The Big, Wide Galaxy: A Star Wars Underworld Quest

Fel Tephe can move surprisingly fast for a Muun, leaving the bunker room well ahead of you and just after your cousin's hologram winks out. She calls out over her shoulder for you to tag along, and you're forced to jog to catch up to the tall, thin slicer. You emerge to artificial sunlight from the depths of Coruscant and the ornate facade of your cousin's local command bunker, and find that Fel Tephe has already called in a speeder and taken the driver's seat. You sigh and get into the passenger seat beside her, doffing your helmet out of politeness and so that you can ask her whether – as the qualified pilot – you can drive this thing while she takes care of the slicing.

"Not a chance, Mando." She glances at you for a moment as the autopilot is disengaged and the speeder chirps out a caution, "I know Coruscant better than you do, boss' cousin or no. You're what, fresh from the outer systems?"

"I have maps and an autopilot. The same as you." You fumble for a moment with seatbelts sized for a Muun before adjusting things, your temporary partner's height casting a shadow on your seat. "What makes you so paranoid, anyways? Not as if the Outlander Club won't have eyes on every backstreet that goes nearby. We might as well use the damn autopilot."

She shakes her head again, and you suppress a stab of irritation. She's right – Tephe probably does know Coruscant better than you do – but you'd prefer not to be a simple piece of freight when the Muun you dislike is driving. Fel Tephe takes a minute to eye the speeder traffic ahead before suddenly gunning the engine and entering the airways to the near-surface in a textbook-perfect merge, "You're not wrong, but sometimes you need to maneuver and know where we're headed. This droid parts business is too close to Trade Federation interests for my liking." As you nod reluctantly, Tephe spoils the moment of amity by adding, "I don't want to get ambushed because some Mando new to Coruscant decided that he wanted to drive."

You take a look out of the window instead of rising to the jibe, a part of you angry but another part also knowing that it's true. Tephe probably does know Coruscant better, and from the way she's moving in and out of the fast-moving traffic, changing lanes frequently in mid-air as if to throw off a tracker, she's also a decent enough pilot. Still, though, you can probably match her.

There's a brief alarm light as the Muun guides the two of you behind a waste-disposal vehicle and then dips under it, bobbing back upwards in what's certainly an illegal maneuver. You hold the armrest tightly for a moment until the vehicle stabilizes again, turning to see a small, satisfied smile on her face. Alright, maybe you can't match her. Yet.

As the speeder rises through Coruscant and you sit in awkward silence with the speeder pilot seemingly intent on driving manually through rush-hour traffic, you can see the world's structure change as the levels rise. Closer to the surface, it's better lit – there are faint trickles of real sunlight down here, coming down the levels and between the soaring spires of the surface. You can see digital billboards advertising everything from medicine endorsed by a Senator to the services of the 'Premier Security Service' for those who are of discerning tastes. Apparently Premier with its imitation armor blazoned with the Republic's seal is run by a Mandalorian – you snort as the board announces that. Of that claim, you're very very doubtful.

Fel Tephe throttles back the speeder and drives more and more like the automatic pilots nearby, adhering to the letter of the rules and with not half the panache that you or Brissell would have shown. Although, on thinking back to how Brissell drove, you'd prefer that the Muun drove like this. The speeder slows down and enters the solidly respectable, crowded, and steadily moving traffic of the middle layer expressways, flashing signs and messages from the traffic control systems flaring on the speeder's dashboard. Tephe ignores the lot of them, and you're curious enough to ask. "If you're driving the same as the automatics and you're on the expressway, why not switch on autopilot? Makes no difference."

She glares at you again for asking, before sighing. "Traffic control systems can and have been hacked in the lower levels. It's easier to slice into transmissions in a single speeder and disable it than to slice multiple and cause a pileup. I'm making it harder to slice us and get us killed remotely." A twitch of the steering wheel pulls the speeder up behind what looks to be some banker's limousine, slumming it in the middle class midlevels of Coruscant. "And before you open your mouth and ask about the security of the traffic systems – again, I've seen it done before. Nothing like this happens on the surface levels, because that would scare the Senators, but it's happened down below."

From the familiarity with which she speaks and the fact that the Muun doesn't even pause before replying make you inclined to not call bullshit, you're still a little skeptical. "So you've done this, then? Sliced some poor bastard's speeder and caused an accident? Or has someone you know done it? The one thing that I've been told by everyone is that the Coruscant systems are way, way better." Or so some of your brothers had said, sparking an argument with your cousin who claimed that her comrades on Corellia could slice damn near anything. You smile a little, remembering cousin Lyria and her stories of hunting the Death Watch.

Tephe interrupts your memories with a terse answer, hands tight on the steering wheel and the tall, tall dome of her head resting on the windshield as she leans forward for a moment. "I saw it and I did it – on Muunilist. Not here. I've heard stories in the slicer clades, though. Plenty of them." She pauses for a moment as if thinking about what to say, as the flashing lights and the lane-clearance warnings for emergency service vehicles blare into the cabin. As what looks to be a medical speeder passes you by, she continues. "If you don't listen, it's your head. But every slicer story has some truth in it somewhere, and every system on Coruscant is designed by the lowest bidder. It's been that way for ages."

"True, that." You nod as you look out the window to see the teeming population of the middle levels from the expressway lanes, floating speeder traffic passing far above the crowds and the buildings. "Coruscant has probably seen better times."

"Coruscant has seen better days, and we're living in them." Tephe smiles, a thin and spare smile for a thin, spare Muun. "The way the layers have been built, we're on some ancient Senator's palace, odds are as likely as not."

You laugh at that, the thought of the brothels and drug-dens and mercenaries' bars of your cousin's sector once being the beating heart of the Old Republic somehow hilarious. The speeder slows down and takes an exit from the expressway as you think about the mad idea that your cousin's squatting in some ancient Senator's palace, and Fel Tephe tells you that you're 'maybe ten minutes out from the Outlander Club'.

"You've been there before, what's the plan?" You tap your armored fingers on one armored thigh, the dull noise of beskar drawing attention to what you want to plan about. "I have a blaster, a few concussion grenades, and armor. You?"

Tephe laughs, "We won't need that. Any of it." She eyes you for a minute again, sweeping to the helmet with its old, old displays and uplink systems. "Leave the weapons and the helmet in the speeder. We're parking at the Outlander, and they don't appreciate thieves. Nor do they appreciate weapons and recording devices."

