restless churn in his mind. Jobs had been scarce lately, and his luck during jobs he managed to land even scarcer. The shattered credit chip was just one more testament to a string of bad decisions—a physical manifestation of his gradual descent.
The door behind him hissed open, and a blast of noise flooded the room before being muffled once more as it slid shut. Buck didn't need to look up to know who had entered; the heavy, uneven footsteps and the faint rasp of labored breathing were signature tells of Groz, one of his boss's most loyal Gamorrean enforcers.
"Buck!" Groz grunted, his voice like gravel scraping over metal. "Roff needs to see you."
He glanced up, meeting the enforcer's gaze. Groz's face was a patchwork of scars with two fat tusks bookending a toothy crooked jaw. Snot carelessly oozed from his hog-like nose as it repeatedly sniffed the acrid air. Buck raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk as he took another sip of his whisky. "And here I was thinking you'd stopped caring about me, Groz. You've got such a tender way of saying 'hello.'"
The Gamorrean's beady eyes narrowed, a low grunt escaping his throat. "Ain't no time for jokes, Buck. You've kept Roff waitin' too long already."
Buck waved his hand dismissively, though his heart gave a nervous jolt. "What's the hurry? Roff's always got plenty of people to chew through before he gets to me." He shot a glance at the broken credit chip in his hand, its jagged edges somehow symbolic of how close to the edge he's been skating.
Groz let out a harsh snort, the mucous trickling from his nose thickening as he wiped it on his shoulder pad. "If I were you, I'd worry less about my jokes and more about what Roff's gonna chew on next."
Buck sighed, the gravity of the situation pulling him down from his brief Corellian whisky high. He set down his bottle, straightened his jacket, and got to his feet with a slow stretch. The old chair creaked under his weight as he pushed it back. Groz, massive and lumbering, moved aside, watching Buck carefully as if the smuggler might make a run for it. He wouldn't, of course—Buck knew better than that. You didn't run from someone like Gal Roff; you faced the music and hoped it wasn't your last song.
As Buck followed Groz through the labyrinthine corridors of the palace, he let his mind wander. The palace was more like a tomb—a monument to violence, greed, and conquest. The air grew heavier the deeper they went, the stench of decay and metallic tang of blood mingling with the faint scent of burning incense. Every step carried them closer to Roff's throne room, where Buck had seen enough grisly endings to know exactly how his day could end if he wasn't careful.
He flexed his fingers, feeling the cracked skin along his knuckles where the calluses had worn deep. His blaster holster clinked softly as it tapped his side with each step, a comforting reminder that if things went sideways, he still had options. Not good ones, but options nonetheless.
They rounded the final corner and came to the entrance of the throne room, where two massive golden doors loomed before them, adorned with the bones of creatures Buck didn't even recognize. The guards, each one built like a tank, barely acknowledged their presence as the doors groaned open before them.
The throne room was an overwhelming assault on the senses. It was cavernous, the ceilings so high that shadows clung to the top like a shroud. Light flickered from chandeliers made of twisted metal, casting eerie patterns across the floor. Skulls, hundreds of them, hung from ropes like macabre decorations—some human, others alien, but all staring vacantly at the proceedings below.
And there, seated on a contrastingly ornate obsidian throne was a single colossal beast—Gal Roff.
Roff's hulking, reptilian form dominated the room, his scales gleaming in the flickering light. He sat hunched forward, his massive clawed hands resting on the arms of his throne, each adorned with large round gas canisters that breathed a faint yellow mist. Saliva drooled from his crocodilian jaw onto his massive scarred and bloated belly. Around his neck hung a necklace of skulls—trophies of personal kills, their once-rebellious jaws now locked in eternal screams. His eyes, slits of amber, gleamed with cold amusement as Buck approached, his toothy grin widening as though already anticipating the outcome of this meeting.
Roff shifted slightly, the dried feathers on his robe lightly rustling, and reached down beside him. What Buck had initially thought was a pile of refuse moved. A ragged alien—a thin, trembling figure—was hauled up by one of Roff's massive hands. Before Buck could register what was happening, Roff opened his maw and sank his teeth into the alien's shoulder, biting through flesh and bone with sickening ease.
Buck winced as the alien's garbled scream filled the room, and he fought to keep his expression neutral. The various patrons of the throne room paused for a moment, only to resume their chatter and activities as if nothing happened. "That could be any of us." he reminded himself. Roff devoured the poor wretch's arm with deliberate carelessness, like a beast toying with its food.
