V M Best Served Cold

Conrad Jamboy

Always Hunted
Level 2
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Best Served Cold

Day 4
The last thing Conrad remembered was slumping over the yoke, delirious from blood loss. His weight jerked Gulliver into a sharp dive, indicators beeping and flashing their warnings, and the dunes outside Karim rose hungrily to greet them. Distantly, he heard Zebra shouting—felt the man’s huge hand tugging at his shoulders. And then, nothing.

*

For three days after the heist, Conrad slipped in and out of a feverish haze, plagued by nightmares of chemical attacks and the agents of vengeful merchants ambushing him in the dead of night. Unable to distinguish dreams from reality, he watched through bleary eyes as a parade of familiar faces entered and exited the room: Sori, Zebra, Brooke, Baldur, and Davroar came and went, sometimes lingering to exchange terse words or swab the halfling’s face with a damp cloth before unconsciousness took him once more.

At dawn on the fourth day, Conrad’s eyes snapped open. Lazy dawnlight crept across the bed sheets tangled around his legs and torso, dust motes swirling in its wake. The halfling scrambled up to a sitting position using his good arm. Even that motion brought on a wave of nausea and dizziness that threatened to push him back into unconsciousness. He wiggled the fingers of his injured arm and smiled. It seemed he had escaped the complex, if not unscathed, then at least without any permanent injury.

How long had it been? the halfling wondered. Judging by the audible growling in his stomach and his dry, cracked lips, several days had passed without any food or water. He recognized the room as his room in the Whispering Tankard. The memories came back to him piecemeal—waking up in the interrogation room, clearing out Whittaker’s safe, discovering the truth of the old merchant’s chemical weapon, and he and Zebra’s narrow escape from the hangar. Once again, slippery Conrad Jamboy had defied the odds.

In his youth, it would have been different. In those days, before the expansion of interplanetary trade and the arrival of all manner of advanced technologies, such as the weapons and surveillance systems employed by Whittaker’s security teams, the heist wouldn’t have been half as complicated and certainly not as dangerous. Dimly, Conrad remembered seeing Brooke and Baldur standing over his bed. Had it been a dream? The last he had seen of Brooke, she had charged headlong into the collapsing upper complex, amidst fires and explosions, not to escape, but to rescue her fallen friend. And Baldur… the halfling had witnessed the hulking Goron buried under tons of concrete slabs—a fate from which no one, not even a member of the hardy, thick-skinned desert race, should have emerged alive. Of course, they had also lost contact with Haruhiko in the chaos. Whether he had met an untimely end or simply judged the situation too dangerous—too out of control—to risk his neck, Conrad could only guess.

As the halfling took account of the events in Whittaker’s complex, voices, caught somewhere between a whisper and an angry shout, drifted underneath the door.

“—not a coin on the little bastard,” Brooke said.

“But Baldur said he cracked the vault,” came Sori’s measured, almost robotic voice.

“Baldur’s worse off than Conrad.” Brooke’s voice held more than a trade of venom. “We’re lucky he didn’t die following that pipsqueak’s ridiculous plan.”

Sori seemed not to understand. “We all followed the same plan, Brooke. We knew the risks.”

Reminded of the loot he had nabbed from the vault, Conrad glanced around the room anxiously, his gaze settling on a chair in the corner of the room, on which his clothes and weapons had been placed. His heart skipped a beat before he located the nondescript pouch dangling from his belt—the magical bag of holding that now contained a hoard of gold and artifacts that would be the envy of kings and dragons the worlds over. Before he could stop it, the audible sigh of relief escaped him. The sound was like a gunshot in the pre-dawn quiet. He clamped a hand over his mouth, but the damage was done.

The door banged open. Sori tried to hold Brooke back, but the larger, more physical woman bullied ahead, pointing at Conrad accusingly.

“A simple job,” she growled, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “In and out. What the hell was that back there?”

Conrad opened his mouth to reply, but only descended into a fit of coughing. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls. Finally, he croaked, “I’m sorry, Brooke. I couldn’t have known—”

Brooke’s eyes flared. “Couldn’t have known? You almost got Baldur killed. And for what?”