"It's a bounty hunter club." You're not about to leave your weapons in a speeder and go in defenseless, "I'm pretty damn sure that they allow weapons, at least. Self defense ones if nothing else."

The Muun shakes her head slowly, "Nope. You're not VIP enough to get that privilege. Neither am I. We're not Jedi, we're not Republic enforcement, and you're not Jango Fett. Thus, we get nothing."

Dammit. You lean heavily against the back of the seat for a minute, a flash of anxiety mixing with mild irritation at going into the premier underworld club on Coruscant defenseless – but then, Tephe is right. The two of you aren't VIPs, and you know all too well that Mando clansmen are the wet-work specialists of the gangs. You're not being allowed in with a weapon, that would be damn near unimaginable in a place that seems to be a neutral zone of some sort.
You smile sourly as you think back to Tephe's last remark. You're sure as shit not Jango Fett, but she forgot one word. Yet.

The Outlander Club itself is a buzzing hive of activity built into the base of some sort of office spire, even now at midday when the other bars are empty. Speeders are parked every which way, a garage nearby closed for 'renovation' and near half a dozen heavily built sapients with telltale bulges in their coats patrolling the area. The Outlander's exterior is freshly painted, a garish gold and silver with a bright sign blazing with colours, and a Mandalorian bouncer at the door nods politely at you before asking you your business. His armor is edged with the purple of reliability, and at his side is a high-grade blaster.
You tell him you're here for a meeting, and the Muun next to you is a local who can verify that.

The bouncer's helmet turns from you to Fel Tephe and back again, his hand drifting first towards and then away from his blaster. His voice is surprisingly soft for one wearing Mandalorian armor marked by battle, "A Muun and a clansman. A Muun slicer, no less. I would have to ask what your purpose is here, aside from the meeting you claim to have." He sounds apologetic, "You do not, after all, have a reservation and you are not on the guest list."

Tephe bows her head a little and steps forward, hands passing something to the guard as she talks, "We have a meeting scheduled by our employer Rhaj Taaltsa, as of today. We have no weapons and no recording gear, and the clansman with me can give his word that there will be no violence we start under the roof."

The helmet turns back to you, and you nod solemnly. You tell the bouncer in fluent Mando'a that you give them your word, and they step back from the door. The bouncer turns to you as Tephe enters the club and you head for the door behind her, one gauntleted hnd on your shoulder making you turn in surprise. "I would advise caution in what you speak and who you work with, young one. And do not give your word so easily." The helmeted Mandalorian pats you on the shoulder after that piece of advice, and onwards you go, into the Outlander Club.

And so you see the grand foyer of the Outlander, the day after its 'renovation' in celebration – in belated celebration – of the chancellorship of Finis Valorum. There's a portrait of the Chancellor looking out from behind a bar on one corner, his picture-frame edged in gold looking out onto the beating heart of the corruption he swore to curb. Or so the Muun next to you says, smirking a little as she sees it – Fel Tephe has a viciously sardonic sense of humor, and the owners of the Outlander apparently share it. The floor that your boots tramp on as you walk is inlaid with replica precious metal, dull silver gleaming in artificial light shining down from the ceiling. Thick curtains of dark faux-velvet are drawn to prevent the day from coming in – and as a patron twitches one aside you can see armored shutters behind them. The bartender is a Wookiee, a huge mountain of fur and muscle with a clearly visible stun-baton on its back and giving you no more of a greeting than a brief nod.

In such company as the Outlander sees, though, you don't expect more than that. You're not an established bounty hunter like the group of five that drink toasts and flirt with the Twi'lek waitresses in a booth by the windows. You're not as well-known as Aurra Sing, whose framed picture graces the Outlander's booths, glaring down on other patrons as if to force them to behave. And with some chagrin, you think you're likely not half as dangerous as the old man at the bar.

For amidst the Outlander Club's noise and general air of genial menace, where bounty hunters drink toasts and fences glide from table to table with a greasy speed and charm, where legends from across the galaxy have stopped for a drink, the old man at the bar stands out. He's utterly calm, dressed in a gray robe, and has two seats empty near him. One on either side.
This, then, is your contact.

The old man has a glass of what looks like wine in front of him, a rich deep golden glass that's completely untouched despite the obvious value of it – Tephe's eyes are drawn to it almost immediately, as she takes a seat on the old man's left. You take the empty seat on his right, and the gray-robed man turns first to you and then to Fel Tephe, introducing himself while shaking hands. "Pleasure to meet you. You may call me Mister Green." He smiles at you indulgently, his brown eyes seemingly warm and welcoming, "Go ahead, get a drink on me, and we can talk about why I was asked to come here to meet."

As you order the same thing the old man does – and, to your quiet amusement, so does Fel Tephe – you note the glint of a blaster-pistol at his hip. He closes his robe enough to hide it a moment later, and you're left to wonder if the sight was intentional – but Mr. Green doesn't say a thing beyond smiling and asking you with what sounds like dry amusement, "So I take it that you enjoy Serennan wine? I didn't take a Mandalorian for a connoisseur."

Tephe answers for you, her voice cutting and sardonic, "As we all ought to know, Mister Green, appearances can be deceptive. We're not here for games, we're here to meet and share information. Our employer called in a favor. We're here to collect." Her fingers are tense on her wineglass and she's visibly on edge, but Mr. Green just nods slowly with a furrowed brow in response to the unsaid threat in her words.

"I can't say that I appreciate the courtesy, because there isn't very much." He sips from the hitherto untouched glass in front of him before continuing, seemingly uncaring of the Muun's tension and your steady stare, "Your employer has done my organization a favor in the past, and we are returning that favor now. Information for information, and I was informed that you would have a more detailed picture of what was desired than I would." He smiles again, wry amusement evident in the lines of his face, "Perhaps it was your employer's attempt at operational security."

Fel Tephe taps a finger on the countertop as if in thought, before asking the same question that you were about to ask. "What price on the information? You're giving a favor, you say, but I don't think that our employer did you a favor for free. What's your price and what do we-" She gestures at you and herself, movements jerky, "-have to pay?"