"Ah, Buck." Roff finally said, his voice a low, rumbling growl that reverberated through the chamber. His jaws dripped with blood and saliva, but he smiled as though welcoming an old friend. "I've been waiting."
The alien let out another piercing, desperate shriek, limbs twitching helplessly as its blood pooled on the stone floor. Roff's nostrils flared with impatience. He paused, his yellow, predatory eyes flicking downward. With a sigh of annoyance, he tilted his head slightly toward Buck. "One moment," he said, as though asking for the patience to deal with a minor inconvenience.
Roff's grip tightened on the alien, and his jaws widened. His maw opened impossibly large, rows of razor-sharp teeth glistening in the flickering light. The alien let out a final, pitiful wail—cut short as Roff's teeth clamped down with a sickening crunch. The sound reverberated through the room, bone snapping under pressure, skin tearing, and the squelch of internal organs bursting. The head and most of the upper torso disappeared into Roff's massive gullet, his maw working methodically as he chewed.
Buck swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat. He tried to block out the grotesque details—the wet, squelching noise of flesh being ground between those brutal teeth, the metallic tang of fresh blood thick in the air. A rivulet of crimson trickled down Roff's chin, staining his tattered but opulent robe, while the torso of the alien twitched one last time before going still, dangling limply in the crime lord's grip.
Roff chewed slowly, savoring the meal. His eyes closed briefly, as if in deep satisfaction, a low rumble of pleasure vibrating in his throat. After what felt like an eternity, Roff exhaled through his nostrils in a contented sigh. "Ahh... that's better," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The faint sound of splattering blood accompanied the gesture, droplets staining the stone floor.
He tossed the lifeless remains aside, like discarded garbage, and leaned back in his throne, his bloodied claws resting on his gorged stomach. His amber eyes locked onto Buck again, the predatory gleam returning. "Now, where was I?" Roff growled softly, as though the brutal execution had been nothing more than a brief interruption. His teeth, still slick with blood, glistened in the dim light.
Buck held his breath, the tension in the room like a heavy weight pressing down on him. His heart pounded in his chest, and he tried not to stare too long at the remnants of the alien that lay motionless on the floor, a broken heap of flesh and bone. Roff's gaze bore into him, and the air between them was thick with unspoken menace.
Without breaking eye contact, Roff reached lazily toward one of the metallic canisters beside him. Buck had seen them before—illicit spice inhalers, filled with substances so potent they could knock most sentients into delirium. Roff picked one up, the smooth metal gleaming dully in the dim light of the throne room. The canister let out a soft hiss as Roff twisted it open, revealing a thin nozzle that immediately released a stream of amber vapor into the air.
Roff brought the nozzle to his wide, scaly nostrils and inhaled deeply. The vapor poured into his lungs with a hiss, the canister exhaling its toxic mist. Roff's eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and he leaned his massive head back, savoring the hit.
When he opened his eyes again, they were no longer amber, but a deep, burning red. His already predatory demeanor shifted, the faint veneer of civility evaporating with the stimulating mist. His body tensed, his muscles rippling beneath his thick hide, and a low growl rumbled from deep within his chest.
Buck swallowed hard, his pulse quickening. He'd seen Roff under the influence before. The crime lord's mood could shift unpredictably—one moment, calculated and cruel, the next, wild and brutal. Buck wasn't sure which version of Roff he preferred, but the sight of his blood-red eyes staring hungrily at him was fear inducing.
Roff exhaled slowly, sending another plume of yellow mist into the air, before his lips curled into a toothy, bloodstained grin. "Now, Buck..." His voice was lower, more guttural, almost as if the spice was feeding the primal beast lurking within him. "I trust you won't waste my time."
Without warning, Roff nodded to his guards. The two armored brutes standing by the massive doors shifted into action, their heavy footsteps reverberating across the stone floor. Before Buck could react, they were at his sides, gripping his arms and dragging him forward toward the throne. The air thickened with the stench of blood and sweat, and Buck's heart pounded louder, matching the rhythmic stomps of the guards.
As he was pulled closer, Buck's eyes locked onto Roff's still-bloody claws, now resting on the arms of the throne. His mind raced, every instinct screaming at him to pull back, to run, but there was no escape here. Not from this.
Roff, his eyes still burning with spice-induced madness, reached out with one massive hand and seized Buck by the front of his jacket. The grip was powerful, crushing. Buck's feet barely scraped the floor as he was yanked forward with startling force, his face inches from Roff's gaping maw. The Trogodile's breath hit him like a wave—thick and foul, the smell of rotting flesh mingling with the acrid tang of spice and fresh blood. It was a stench that hit the back of Buck's throat and turned his stomach.