The halfling met Sori’s eyes and she looked down, smiling apologetically. So the last part of his plan—the part only the blue-skinned techno-genius knew—had not yet been revealed. In the chaos leading up to the heist, the group had planned every detail meticulously, from Haru’s initial infiltration, to Conrad’s kidnapping, to Baldur’s subsequent rescue, to Brooke’s disabling of the security system. But one detail—perhaps the most important detail—had escaped their notice. That is, and through no minor effort on his part, it had escaped the notice of everyone but he and Sori.

The question of exactly how Conrad, at just shy of four feet tall, planned to carry a vault-load of coins, jewels, and priceless artifacts, was one the seasoned duo had artfully dodged throughout their days of plotting. In their many years working together on more minor jobs, the two had grown accustomed to weaving their own brand of intrigue through the fabric of delicate operations, always emerging just a little bit better off than their fellow crooks while still avoiding suspicion. The heist had been no exception to their time-honored tradition. No strangers to the betrayals endemic to their line of work, and not yet ready to trust the four eager young criminals who materialized on their doorstep, Conrad and Sori had conveniently forgotten to mention the innocuous bag of holding—an item that responded only to the halfling’s specific commands.

“Did you hear me?” Brooke yelled, grabbing Conrad by the front of his nightshirt and hoisting him into the air. “What do you have to say for yourself, goddamnit?” Conrad yelped, more from pain than surprise.

“Enough, Brooke,” Sori said, boldly stepping forward to grab the taller woman’s forearm. “It is not his fault.”

“Not his fault?” Brooke echoed disbelievingly. “How exactly is it not his fault?”

“We all knew the risks.” Sori enunciated each syllable with the exasperation of a mother speaking to her child. It seemed the commotion had roused the rest of the group, as at that moment, Zebra and Davroar entered the room.

In the face of her growing audience, Brooke relinquished her grasp. Suddenly sheepish, she took a step back and flushed a deep crimson, refusing to meet Conrad’s eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I just—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Conrad winced with each word as he eased back into a sitting position, cradling his injured arm. “It got crazy in there, I know. How’s Baldur?”

Brooke shrank visibly in response to his question. At that moment, she seemed much more a scared little girl than the headstrong woman of a moment before. She blinked back tears and said, “Still unconscious. He’s lucky to be alive. If he hadn’t gotten us out, I don’t—I don’t know what would have happened.”

“And Haru?"

“No word yet,” Sori said, filling the silence. “Not since that night. I have to imagine he’s…”

“Dead,” Zebra cut in flatly. “How ya feelin’ little guy?”

“Dead,” Conrad echoed back with a half-hearted grin. “Or damn near, anyway. How’d we get out?”

“Well, let’s just say it’s damn lucky you taught me how to fly before your little hero act.”

“And my ship?”

It was Zebra’s turn to wince. “You won’t be flyin’ it any time soon, but it’s in one piece. Stashed it outside the city where we landed, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Whittaker’s goons found it by now. Too dangerous to bring it back to Dav’s place, y’know?”

The halfling nodded grimly. “Whittaker.” That word brought back a flood of fear and anger—images of shadow monsters bristling with quills and spines, and of a fleet of ships equipped to visit the old merchant’s unique brand of terror upon population centers throughout the Crossroads.

Growing up, Conrad used to idolize men like Ajax Whittaker. The escapades of high society enthralled him and made him believe, against all good judgment, that he was always one job from breaking into their ranks, from climbing the social ladder and amassing the wealth and notoriety of which his days as a starving street waif had implanted persistent fantasies bordering on an all-out obsession.

Now, though, the halfling saw the truth. It was not his height or his background that kept him from rising above his peers and claiming that coveted lifestyle. It was his conscience—that sense of morality which, although he was not opposed to the occasional robbery or the sale of implements of murder to his underworld brethren, always stayed his hand when faced with innocent, undeserving victims. He and Sori, along with the select few others they trusted for repeat jobs, had carved an ethical niche out of an unethical profession. Whittaker was another, more foul brand entirely.

“I have to stop him,” Conrad said on impulse.

Brooke frowned. “Whittaker? Didn’t we try that already? Look how far it got us.”

“We tried to rob him. This time, I plan to kill him.” His own uncharacteristic resolve startled him, but he gained momentum from Sori’s agreeing nod. “Look, at the end of the day we’re all crooks here… I get that. Well, except for Dav, anyway.”

The innkeeper, silent until that point, offered the halfling a deferential nod.