Mr. Green shakes his head sadly, fumbling in his robe for a long moment and making your hand scrabble for a blaster that isn't there before he pulls out a few credits and tells the bartender to keep the change. Once he's finished ratcheting up the tension and paying the bartender, he turns back to you and Tephe, "No price for you, and your employer has already negotiated the additional payment. He has done us a favor, and as I said we aim to return that."

"We." You speak for the first time in this exchange voice rough and without the lilting sardonic edge of Fel Tephe. "You keep saying 'We'. Who're you working for, and what should we know?"

Tephe shakes her head as if to tell you Not like that, by Mr. Green simply chuckles. The same sort of chuckle that one might give if asked about their plans for becoming Chancellor. "I work for an organization that deals in information and is willing to talk to you. That, I think, will suffice." His fingers tap the wineglass with a clink of glass on metal – a prosthetic hand, then – and his tone is utterly final despite its politeness.
That avenue is closed, then.

Another glass of what Mr. Green calls Serennan wine shows up, and he politely tips the bartender before turning back to Fel Tephe. "So ask your questions, then. I'm afraid I only have so much time."

"I see." Tephe can see the writing on the wall as well as you can – probably better, at that, although you're not admitting that without a fight. "Fair enough. We recovered a number of droideka parts in an earlier operation beneath Coruscant. The parts are highly advanced, what appears to be bleeding edge Techno Union designs out of Mustafar." She passes across a datapad, "This is a manifest with images. What we want to know is how the parts got into the underworld and where they're being stockpiled."

"The dealer didn't have any customers when you took his wares, then?" Mr. Green is squinting at the images, zooming in and searching for something as he asks questions to the Muun at his left. You watch the two of them, feeling faintly awkward and at the same time very conscious of the heavy blaster in the old man's robe.

Tephe shakes her head, "No, no customers. Either we came in too early or too late, and there was no other activity near the area that day. Whatever happened, the deal didn't go through."

"Then we have what seems to be first-line Trade Federation military gear, smuggled into Coruscant past the cargo checks and the CSF, and under the nose of Republic Intelligence." He smiles as if remembering an old joke, "Of course, you know what they say about Republic Intelligence. You can discount that source of opposition, I think."

"Maybe." You're wary of doing that, and you're pretty sure this old man is some sort of authority. If not Jedi, something similar. "There are enough stories of Republic Intelligence back home. You'll forgive me if I don't take them lightly." You remember the stories that your grandfather told, and you're for damn sure not discounting the source of them. Mr. Green just nods politely at you, and tells you that it's your right not to do that.

He then turns to the Muun again, and continues. "When you want to find what was smuggled in, the most convenient way is to find a smuggler. There is one such, by the name of Sedgar, no other name. He owns a Baleen-class heavy freighter registered in Corellia, and his ship is currently impounded and undergoing search in orbit."

You frown at that, not believing a word of it yet too wary of the old man next to you to call him on it bluntly. "A Baleen is a huge asset, and the chance of one of them being a smuggler ship is damn small. How then hell did a heavy freighter captain – an owner-captain – be entangled in this sort of thing? Badly enough to get his freighter impounded and have to run to ground?"

Tephe nods and chimes in, "You're saying that this Sedgar has information on the droidekas or might have smuggled them in on that Baleen, and you're advising us to check him out. What chance this is a trap?"

Mr. Green just smiles as if he expected this sort of response, and maybe he did. Skepticism isn't the worst of cards to play when fishing for information, even if it's a basic one. "I can't say why he did what he did, just that it happened. The Corellian Singer is up in orbit and with big red Customs stickers on the doors, and you're free to check and see that there's a warrant out for Sedgar from the customs force. They want to fine him for smuggling." He pauses for a minute to sip from his second glass of wine, "As to why, I will take a guess. Maybe it was for beliefs? That's the easiest reason to leave behind a prosperous life, as you well know." The last remark is addressed to you, and you can feel the same hot anger that flashed through you when meeting the dome-dwellers of Mandalore – the difference here is that Mr. Green knows what he's poking. The look in his eyes is knowing and amused, his voice unwavering. "Or perhaps the captain took an enormous bribe, untraceable credits in a secret account on the Rim. You can have my organization's assurance that if the why is discovered, you will be the first to know."

"The second question is what." Fel Tephe's narrow eyes and nasal voice cut into the conversation as the Muun gazes at the old man who claims to be nothing more than an information broker, "The second question is what those droidekas are aimed at. If not for an attack on the Republic in some form, then what?"

A gray-robed arm picks up a napkin and begins scribbling using a cheap pen, Mr. Green writing down a series of dates and places. All of them deep under Coruscant, and the first date a week from now. He caps his pen with a tad more force than needed, perhaps a bit of irritation leaking through. "That is the meeting schedule for the Association of Thieves. I trust the two of you, as members a group that may work outside the law, know of them?"

You nod slowly, and the Muun to the other side of Mr. Green does as well. Your voice sounds out first, perhaps a bit strangled by the scale of the implication, "You're saying that the Association is the target, and the meetings are where the droidekas will go. For what? Who? The Black Sun?"

"Can't be." Fel Tephe raps on the table again as if for emphasis, her eyes worried and her movements tense. "The Black Sun was wiped out in the same gang war that made Valorum his name. Their prophet and Leader was dead. The Association did that much, even if they're not much of an authority these days. There isn't a Black Sun anymore."

"It wasn't just the Association of Thieves, that fragile alliance of gangs. The Association never really fought the entire Black Sun." Mr. Green frowns again as if remembering an old story, furrowed lines on his brow telling his age. "The Association fought a vicious gang war that got Valorum elected to the Senate in the name of law and order, yes, but the Black Sun also fragmented when their prophet was shot. A number of groups have former Black Sun members, and there are entire gangs that used to be former Black Sun dues-payers or affiliates."

"So you think this will restart the gang war?" Your voice is skeptical but you're seeing the angle in play, and you don't like it, "Decapitate the gangs, break the Association, and use modern military droids to butcher the muscle."

"Maybe." After painting that terrible picture, Mr. Green just smiles at you and takes a sip of his wine. "The credibility is, of course, up to you to judge. I merely relay my organization's analysis of things."

