A/N: Got a bit late, but enjoy the chapter.
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The neon lights of Daiyu were giving me a headache, and I wasn't sure if it was the garish colors or the black gunk in my soul deciding to act up again.
I walked through the crowded street with Arachnae perched on my shoulder like some kind of demented metal parrot, her optical sensors sweeping the area in lazy arcs. The crowd parted around me without a second glance, which was the nice thing about wearing full armor on a planet where everyone minded their own business or got stabbed for the trouble.
"Status check," Obi-Wan's voice crackled through my helmet comm, filtered through layers of encryption that would make slicing it more trouble than it was worth.
"Still vertical," I replied, weaving through a cluster of Rodians haggling over what looked like stolen datapads. "No Inquisitors yet. Just your standard urban dystopia. Lots of neon, lots of despair, the usual."
"Any progress on locating our target?"
"Working on it. The city's bigger than it looked on the maps, and the crowds are thicker than a Hutt's waistline. Give me an hour or two. I'll check in when I have something solid."
"Understood. Be careful."
"Always am, Master."
I cut the comm before he could point out the obvious lie and kept walking.
Daiyu was exactly as advertised: a neon-soaked, crime-riddled hellhole where the Empire's presence was just strong enough to make things worse without actually fixing anything. Stormtroopers patrolled in pairs, their armor reflecting the garish advertisements for spice dens and pleasure houses. The architecture was a vertical mess, buildings stacked on top of each other like a child's toy blocks after a temper tantrum.
The whole place had this greasy, desperate energy that clung to your skin even through sealed armor. It reminded me of Lothal's capital, except someone had cranked up the neon and dialed down any remaining sense of civic pride.
The timeline math kept running through my head as I walked. We'd burned two days on Tatooine doing prep work, modifying the Scythe's appearance and planning the extraction with Bail. That delay had eaten into our lead, but the numbers still worked in our favor.
Commercial hyperdrives weren't exactly speed demons. The fastest civilian route from Alderaan to Tatooine would take at least four days, probably closer to five with standard hyper-space lanes. In the original timeline, Bail would have contacted Obi-Wan, gotten refused, flown all the way to Tatooine to convince him in person, and then Obi-Wan would have dragged himself here.
We'd skipped most of that by convincing Obi-Wan during the initial hologram call. Even with our two-day prep delay, we should have a solid two-day lead before the Grand Inquisitor and his full goth entourage showed up.
Reva was a different story. She'd orchestrated the kidnapping, which meant she was probably already here, lurking somewhere in this neon-drenched maze. The Third Sister wasn't known for patience or subtlety, and her obsession with finding Obi-Wan made her unpredictable in ways that worried me more than the other Inquisitors combined.
Which was exactly why I wanted this trip to be as short as possible.
My current state was a liability. The rings on my fingers were bleeding off Force energy in randomized bursts, making me invisible in the background noise of the city, but that only worked as long as I didn't have another spasm. One neurotic surge in the wrong place at the wrong time, and every Force-sensitive within ten klicks would know exactly where I was.
In a dense urban environment like this, the odds of a random flare-up were higher than I liked. Too many stimuli, too much chaos pressing against my dampened senses. The sooner we grabbed Leia and got off this rock, the better.
I stopped at a vendor selling what looked like datacrons and old holopads, rifling through the merchandise with one hand while Arachnae chirped softly near my ear.
Mostly junk. Some old datacrons that were probably full of Hutt porn and tax fraud evidence. A couple of outdated nav-computers that might be worth stripping for parts if I had the time, which I didn't.
I picked up a small carved figure of a Twi'lek dancer, the kind of tacky souvenir that screamed "I went to Daiyu and all I got was this overpriced garbage." I tossed it into my tactical backpack anyway. Lyra might get a kick out of it. Or throw it at my head. Either outcome would be entertaining.
The backpack itself was one of my better modifications. I'd taken a standard surplus pack from Mos Eisley and reinforced it with scavenged armor plating, added grooves for my new pair of vibroblades, and built in concealed holsters for my blasters. From the outside, it looked like a bulky equipment bag. From the inside, it was a mobile armory that would make a Mandalorian nod in grudging approval.
Pi-piing?
"No, I'm not buying you a souvenir. You're a droid. You don't have sentimental attachments."
Pi-pi-piing!