Conrad gathered his thoughts and continued. “None of us are innocent, not truly. But what Whittaker’s up to, developing weapons like that… it’s beyond the pale. We knock over casinos and banks. He wants to start wars—kill thousands of people—, all to make a quick buck. I can’t abide it, not after seeing what I’ve seen.”

“You know I am with you, Conrad,” Sori said, placing a hand on the halfling’s shoulder.

Davroar stepped forward. “Me too, pipsqueak. Anythin’ t’stick it t’that slimy son of a bitch.”

Nodding appreciatively, Conrad turned to face Brooke and Zebra, the question plain on his face. But both of them were already, unsurprisingly, shaking their heads.

“No,” Brooke said. “Once Baldur’s back in action we’re out of this place. He warned me he had a bad feeling about the heist. I should have trusted him. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“Nothing personal, kid. This whole fancy crime business ain’t my style. I’ll stick to fighting and feasting.” Zebra stared the halfling down from his position behind Brooke before his gaze flicked toward Conrad’s gear piled on the chair in the corner. “We’ll settle our business and I’ll be on my way. No hard feelings?”

Conrad nodded again, acknowledging both the man’s argument and his subtext. He expected to get paid, and the halfling had no qualms with that bit of business. “None. You two—you three—have done more than enough already. I can’t ask you to get involved in my personal vendettas, whatever the stakes.” With that settled, Brooke and Zebra made their way out of the room. Davroar shut the door behind them.

“Talk, pipsqueak,” the muscled innkeeper said in a low voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “I ain’t no genius, but even I know when there’s somethin’ ye ain’t tellin’ us.”

Despite himself, Conrad grinned. “Sori?”

The blue-skinned woman crossed the room and retrieved the enchanted pouch, bringing it to the halfling’s waiting grasp.

With a spoken word in some unintelligible, arcane language, Conrad opened the door to the pocket dimension held within the bag. He uncinched the drawstring and pulled the pouch open wide, tilting it forward to allow Davroar and Sori to look inside. Even Sori, always as placid as a still lake, could not suppress her appreciative gasp.

“By the Arbiters,” Davroar murmured, his voice stolen by the sheer breadth of the halfling’s haul. “Ye actually pulled it off.”

Conrad peered into the pouch himself and found it hard to breathe. Like looking through the peephole of a door, he could only see part of the expansive room inside, but if it had a floor there was no way of knowing, so crowded was it with the fruits of Ajax Whittaker’s sinister labors. Mounds of gold and jewels, piled as high as the halfling’s chest, caught and reflected the morning light, interspersed with paintings, statues, and rare texts. All in all, it was more wealth than Conrad had ever imagined, much less seen in one place—enough to last him the rest of his life or to fuel his most extravagant ambitions.

For now, though, Conrad had a more pressing matter at hand. “Don’t get too excited just yet,” he said, closing the pouch and speaking the word to deactivate the enchantment. “There’s work to be done.”

“So what is next?” Sori asked.

The halfling thought for a moment, a plan beginning to form. “We’ll need a team.”

Quest Progress: 2,199 / 10,000
 
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Conrad Jamboy

Always Hunted
Level 2
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Day 11

Riordan Glenn staggered down the detritus-strewn alley, his eyes on his feet to avoid tripping over piles of refuse and makeshift shelters of wood and fabric—the homes of some of Karim’s innumerable vagabonds. He half-sang, half-hummed an old sailors’ shanty from his days working aboard the space barges, the words sliding thick and slurred through his lips. From one hand dangled a bottle of dark liquor, clutched precariously between the tips of his mottled green fingers, its contents swishing and swirling in time with his uneven steps. Smoke followed close behind him, the little cat picking its way languidly through the debris.

In his stupor, the half-orc didn’t notice the forms emerging from the shadowy enclosures as he passed, nor those gathering at the bottleneck where the alley opened into the street. Only when Smoke elicited a low hiss did he tilt his chin upward, just in time to bump, chest to chest, into the burly man in front of him. A rough shove sent him stumbling backward, narrowly avoiding stepping on the tail of his feline companion.

“Oy!” Riordan whined, his empty hand turning tight circles to keep him on his feet. “Pray watch it, you lubberly ox. You’ll spill my drink!” He cradled the bottle in his arms like an infant.

The man, flanked by his buddies on both sides, took a menacing step forward. His right hand hiked up the side of his shirt, revealing the grip of a handgun. “What’d you call me, swampskin?”