There's shouting from the booths behind you that makes the Wookiee bartender growl for a minute, the interruption giving Tephe a bit to gather her thoughts while the Outlander Club's staff deal with the rowdy table of bounty hunters. The dancer's stage slowly starts up, its props moving and the lighting of the club dimming a little as the staff dancers take the stage. Cheers in the background muffle the Muun's next question, and Mr. Green leans towards her and asks her to repeat it. You can't hear it, but you can hear the old human's reply just fine.

"Oh, no, I'm not a Jedi. I'm not nearly pacifist enough to be a Jedi, and my organization is not working for the Temple at all." Mr. Green chuckles at the thought, a hearty laugh of genuine amusement. "I'm just paid to know things, that's all. Paid to gather information and on occasion, use it."

You lean in closer to Mr. Green and manage to catch the next question from Tephe over the music of the dancer's stage and the influx of patrons, the Muun asking the next question of How do you know our employer, then.

The old man suddenly turns to you, a thin smile on his face and his eyes far less warm than before. "I know him from long, long ago, and believe me young man – your cousin has not kept the code since he left home." Leaving you with that remark and a sudden churning in your gut from what it means, he continues smoothly, "As for Sedgar, you should check Sector 50-M of the planet. The old Demeria Power building where the fusion plant used to stand."

You just nod dumbly before your brain kicks in, and you bawl the obvious question into Mr. Green's ear loud enough for Tephe to hear it. "How much time? How much time before the old words kill a clansman?" You remember that story from your brothers, how the right words coming too late killed a band of clansmen long, long ago.
It won't happen now, not to you. Not before you find out what the old man meant with his remark about your cousin. And you have an uneasy feeling that it's something to do with the Mando'a tattoos on the prostitutes and bouncers, with Brissell's unease at talking about Rhaj's past and with the soft upper-class appearance cousin Rhaj has cultivated here.

Mr. Green just smiles, finishing the second glass of wine and getting up to leave. "Oh, any time in the coming week." He taps the list of Association meetings, the first meeting between the big gangs happening next week. "One week."

You collapse into the speeder's passenger seat with nary a word, thoughts whirling from the current trail that leads to Sector 50-M to the strange warnings that you got about your cousin. Tephe neatly folds herself into the seat next to you and starts up the speeder, turning to you before the speeder takes off. "So where to, Mando?"

"I'm not sure" You swallow and think for a moment, "First, we can head for 50-M and get the information ourselves. Or at the least scout the place out and call in Buller by commlink. Second, we can call Buller now and set up a meeting with my cousin before we move in – as we were asked to do." You pause for a minute, voicing the obvious. "We're in over our heads, and we need to tack to safety. For now. Especially if this is Black Sun again."

Tephe pulls a commlink out from the makeup compartment in the speeder's sunshade, tapping a few keys before turning to you with a raised eyebrow and a questioning lilt to her nasal voice. "For all that you're a meathead you can see the obvious, then." Her fingers drum on the wheel for a moment and she mutters something in Muun, "It can't be Black Sun, that I'm sure of. Their prophet on Coruscant was assassinated by a Mandalorian strike team, the Republic declared them illegal, and the gangs united to take them down. I was there, when the leadership was bombed and their enforcers ate a reactor meltdown."

"There are the affiliates. And they say the Sun was like a cult, back when it was supreme." You fiddle with your blaster, setting emitter strength and checking the charge almost on reflex. "It might be the Sun, but we don't know. This Sedgar, he's the key."

"And he's also valuable." The Muun pauses and makes a satisfied chirp as she finds the contact on the commlink that she was looking for. "A deal, then. You watch my back – that's beskar and a high-grade blaster, and I need muscle – and I arrange a backup way out."

You nod slowly, "Deal. Provisionally." You're too unbalanced to say no, and too unsure of the cousin in Coruscant to take a harder line.
Your hand remains on the blaster, and its cool weight in your lap reminds you that there's always a renegotiation avenue.

---

Votes:
On Destinations: Note that no option is a death option. Pick one that tells the story you want.

[]To Sector 50-A: The derelict reactor building soars above the surroundings on that layer as if built to be a monument, and the rest of Sector 50-A cannot appreciate it. The industrial zone is a dead one, where the jobs dried up and the striking workers were herded off by security droids. Dreams lie thick on the ground here, and alive in the minds of the new inhabitants of 50-A.

[]Calling in the Team: Redvers Buller looks at you and smiles, the first genuine one since you've met him. It's almost unnerving, and made worse by the swirling tattoos on the big bruiser's bared forearms. He hefts a massive blaster cannon, and the rest of the team are similarly armed. This much force – surely there won't be a complication?

---

On Contacts: Fel Tephe has offered to use her contacts to give you an exit strategy if you get her to the exfil point and watch her back. You've accepted – for now – and there's always the old blaster-to-the-face tactic if she decides that you're surplus to requirement.

[]A Banker: I know a banker, she says, A Muun. From home. Her eyes speak of wealth lost and wealth gained, an old friend now perhaps not as much of one. Power made by burning principles, and a distant friendship that's been tapped before.

[]A Slicer or Three: Old, old friends, somehow still alive is all that she will say, her fingers flashing across the commlink's keyboard and her eyes distant with old regrets. The Muun murmurs something in solemn tones as she types in the messages and makes a call, something in her language said in a solemn singsong, an oath long remembered.

---

Feedback requested and welcome. I cannot improve without feedback.

The speeder slowly moves through Coruscant's middle layer traffic networks with a Muun at the wheel and a Mandalorian in the other seat of the two-person vehicle. It's the sort of brightly coloured, affordable speeder that a couple might buy and from the caution of its driver the Muun is either inexperienced or does not want to raise their vehicular insurance fees this year. That, of course, is false. You're the Mandalorian in the passenger seat, and the Muun next to you is frantically speaking in the rapid-fire alien vernacular of Muunilist as she drives with one hand on the wheel and another on the commlink at her ear. The constant buzz of advertisements and the occasional warning from the speeder's sensors is something you're used to by now, with no more than mild amusement at some of the more puerile advertisements and a trace of annoyance at the paranoia of the speeder's electronics when the automatics are disengaged.

There's a hiss of static on the commlink's speaker, a soft click, and then a rasping voice in Basic asking "What have you got yourself into now, sticky-fingers?" You stiffen at the voice before relaxing when Fel Tephe laughs in a mix of relief and emotions that you can't place, her hand on the steering not wavering for a moment as she does.