Buck gagged, reviling at the proximity, at the hot, wet exhale that blasted across his face. His eyes watered involuntarily as the rancid smell invaded his senses, clinging to his skin, filling his nose with the sour reek of decay. He could taste it now, that sickly-sweet rot in the air, making his stomach churn. He fought the urge to pull back, to wrench himself away, but Roff's grip was unyielding, his claws digging into Buck's jacket as though he could tear through it with ease.
"Look at you," Roff murmured, his voice heavy with mockery and menace. His crimson-slicked fangs flashed inches from Buck's face, and the stench of his breath only worsened. "Always trying to get one step ahead. But here you always end up... right in my hand."
Buck's throat tightened, but he forced himself to keep his voice steady. "I'm here because I'm valuable. Because I have what it takes. You know that."
Roff grinned wider, showing off every sharp, bloody tooth. His throat rattled out a low chuckle, a growl reverberating deep in his chest. "Oh, you've been useful in the past, Buck. Very useful. But you're been slipping. The botched Rylothian job, the post you left on Rori, dare I mention the mess you made for me on Anaxes Prime?!"
Buck clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the pungent stench that seemed to seep into his very bones. He could feel Roff's claws tightening, the points pressing harder into his chest, threatening to tear through the leather and skin beneath.
"I'd hate to see you… wasted." Roff whispered, his voice dripping with venom, "But I'll make sure you end up just like him." He nodded toward the mangled remains of the alien lying in a heap near the throne, the memory of that brutal crunch still fresh in Buck's mind.
Roff let the threat hang in the air as his grip on Buck's jacket remained firm. There was a dangerous glint in his bloodshot eyes, a promise of violence that Buck knew all too well.
"I understand," Buck managed, his voice barely above a whisper, though the words felt thick in his throat. "Anything you want. I won't let you down."
For a long, tense moment, Roff stared at him, the red glow in his eyes unnerving and sinister. It was as if he couldn't decide whether to end Buck right then and there, or give him one final opportunity. Then, slowly, deliberately, he released Buck's jacket, letting him stumble back as the guards let go of his arms.
"Good," Roff rumbled, leaning back on his throne. "I'm not hungry enough, anyway."
Buck stepped back, his hands shaking slightly as he readjusted his jacket. He kept his eyes locked on Roff, resisting the overwhelming urge to wipe away the stench of the Trogodile's breath from his face.
"Now," Roff said, his voice returning to a more composed growl, though the madness still lingered in his eyes. "I'll give you a single chance to save your pathetic skin."
Buck swallowed hard, his heart still racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He knew better than to speak out of turn; Roff had given him a sliver of a reprieve, but that could be taken away in an instant. He nodded, keeping his gaze locked on the hulking crime lord, forcing himself to stay steady despite the tremor in his hands.
Roff leaned forward, his thick claws tapping rhythmically against the armrest of his imposing throne. His bloodshot eyes, still tinged with that spice-fueled madness, bore into Buck with predatory focus. There was a long pause as if Roff were savoring the tension in the room, enjoying the weight of his power over the man standing before him.
"You will deliver a package for me," Roff began, his voice thick with authority, yet laced with an almost playful malice. "A very valuable artifact… one that Jaal Cazhari has been salivating over for months. You know of Jaal, don't you, Buck?"
Buck nodded stiffly. Jaal Cazhari was a name that carried weight in the darker corners of the galaxy—a Cathar black market kingpin who dabbled in everything from weapons and drugs, to his most profitable venture—slaves. Dangerous, ruthless, and just as likely to kill you as he was to offer you a drink. Buck had heard plenty of stories.
"Good," Roff said with a toothy grin, his rotting fangs gleaming. "Jaal and I, see, have been doing business for a long time, but this… this deal is special. He's paying a hefty sum for this package, and I need someone… close to me… to get it to him."
Buck felt a bead of sweat trickle down the side of his face. There was too much weight behind Roff's words, too much at stake. "I can handle it," Buck managed, trying to sound confident, though the weight of Roff's gaze made his stomach churn. "What's the cargo?"
Roff's eyes narrowed, and the smile that crept across his face was anything but reassuring. "That is not of your concern. All you need to understand is that it's valuable to Jaal… very valuable. More than credits. And if it doesn't make it to Jaal in one piece? Well..." Roff's gaze flicked meaningfully to the lifeless, mangled remains of the alien still sprawled on the floor. "You won't be in one piece either."