"Fine. Emotional attachments. Still doesn't mean you need a stuffed bantha."
She made a sound that was definitely the droid-equivalent of a huff.
I rolled my eyes, but the moment her optical sensors swiveled toward a passing speeder, I tossed a credit chip to the vendor and shoved the ugly plushie deep into my pack.
God, I love teasing this little thing.
I moved on, weaving through the crowd. The market stretched on, stall after stall of cheap electronics, bootleg holos, street food that probably violated several health codes, and the occasional weapon dealer trying to look inconspicuous while openly displaying blaster rifles.
Unfortunately, there wasn't anything spicy on display. The really good stuff never made it to open markets in the Mid-Rim, not unless you wanted to attract Imperial attention. As much as I would have liked to visit the black market and see what kind of exotic murder implements were available, time wasn't something I could splurge on right now.
Finding The Den wasn't going to be difficult. A place like that, running spice labs and sabacc games as a front, would be known to the locals. A few credits in the right hands and I'd have the address within the hour. Vect Nokru and his bounty hunter crew weren't exactly operating in total secrecy.
But before we went off to rescue our princess, there was one certain man I needed to meet while on Daiyu. The connections from there would certainly help me in future.
The cantina I picked was about three blocks from the main market, tucked between a pawn shop and what was either a medical clinic or a chop-shop for stolen droids. The neon sign above the door flickered erratically, casting the words "The Rusty Piston" in sickly green light.
Classy joint. Real five-star accommodations.
I pushed through the door, and the smell greeted me like an old friend who'd spent the last decade pickling himself in cheap alcohol. Stale booze, cheaper stimulants, and something vaguely organic that I decided not to think about too hard.
The interior was dimly lit in that specific way that tried to hide how filthy everything was and failed miserably. The bar ran along the left wall, staffed by a Weequay bartender with skin like cracked leather and eyes that had seen too much and cared about none of it. A handful of patrons were scattered around, nursing drinks and nursing grudges in equal measure.
I walked up to the bar with Arachnae still perched on my shoulder and slid onto a stool. The seat creaked ominously under my armor's weight. I flagged down the bartender and ordered something non-alcoholic that came in a sealed container.
The drink had barely touched the counter when someone slid onto the stool next to me.
"Well, aren't you an interesting one."
Human. Late twenties. Dark hair cropped short, fitted jacket that was hiding at least two holdout blasters. She leaned into my space with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly how good she looked and exactly how to weaponize it.
"Most guys who walk in here looking like you are either bounty hunters or trouble," she said, her voice carrying a practiced huskiness. "Which one are you?"
"Why not both?"
She laughed, low and inviting, and her hand landed on my forearm. Her fingers traced along the armor plating with what was probably meant to be sensual curiosity.
"Strong and mysterious. I like that."
She shifted closer, her other hand drifting toward my hip.
I caught her wrist.
Her expression froze for just a fraction of a second before the seductive mask slipped back into place.
"Something wrong, handsome?"
"The credit pouch you were reaching for is empty," I said. "The real one's on my left side, if you wanna retry"
She stared at me, then let out a short laugh that was more genuine than anything she'd said so far.
"Can't blame a girl for trying."
"I don't."
She slid off the stool with a theatrical sigh, collected her drink, and sauntered toward a group of spacers in the corner who looked significantly drunker than me.
"Ninth one this week," the bartender said, not looking up from the glass he was cleaning.
I turned to face him. "Given how confident she was, I presume the other eight left this cantina poorer than they came in."
"More than eight, actually."
He jerked his chin toward the corner. I followed his gaze and found the woman already chatting up one of the spacers, laughing at something he said while her hand quietly cleaned out his jacket pocket.
I shook my head.
"You don't seem to be here for the drinks," the bartender said, still cleaning the same glass with the enthusiasm of a man who'd given up on enthusiasm decades ago.
"What gave it away?"
"The helmet with no mouthpiece."
Fair point.
"You're right," I said. "I'm looking for a man. Calls himself Haja Estree. Heard of him?"
The Weequay's expression remained utterly flat.
"Doesn't ring a bell."
I tossed a credit chit onto the counter between us.
He palmed it without breaking eye contact.
"On second thought, maybe try Lower Chandrila. Sector Twelve. He's been running something down there for a while now."
"Much obliged."