Tephe nods at you as if to say All is as expected, and answers the commlink in Basic with a clipped, terse accent to it that you can't quite place. Muunilist, maybe. That's the only thing you can think of, at least. "I've got myself into dangerous information, arms smuggling into the lower levels. Something like the raid we mounted on Red Emerald Spire, back home. Remember that, when I saved you and your reputation, Iren?"

The commlink lets out a rasping chuckle, "I remember when you shot the guards who came in and almost got us arraigned for murder. My reputation won't survive more saving like that one, that it will not. Ah, and your friend Merett is here. She sends her love-"

The voice – this Iren, presumably – gets cut off and replaced with a lilting, smooth voice that's almost certainly partially synthetic. "I can tell Fel what I want by myself, Iren, and I will." Tephe stiffens at the wheel as the second voice sounds out, this Merett speaking with a synthesized overlay as if afraid of detection, "You're in trouble again, Fel? You have to have the worst luck I've seen even considering what happened to my voice."

"Lasers do you no favors, and concussion rifles do less." Tephe's voice is clipped and devoid of emotion, her driving visibly more aggressive as she overtakes a truck with barely meters to spare. "You lost your voice because you tried something flashy in a banking database and we got backtracked. You're lucky I stayed behind to bail you out, Merett."

Merett laughs at that before cutting out, the synthesized voice replaced by Iren's rasping, nasal tone instead. "Confirmed, then. You're Fel, you're probably not coerced. You could be compromised. I don't know about that, and I don't think I can."

"Correct." The Muun next to you doesn't even blink as another speeder's driver makes a rude gesture as she passes them by, instead merging into the exit lane as the expressway heads towards Sector 50. "So what is it to be, Iren? Hear me out or not?"

"We'll hear you out." The two voices speak almost in concert, uncanny enough to raise you hackles again and make you check the old counter-intrusion suite built into your armor. Your helmet comms are confirmed to be clean, your HUD is a separate comm-channel, and the entire system has hard partitions.
You hope that's enough if these Muun turn out differently from what's expected.

Fel Tephe just nods, cool and calm on the surface and with a white-knuckled grip on the speeder's steering wheel. She clears her throat and starts to talk, the red-gold lighting of Dusk filtering into the speeder cabin as the automated systems of the sector flag the day as ending. "You've probably heard about the rumors of gang violence in Sector 43 by now, as well as others about the disappearances of a few minor gangs in the Coruscant underlayers?"

"Ye-es." The word is drawn out as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, a synthesized answer from Merett with the other Muun on the line being silent. Fel Tephe smiles thinly and continues, carefully picking her words as she drives.

"What if I told you that we have information on one of the smugglers that might have brought some illicit arms into Coruscant?" The Muun grimaces as a family speeder overtakes you and slows down, then continues. "We have information that there's something going on in Sector 50-A. Time critical. Probably guarded."

Unsaid is the fact that she's leaving a lot of the story out, but you're not about to say anything. Nothing stops the Muun on the other end of the commlink from selling the two of you out. You know that much at least.

Iren's voice is the one that replies to the two of you, "We have some information there. The old industrial sector. A useful place to stash things, lots of buildings with squatters in them. Security patrols every now and then. If there's a major op there, you need a proper force. What d'you have?"

"A Mandalorian." She glances at you for a minute, coolly assessing the armor she sees and the blaster on your lap. "What looks to be full armor, maybe beskar. A high grade blaster. Decent training. Grenades."

"And you." The amused half-synthesized lilt of Merett points out the obvious before telling some more, "You're not half bad with a blaster close up, Fel. I know that from the banking backtrack." The buildings are now closer together, narrow speeder-ways and the platforms of the inhabited levels far more bare of amenities than the layers above. You can see a few sentients gawking at the traffic as you pass them by.

Fel Tephe has no eyes for all that. She's driving carefully and picking the backstreets, weaving above platforms and between spires as she goes until she reaches the thick, megalithic forms of the derelict industrial sectors of Coruscant. "And me. What I need from you is overwatch. Traffic system slicing, whatever plans of the building you can get. Tracking us and orienting us in combat. Maybe a proper jamming attack, use the commlink I've linked you to. Yes or no, Iren, we're almost there." A battered sign reads SECTOR 50 as the speeder buzzes in, the hovering hologram jittering a little as you pass it by.

Iren sighs, seemingly tired. "You know the answer is yes. This is too big to pass up." The commlink crackles a little for a moment before he continues, "Merett will handle traffic cam footage and dealing with building plans. She was always better at that. I will be your Control and electronic warfare command. Understood, Fel? And you too, Mando. I know you're there." His tone is crisper than before, almost military and reminiscent of your father when he talked about his mercenary days.

"Yes." You understand the situation perfectly, and you make damn sure to get the helmet's scrambler in place before answering the Muun on the commlink. Just as you'd been taught. "What access do you need for HUD?"

"A comm channel." He rattles off a stream of instructions meant for a suit of armor far, far newer than yours is, and you're already mentally translating that. It takes time and focus, time in which the speeder dodges past a derelict hovering in the airlanes and focus which has to be diverted from your examination of Coruscant. Tephe's quiet murmur tells you that the speeder's being followed, and jolts you out of the familiar rhythm of armor interfacing.

One glance behind you shows a droid-driven traffic monitor, its sirens off and its lights flashing erratically. You turn back to Tephe with one hand on your blaster and one eyebrow raised, and she shakes her head. "Probably sliced, and Iren will handle it. He's decent at that."

"I am Control for now. Designations matter, Fel." Tephe waves her hand in the air as if to tell him to move on, and Iren sighs again before speaking. "Yes, it's been sliced and yes it can be handled. We'll hit the monitoring system when you get closer to the target. Per Fel's route this isn't even in 50-A at that."

"Lying again, dear?" Merett's voice is honey-smooth and poisonous, Tephe's reaction a slight thinning of the lips and nothing more than that. "Understandable though, since you didn't even think we'd bite initially. Did you?"