Buck swallowed again, the message crystal clear. He forced himself to maintain composure, though his palms were slick with sweat. "Understood."
Roff snorted, his massive shoulders heaving slightly as he laughed—a deep, rumbling sound that sent vibrations through the stone floor. He leaned back again, the gleam in his red-tinged eyes sharpening. "The delivery is simple. You take the cargo to the orbital station above Candor, meet with Jaal's men, and leave the package. Do that, and maybe you'll still have a future in this little enterprise of ours."
Buck bit back a sarcastic remark, knowing that any attempt at humor now would likely be met with a fatal response. He nodded instead, his face a mask of forced obedience. "I won't let you down."
Roff's grin widened, and the madness in his eyes seemed to flare for a moment before settling into something colder, more calculated. He motioned to one of his guards, a brutish figure clad in heavy armor, who promptly stepped forward and handed Buck a small datapad.
Buck glanced at the datapad, the details of the mission scrolling across the screen. No questions, no detours, no mistakes. It was all laid out for him in black and white. He nodded, tucking the datapad into his jacket pocket, though his mind was already racing with possibilities. This job smelled bad, worse than any he'd taken on before. But what choice did he have?
"Buck," Roff's voice snapped him back to the present, and he looked up to see the Trogodile leaning forward again, his eyes glinting with that familiar, unsettling hunger. "Remember one thing… If you try anything stupid, if you even think about crossing me, I'll track you down no matter where you run. And when I find you..." Roff's tongue flicked out, tasting the air as he bared his teeth. "Well, let's just say I'll make what happened here today look like a kindness."
The image of the alien's skull cracking between Roff's jaws flashed in Buck's mind, and his chest tightened. "I won't disappoint you," he said, his voice low and steady, though every fiber of his being screamed to get out of there as fast as possible.
Roff stared at him for another agonizing moment, then nodded, satisfied. "See that you don't." With a casual wave of his hand, the guards moved back, and Roff leaned into his throne once more, his blood-red eyes narrowing as he watched Buck.
Buck turned to leave, his feet heavy as he walked away from the throne, the stench of blood, spice, and death still thick in the air. He kept his steps measured, fighting the urge to run as fast as he could from that place, from Roff's eyes, from the lingering threat of what failure would mean.
The doors to the throne room closed with a heavy thud, the oppressive atmosphere of Roff's presence sealing behind them. Buck's heart still hammered in his chest, his nerves wound tight, but for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he let himself breathe. The stench of blood and spice still clung to him, though it lessened with every step away from that cursed room. He'd made it out—barely.
Just as he thought he was in the clear, a familiar snort cut through the silence. Groz, leaning against the corridor wall, a lazy grin spreading across his disgusting, tusked face. The Gamorrean enforcer had been waiting, likely listening in to the whole exchange.
"Shame," Groz grunted, his voice like a rusty blade scraping across stone. His beady eyes glinted with malicious amusement. "I was hoping I'd get to see Roff chew you up. Always a treat to see him dispose of a lousy piece of meat."
Buck raised an eyebrow, his hands still stuffed in his jacket pockets as he leaned back on his heels. "Sorry to disappoint," he said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "Maybe next time. But hey, you never know—you should go ask him if he's in the mood for some greasy pork."
Groz's snout wrinkled in annoyance, and he let out a harsh, guttural grunt that sounded more like a cough. "Keep talkin'. Won't be long before Roff loses patience with you for good."
Buck flashed a crooked grin. "Yeah, maybe. But until then, I guess I'll just keep annoying you. It's a lot more fun that way."
The Gamorrean let out another grunt, clearly unimpressed. He pushed off from the wall, his massive frame lumbering down the hallway, his uneven footsteps echoing in the stone corridor. "Better watch yourself, Buck. Luck's gonna run out eventually," Groz called back over his shoulder before disappearing around a corner.
Buck watched him go, the tension in his body slowly unwinding as the sound of Groz's footsteps faded into the distance. Finally alone, Buck let out a long, deep sigh, the weight of the throne room, the meeting, and the ever-present threat of death washing over him like a tidal wave. For a brief, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel the relief of still being in one piece.
"Just another job," he muttered under his breath, though he could feel the lie in the words as they left his mouth. This job was anything but ordinary, and he knew it.
Adjusting his jacket, Buck squared his shoulders and turned toward the palace's hangar. The ship was waiting. The job was waiting. And whether he liked it or not, there was no turning back now.