I grabbed my sealed drink, tossed another credit chit onto the counter, and headed for the door. Arachnae chirped softly as she adjusted her grip on my shoulder.
"Yeah, girl. Let's go find our con-artist."
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Haja Estree had been having a decent day, all things considered.
The morning's mark had been a soft touch, some offworld merchant looking for safe passage for his Twi'lek mistress before his wife found out. Easy credits, minimal effort, and the guy had been too embarrassed to haggle. The afternoon had been quiet enough to catch up on some reading, and his contact in Sector Eight had confirmed that the next batch of refugees would be ready for transport by the end of the week.
All in all, things could have been worse.
Then a voice spoke from behind him, shattering the comfortable illusion of safety he'd been cultivating.
"I heard there was a Jedi living here. Should I presume that's you?"
Haja jerked upright, his drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass as his hand instinctively moved toward the blaster hidden in his robes. His mind raced through the possibilities. Bounty hunter? Imperial? Disgruntled client who'd figured out the Force tricks were just magnets and sleight of hand?
He turned his head, forcing his expression into the practiced mask of easy charm that had gotten him out of more scrapes than he cared to count.
The figure standing at the entrance was fully armored, helmet smooth and featureless, reflecting the dim light in a way that made it impossible to read anything. A small spider-like droid perched on their shoulder, its multiple optical sensors sweeping the room with unsettling precision.
Haja's smile widened, his posture shifting into something relaxed and welcoming even as his fingers brushed the grip of his blaster beneath his robes.
"Oh, of course that is me," he said, his voice smooth as Corellian brandy. "Pleasure to meet you. I am—"
"Haja Estree." The masked figure stepped further into the room, and there was something almost cheerful in their modulated tone. "Member of the Hidden Path."
Haja's smile flickered but held.
His fingers tightened around the blaster grip, though more from surprise than fear. The Hidden Path wasn't exactly public knowledge, but it wasn't the deepest secret in the galaxy either. Still, hearing it from a complete stranger wasn't exactly reassuring.
"The name's correct," Haja said, keeping his voice light and conversational. "But Hidden Path? What hidden path are you talking about, friend? Because you see, this building has several paths. There's the main corridor, which isn't particularly hidden, then there's the back alley route, though calling that hidden is generous since half the city uses it for—"
The masked figure raised one hand with an almost casual gesture.
Haja's blaster ripped free from his robes and sailed across the room, landing with a clatter against the far wall.
He looked at the weapon, then back at the figure, more curious than afraid.
"Well," Haja said dryly. "That's one way to skip the small talk."
"Don't bother with the formalities," the figure said, and there was definitely amusement in the mechanical voice now. "I'm not here to expose you or turn you in. Just thought you should know there's an Inquisitor on Daiyu. Third Sister, nasty piece of work. Your little Jedi act is going to get you killed if you keep running it while she's here."
Haja leaned back in his chair, processing the information. An Inquisitor was definitely bad news, but he'd operated under Imperial noses before. The trick was knowing when to lay low and when to run.
"Appreciate the heads up," Haja said, genuinely curious now. "But why tell me? You don't know me, I don't know you. What's your angle here?"
"Building goodwill with fellow Jedi and the people who support them," the figure replied with what sounded like a shrug. "Besides, I try to do one good deed a day to keep my heart pure. Today you're it."
There was something endearingly absurd about the way they said it, like they were discussing the weather rather than life-and-death Imperial politics.
Haja found himself grinning despite the circumstances.
"One good deed a day? That's your system?"
"Works better than you'd think. Keeps the cosmic scales balanced, prevents too much bad karma from building up. Very practical approach to morality."
The figure turned toward the door, the spider droid making small adjustments to its perch.
"Anyway, consider yourself warned. Try not to get yourself killed doing the hero thing. The galaxy needs more people willing to help refugees, not fewer."
Haja watched them walk toward the exit, noting the easy confidence in their stride.
"Wait," he called out. "Who are you?"
The figure paused at the threshold, helmet turning slightly.
"Someone who appreciates good work when he sees it. Take care of yourself, Haja Estree."
And then they were gone, disappearing into the neon-lit streets of Daiyu.
Haja sat there for a moment, staring at the empty doorway. Then he looked at his blaster, still lying uselessly against the far wall.
Haja reached for his caf mug with hands that were only slightly shaking.
This had definitely not been part of his plans for a decent day.
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[Image]
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