"Not you, Merett." Fel Tephe looks back at the traffic monitor and suddenly makes an illegal turn, dipping into the lanes below yours and down by half a level before she stabilizes. The speeder screams out an emergency alert before she silences it. The slight ding in the commlink's inbox probably indicates a traffic fine. The monitor is left in your wake with its core programming leaving it unable to follow the blatantly illegal action. Amidst all of that, Fel Tephe talks as if at a lunch-table with not a single sign of tension save for her grip on the steering wheel. "I didn't think you would, not after the way the last time went."

"But we have." Iren seems to have cut Merett off from the speaker, his voice a tired rasp. "We bit, and from your recent illegal lane change, you're headed for 50-M. Correct?"

"Yes." Tephe answers for you while you finish setting up your helmet HUD for the slicers on the other side of the commlink, and in the distance you now can see the gigantic buildings of the industrial zone built on the massive plate beneath. They're huge, hundreds of meters tall at the smallest and with speeder docking bays studding their surface. You gawp a little, completely unashamed of it. On the other hand Tephe doesn't seem stricken by wonder at all, "The Demeria Power building, Iren. The old fusion station. You have the plans already, I'd think. Or at least Merett will."

"That she does." Iren calmly directs Tephe to what he calls a 'derelict' that apparently can hide the speeder, a shell of a building with its upper levels a skeleton behind the outer walls. The speeder smoothly buzzes past vast derelict fabrication plants and office blocks, peeling paint coatings and damaged metal exteriors a testament to how long ago the sector was left to rot. The buildings aren't wholly empty – you can see a few moving forms in one of them as you pass – but for the most part they are. It's as if Coruscant outgrew its factories and left them to die.

The speeder coasts into a building's docking bay and past a great hole in the walls at the far end of it, and Tephe settles the speeder in the middle of what was probably some CEO's window suite office with the gaping holes of what were windows letting in the howling wind of Sector 50-M. Tephe takes her hands off the wheel with some relief, massaging them gingerly as she tells you, "I'm coming along with you. You need backup and I need to manage Ir-" There's a crackling again from the commlink, and she grimaces before correcting herself, "-Control. I need to manage Control."

You just nod. You'd honestly prefer that she was nearby instead of far-off, even if your armor has a backup commlink and you have another one in the armor backpack. Her pistol – her visible pistol – is a small one anyways, and it isn't going to be able to get through your beskar armor. You smile under your helmet as Tephe argues with Iren about routes to and from the Demeria building, checking your blaster rifle and making sure your grenades are good.

Fel Tephe probably doesn't know your armor is a beskar patchwork. Not from her earlier dialogue at least. She checks her pistol's charge and condition with fluent ease and it's clear that under her earlier formal robes was a Judicial-surplus vacsuit, the thick rubberized fabric akin to light armor. She exits the speeder after you and nods at the exit, "It's twenty minutes down by the emergency stairs and there's no power in this building. The Demeria Building is the next one over. We get to the median level overlooking the fusion plant's courtyard and we take a look before we move in."

Control – Iren – agrees, and your helmet's suddenly also home to a HUD map of the derelict building you parked in. The Senator Muirr Memorial Building is a winding maze, and it takes you more than a little concentration to get down to the mezzanine level where broken shards of windowpane lie on the floor and the abandoned Demeria Power fusion plant looms less than a hundred meters away. Tephe's hand on your shoulder and a whispered order in your helmet commlink make you crouch beneath the mezzanine wall, and you peek over it carefully as the enemy passes you by.

They're obviously the enemy, from the Black Sun marking on the speeder's side to the mounted heavy blaster on the speeder's loading bed. It's a small truck model turned into a gun platform with what looks like half a dozen Black Sun in the back. Enough to kill the two of you with ease.

They don't notice you or Tephe. They don't seem to expect a thing. And from the helmet footage that Merett sends to you, the sliced traffic cams can show that they've been drinking. As Merett puts it with vicious satisfaction, "The piggies seem to think they're secure. Wonderful. I've sliced the traffic cam network and wiped your speeder from it, done it as of twenty minutes ago. When you entered. They don't know you're here."

"For now." Tephe's remark is underscored by a long look at the Demeria Power building, a gigantic rectangle of ferroconcrete that looms over a beaten zone a hundred meters a side. You can see the spindly forms of B1 security droids marching in teams of two on the perimeter, a chain-link fence to keep out trespassers on foot and the seated figures of armored Black Sun infantry. Unlike the other gangers you've seen, these ones seem to have actual military grade blasters and they're good enough to set their posts up to support the B1s. You nod slowly as you take it in and the traffic cam feeds tell you more and more unwelcome information.
This won't be entered quietly. You need a loud diversion.

Merett's voice chimes into your thoughts with more unwelcome information, her lilt gone and the half-synthesized voice now sounding more frustrated than melodic. "There's a directional comm net here. Point to point, no broadcast or hub. I can't tap it without one of their receivers. Either you get me a droid without setting off the alarm, or we ditch the idea of tapping their comm net."

There's a quiet curse in Basic as Tephe turns to face you with a frown and with her hands flashing across a folding keyboard she's plugged into her datapad, "I can jam their comms. The moment I do that, they'll know something's wrong and they'll backtrack my transmitter. The commlink in the datapad. We jam their comms, grenade the sentries, and you get inside. I leave the datapad here with the jammer code running and I follow you."

"You do that and the sniper on the roof will nail you." Iren's transmitted footage now has a big red highlight on it, and you can see the pale, pale form of a Zabrak under some sort of camo cloak when you look for it. "That woman has a spotter somewhere else. The cams can see the designator beam. Heavy blaster rifle, long barrel. Punch through damn near anything."

Not through beskar, you want to say. You don't. Rather than give the Muun beside you and the Muun behind the commlink more information than they need, you take a closer look at the Zabrak. That armor pauldron and the patchwork torso kit looks almost like..."That's Mandalorian armor. For sure. That's beskar or something that looks like it."

"So we can't countersnipe." Tephe takes a look at your blaster rifle, "That won't get through beskar. Not at all."

You smile, slow and satisfied like a hunting cat. Finally. You're not an auxiliary. This is what you were made for. "It won't need to. Our sniper friend is not wearing a helmet. She's stupid enough to think she can wear beskar and get away with it. Without any visible clan markings. I can nail her."

"You're sure?" Iren's question just elicits an irritated yes from you, and Tephe just nods. No protest. No fuss. No skepticism.

