Nar Shaddaa. They say the Vertical City never sleeps. Truth is Galactic standard time is just irrelevant here. Businesses operate no matter where the sun is in the sky. Most of the population never see it anyway.
It was late in my schedule, and I'd spent the past few hours at Jool's bar drinking probably too many whiskies. She stocked the good Corellian stuff, the pre-Clone Wars vintages that had been hard to get under the Empire. They were still nearly impossible to find but she had her ways.
I took off my dark blue Dervdisi jacket as I entered my apartment, throwing it lazily on my couch, and undid the collar of my powder-blue shirt. My apartment was far from luxurious, but it was large enough. The entrance was in the middle of the east wall, and I had the doorway flanked with holographic fern trees that bathed the entrance in a gentle cool blue. Only the truly wealthy could afford real plants. On the other side of the room, facing the door, was my desk, and behind that my chair. Genuine ronto-leather, the salesman had assured me. I didn't believe it for a second, but it sure was comfortable. On the floor was a dusty rug of Huttese design that had been here when I moved it. A wide window took up the west wall, with thick metal blinds on the exterior that could block out everything from outside. I had a large vidscreen mounted on the south wall, next to a reproduction of a garish abstract painting. The paintings geometric shapes and muted colours allegedly depicted the Ruby Nebula in the Karthaakk sector, or perhaps the artists inner turmoil. I didn't care, I just liked to think it made me look deep and contemplative. Opposite the painting I had an old, slightly curved couch that had probably been ripped out of an old starship. Next to that was another doorway that led to my scullery, refresher and bedroom.
Leaning back in my chair, I looked between the blinds at the duracrete jungle outside the window. Hard, wet rain hammered down, giving everything a glossy sheen as the bright incandescent headlights of airspeeders shot past, their hulls backlit by signs advertising every service a being could desire.
I switched on the vidscreen on the wall, and tuned it to Tri-Nebulon News. The reporter, a rodian, was wearing an ill-fitting orange suit that didn't exactly complement his green reptilian skin. His large, dark, bulbous eyes stared unblinking at the camera as his proboscis-like mouth carefully enunciated Galactic Basic. A blue ticker at the bottom of the screen scrolled with stock market updates from across the system.
Behind the rodian was a field of tall, olivine-hued grass, blowing gently in a breeze. Behind that were lush tropical trees, their emerald leaves punctuated with flecks of vermillion. Behind the trees, the tip of a curved skyscraper was visible. It could have been one of a thousand worlds were it not for the long necked insectoid beings with six limbs ambling through the grass. They were Vratix, and that meant the planet was Thyferra.
"... Chief Financial Officer Fliry Vorru was captured in the raid." The reporter said. "Eyewitness accounts report X-Wings being involved in the space conflict, but the New Republic has declined to comment at this time. Xucphra Corporation has also been confirmed that Ysanne Isard was killed attempting to flee the planet. Isard, who was appointed as the company's Chief Operating Officer earlier this year..."
Isard. There was a time not long ago that name would have sent a shiver down my spine. Old Ice-Heart's eyes were everywhere, even after the New Republic had expelled her from Coruscant. On the few times I'd had to report to her directly, she'd managed to burn her visage into my brain.
She had a cute but stern face, the kind that'd be like to rip you apart worse than a nexu just as much as kiss you. One blue eye, cold as space, and one red, burning like a supernova; a white streak in her auburn hair. She was attractive, there was no doubt of that, but was equal parts terrifying at every turn. Stars help anyone that crossed her back then.
Now she was just another in a growing list of those who had tried to stand in Palpatine's shoes and failed. There were still remnants out there, fighting over the scraps of the Empire, but they were growing fewer and fewer. Soon only the die-hard fanatics, true believers in the Imperial dream, would be left.
I had seen the writing on the wall after Endor, and got out of the service whilst I could. A career in espionage gives you unique skills, and what better place to profit off of them than this cesspit of a city-moon, away from the grand designs of galactic politics.
The door to my apartment-come-office chirped, bringing me out of my thoughts. I switched off the vid screen and pressed the button on my desk to activate the door comms.
"H-hello? Mr. Maarloch?" A female voice said.
"Who's there?" I asked bluntly. A soft voice meant nothing, you didn't open your door to just anyone on Nar Shaddaa.
"My name's Hatra Luthi, I sing at the Violet Poolia in New Vertica. I need to hire your services."
It wasn't uncommon for clients to arrive without an appointment, but I still liked to be cautious so I double checked the baster I had strapped to the underside of my desk, and pressed the button to open the door.
Light flooded in the room, silhouetting a shapely female figure. As she stepped in from the hall and the door slid shut behind her, I could make her out more clearly. She was a Togruta, with two pale horns atop her head leading down into a matching pair of blue striped head-tails that framed her face. Montrals, they were called. She wore a tight fitting black dress that went down to her ankles. Her skin was the vermillion of a dusky sunset, punctuated by glossy lips painted black and wide eyes like muddy puddles.
I didn't normally look at aliens that way; my old employers had always looked down on it even if they were near human, but there was something about her, more intoxicating than all the whiskey I'd drunk that night.
I gestured a hand towards the rattan chair on the other side of my desk.
"Please, take a seat."