You're quietly thankful for that, not that you'll let it show in front of the prickly Muun. Instead of that, you just settle the blaster on the ferrocrete ledge that once housed a window overlooking the Demeria Power plant and breathe in and out slowly as you take aim.

The blaster's sights are old-fashioned optical ones with the blaster's sensors linked to your helmet and feeding you the windage. The Zabrak's head is large in the sights as you read off the range bars, her eyes peering through an oversized designator on an overpriced blaster rifle. She yawns and shifts in place, letting you see the Black Sun blazon on a once-Mandalorian beskar pauldron.
You breathe in, slowly. You breathe out and center the sights.

Your finger brushes the trigger.

She dies.

All hell breaks loose.

You are already in motion.

There's laser fire washing off your armor as you clear the mezzanine rails and drop to the ground in a single leap. Your armor cushions the blow as you roll to take the fall, and behind you is the trailing rope of rappel cord that Fel Tephe slides down behind you on. The B1s are forming up and loosing off shots, the distance short enough that even they can land hits. You fire back on the move, and arcing over your head is a single oblong shape.

You drop prone. The Muun behind you does the same. Control's laconic voice in your helmet commlink is telling you there are three seconds.

Two.

One.

The concussion grenade goes off before the B1s can form up and recalibrate their aim. You're off before another salvo comes in, blaster fire from what must have been the Zabrak's spotter kicking at your heels. Fel Tephe replies with her pistol at extreme range while she tries to keep pace with you and the curses in your commlink confirm her lack of success.

There's a burning on your shoulder as a heavier blaster bolt hits the patched pauldron of your armor and seeps past the seams between the beskar plating. Your return fire catches the Black Sun guardsman and a blaster bolt from behind you tells you that the Muun has your back for now.

There's shouting in the distance and blaster fire directed at the mezzanine you'd been hiding in. Someone's backtracked the datapad.

The whine of a speeder sounds off in the distance and there's more blaster fire washing off your armor. You sigh and duck while tossing a grenade into the loading bay that's been fenced off with some sort of sangar, cooking it for a moment before you do.
You hear a crump and a spray of body parts as fragmented armor forms shrapnel deadlier than anything you have. Fel Tephe grins viciously at you when you turn back to check on her, and Iren in your ears is counting off the time to contact if you don't get inside the building.
He hits Ten, and you're over the sangar, past the loading bay and inside the main hall of Demeria Power Fusion Station, Sector 50-M.

There's a massive vaulted central hall in front of you, tall enough to have multiple layers of catwalks above what was the reactor core for the plant. The core itself was once placed beneath them in the center of the hall, the jagged edge of the floor plating where it cuts off and the rough finish of the ferrocrete foundation starts making that clear. Ahead of you is a spindly station with the smooth metal ovoids of droidekas on it like the hellish fruits of war ready to drop and watching it is another Black Sun guard and a few technicians.

You shoot them all as they try to return fire, their blasters significantly worse than the ones wielded by the guards outside and their fire doing nothing to your armor. It's hilariously lopsided, the Muun behind you not even drawing her pistol.

As you approach the charging station there's a soft click as the metal umbilical linked to one of the droidekas detaches, the folded droid falling to floor and beginning to open.
You can't turn fast enough.
Its shield pops open with a smooth humming sound, its blasters unfolding from wicked, stubby little arms.
Its eyes dim, the shield dims and the droideka collapses.

"They haven't finished programming them and prepping the batteries." Tephe pants a little as she drops into a crouch near the technician's station, "Give me five minutes. I need to slice this. There's no smuggler here but we damn well ought to have the information. Some of it at least."

You nod and take a position watching the loading bay entrance you came from, neatly parked behind the droideka 'tree' and its lethal payload. The Muun beside you is tapping away at a spare datapad with desperate speed and the fluency of long practice, your blaster's weight is comfortable in your arms and there are no enemies engaging you yet. Control is silent.
Control is silent.

"Iren." Your voice is hoarse from exertion and combat, "Iren. Come in." There is no answer on the helmet comms. There's just a quiet hiss of static on all channels, an eerie silence. And suddenly before you can say anything more, there's a crashing thunder outside. The distant roar of explosives and heavy weapons fire, the throaty bark of rapid-fire blaster cannon and the drone of heavy speeders.
This is no Black Sun operation. You say that with distant dawning recognition, Fel Tephe beside you pausing for a moment in her typing and nodding once in confirmation.

"That's military grade heavy weaponry." You're stating the obvious for the benefit of the Muun on the other side of the commlink if they're still there, Iren and Merett still silent and the channels still empty. "This is a Republic operation. Judicial, maybe. Republic Intelligence, maybe. Not some gang."

Iren doesn't answer. Merett's lilting voice does, half-synthesized and somehow not in the least amused or whimsical this time. "No, it isn't a gang. This is Republic Intelligence and their special operations arm. There won't be a Black Sun here in-" She pauses as if checking a watch, "-fifteen minutes. Best move fast, Tephe and Mando muscle. Before they breach."

"You sold us out." Fel Tephe's voice is cold and accusatory, dawning anger in her voice as she pauses with one hand on the connection between her datapad and the charging station. She raps out a quick key sequence and talks while doing it, while you stand there tense and increasingly desperate to leave. "You sold the information to RepIntel. After all those years were worked together. You're fucking me over and leaving me to face the blues."

"No, we're not." Iren's voice is tired again, the clipped tones of 'Control' gone for now. "You have ten minutes to get clear and a clean zone to do so. They'll honor that side of things. We have a reliable contact."

"Then we go." You nod at Tephe and gesture at the droideka 'tree', "Get that charging station disconnected, let's go. Now."

She nods curtly and pulls the plug, her datapad chirping angrily as it's interrupted in something. Her mouth opens as if to tell you off for ordering her around, before she just nods again and moves for the exit. You're on her tail, looking behind you as you go in case RepIntel is already inside.

The loading bay is witness to a war. When you clear the building you duck behind the sangar for a moment, witness to the scrambling of Black Sun mercenaries firing on a foe you can't see. The sharpshooter on the rooftop suddenly aims high at a swooping military speeder, bolts washing off the speeder's shields and the RepIntel vehicle's guns rhythmically sounding out death and fire. There's the lazy arc of a mortar shell passing high above before landing in the middle of a group of B1s, the grenade charge going off and leaving fragments of droid.

Tephe taps you on the shoulder and mouths out 'Now', before vaulting over the sangar and taking off for the safety of the building you'd landed in initially. It's a mad dash through the beaten zone, potshots from Black Sun troopers to your right washing off armor while you run. You reply in kind. There is shouting.

There is the almighty crash of mortar fire again. Ahead of you, Fel Tephe stumbles for a moment before righting herself, your commlink buzzing in your ear as she tells you it's a graze.

The RepIntel troopers far, far to your right and past the Black Sun are pushing through, as the sound of blaster rifles tells you.
You run. You keep running.
And suddenly, you are through.

Things are quieter. You're up the rope and onto the mezzanine after Fel Tephe. The speeder awaits, and when you reach it you collapse into the passenger seat with helmet on and blaster clutched tightly in your hands.

There's a crackling in your helmet comms, Iren's voice rasping out. "This is where we will leave you. You'll find that the traffic cams and monitors are disabled. Good luck." There's a click in your commlink.
The comms are silent.

"I can't believe they did that." Fel Tephe, for the first time that you've seen her, seems vulnerable. "They sold me out. To Republic Intelligence. They turned an operation. We almost died."
Her hands are shaking on the wheel. She breathes deeply for a few moments and closes her eyes. Her voice is still shaky even after that. Her tall head rests against the windshield as she talks, "I've known them since Muunilist. We came to Coruscant together. Merett was-" She pauses and glances at you, swallowing and stopping.

You're not sure what to do, awkwardness palpable as you shift in your seat. You don't take your helmet off. It helps keep some distance. Your voice is still hesitant though, your awkwardness bleeding through, "Look, maybe-"

"Shut up, Mando." She cuts you off before you can speak, "I don't need commiseration now." She visibly takes a moment to correct herself, "We have half an hour before cams come back online. I've set the autopilot to take us back to 43-A."

The speeder rises with the smoothness of automatic pilot and banks out of the building with far more precision than even Fel Tephe could manage, the Muun in the meantime opening up her datapad. "In the meantime, Jaaing Tsaalta, let's see what the Black Sun was doing." There's a scrolling of text and figures across the screen as her fingers dance across the touchscreen, "I deleted the information on the station core. There's nothing for RepIntel. They get squat."

Tephe smirks for a moment and continues, "Anyways, here we have the droideka information. Techno Union manufacture, the same sort of thing the military would use. Advanced, straight from Mustafar. Apparently sourced from sympathizers there. They've compromised the Mustafar labs." She looks up and shakes her head at your obvious unasked question, "And we can't tell who they've compromised. There are tens of thousands of Techno Union staff on Mustafar, we don't know who. No names here, no details. Just 'Contact' and a codeword string."

"Then what do we have that's usable?" You restrain yourself from pointing out the obvious. There has to be something immediately usable here. Something that's worth more than just a minor finder's fee from the Trade Federation.

"We have the details of a plan." She taps the datapad a few more times, navigating deeper into the scraped data from the technician's station and the Black Sun network. "They've been planning this for a long time. The droidekas were Force C. This was only part of Force C. There's a Force A and a Force B, no details on either." She grimaces, "Standard cell structure, minimal information among groups. Just operation times and details for this subset of Force C. No more than a 'report to' and another codeword string."

Advertisements and the relaxing sounds of a crowded expressway flash by in the dimmer light of Coruscant's night as the speeder drones onwards on automatic pilot, the Muun beside you humming to herself as she continues her walk through the data she stole. Suddenly there's an indrawn breath and a low whistle, "Well, then. We have something. Force C was to hit the first Association meeting, between the Mandalorian enforcement consultants and representatives of the major smuggling groups. Disruption of negotiations and elimination of leadership."

"Leaving the clansmen headless and blaming it on the Nemoidians who run the smuggling gangs. Who else would have droidekas?" You're on point this time, the nod and absent affirmative from the Muun a confirmation of grim reality. Still, there's an alternative that presents itself. "Could we alert the Trade Federation or some of the senior Nemoidians? They have the firepower to counter this if they can move it into place."

"Nope." She shakes her head firmly, "Trade Federation takes too long to do anything, and we can't let the Nemoidians move without dealing with the Association's politics. The meetings are agreed on months in advance, changes to the escort on either side take time as well." She pauses, a sour expression on her face. "I'm inclined to hand this off to Buller and wash my hands of this mess. I might sell the information about Mustafar to the Federation later, cut you in on that. I have enough contacts to get offworld again, maybe back to Muunilist."

"Difficult." You don't mention her obvious use of I, aware that you'll have to make your own backdoor out if things get too hot.
You have the comfortable weight of armor and the sleek blaster that's worked well enough already. You'll handle your own exit.

As you make your way back to the planning bunker you and Tephe are greeted by a surprise at the door...
Pick one:

[]Redvers Buller: He's singed by what seems to be a blaster's grazing shot and has a grim look on his face. His orders are terse and to the point. You did well enough he says, telling you that he's in command. Your cousin is absent and out of contact. There's whispers of levers moving in the shadows. When you mention Republic Intelligence to Buller you get a grimace and a nod. The boss has been busy, he says, as if your report confirms something unpleasant to know.

[]Cousin Rhaj: Your cousin is in armor, modern models sans beskar. With him is a troop of mercenaries in the black armor of the Death Watch. There's a heavy blaster cannon in the back of the bunker's entrance being manhandled to the rooftop. When you report to Cousin Rhaj, Redvers Buller is at his back and the fuzzy hologram of a Nemoidian nods sharply at your report. Good work, says your cousin. Get ready, says Redvers Buller. We are convinced, says the Nemoidian, wearing a captain's uniform of the Trade Federation.

AN: I have a plot threaded out for both options. The reason things seem very noir-ish rather than thuggish gangsterism is more due to Mandalorians being consultant enforcers akin to certain Chechens in the early 1990s, and thereby sidestepping some of the mess. The rest of it is more me using this first arc to set the stage for what your initial crew looks like and what your character does. As always, feedback is welcome. Discussion is rewarded.
Feedback and discussion will be rewarded with XP or the character sheets of your coworkers at the arc's end. If you think this quest is good, let me know. If this is not meeting expectations somehow, let me know before you drop the quest. It'd be a big help.
Thank you for playing thus far.