Eyeing the weapon warily, Riordan took stock of the situation. Three in front of him and four behind, all bristling with weapons—pistols and knives and lengths of thick chain. “Hey big fella,” he said, showing his palms and attempting a disarming grin, “there’s no need for this to get physical. Now, I don’t have any money”—he turned out his pockets, demonstrating—“but if you simply point me in the direction of your mother I’m sure we can work out another form of payment.”

Riordan sensed the first attack less than saw it. Dropping flat onto his stomach in a pool of muck, he heard the whistle of the length of chain as it sailed above his head. Careful not to spill a drop of the precious liquor, he drew his dirk with his free hand and planted one foot, kicking backward with the other and using the collision with his assailant’s shin to propel himself forward.

“Now, Smoke!” he shouted. The cat zigzagged through the legs of the gang and darted up Riordan’s back as the half-orc rose, leaping off his shoulder and toward the three men in the mouth of the alley. They grinned stupidly until the cat began growing, its lithe form elongating, claws and fangs glinting in the bare moonlight. The man in front tried in vain to get off a shot before he was buried beneath two hundred pounds of muscled hunting cat.

Riordan came up with the bottle at his lips, turning away from the three men, who now had their hands more than full as Smoke raked and clawed, rending flesh and filling the air with red mist. The length of chain swept in at him again. He weaved back, narrowly missing a painful meeting with the improvised weapon as his depth perception wavered in and out. Still, when his dirk snapped out the half-orc’s aim was true. The man howled and dropped the chain, clutching his torn wrist. Swallowing the potent liquor with a grimace, Riordan advanced.

The first shot hit the wall beside the half-orc’s head, exploding brick and pelting the side of his face with sharp fragments. Riordan dove behind a pile of debris as a second shot rang out, then a third. Across the way, he saw Smoke recoil as a sword tip dug into her hip. The tenacious cat spun, its powerful leg muscles flexing as she launched forward like a gray arrow, her claws sinking into the attacker’s chest. A bullet clipped her haunch and she dropped to the ground, the hind leg buckling instantly. The last man standing dove on top of her, wrapping a forearm around her neck and keeping her pinned.

Once again, Riordan was unaware of the man slinking up behind him until the garrote wrapped around his throat. Instinctively, he kicked back with all his strength, smashing the man into the wall behind them. The man relaxed his grip for a moment, allowing Riordan to slip his fingers underneath the garrote. Warm blood seeped through his fingers. His attacker did not lament, tightening his grip once again. Riordan saw flashes of color dancing at the corners of his vision as he struggled against the iron grip.

Another of the attackers came forward and slugged him hard in the stomach, then grabbed him roughly by the hair and forced the half-orc’s gaze to meet his. “Conrad Jamboy,” the man growled, his brown eyes flashing dangerously, “where is he?”

Riordan tried to answer, but all that emerged was a guttural groan as the force against his throat began to crush his windpipe.

The man looked to his partner. “Ease up, Lyn. Y’can kill ‘im once we’re through with ‘im.”

Mercifully, the man with the garrote relented. Riordan drew a shuddering breath, his vision slowly returning. “Never heard of him.”

“Like hell y’haven’t.” A backhand across his face snapped his head to the side.

Riordan felt the metallic tang in his mouth. Eyeing the man with contempt, the half-orc spat, splattering his face with blood. “Guess you didn’t like that bit about your mother, huh?”

The man roared and reared back for a haymaker punch, but then he jerked and went rigid. A moment later, his arms began to jerk spasmodically, a touch of froth showing at the corners of his mouth. He dropped heavily to the ground, still jerking and twitching. The man behind Riordan dropped similarly, gasping for air.

The alley erupted into chaos once more as a familiar halfling, flanked by a huge, muscled man and a blue-skinned woman joined the fray. Conrad Jamboy’s crossbow clicked and whirred as a second volley of quarrels, followed closely by two flashes of light from the woman’s rifle, peppered the attacker with the gun, laying him low. The huge man barreled past Riordan and slammed hard into the one pinning Smoke, carrying him to the ground and crushing him beneath his bulk and a hail of heavy punches. Riordan dropped to one knee, still gasping for air.

A wide grin splayed across his cherubic face, the halfling approached. “How ya been, Riordan.”

“Same old, same old,” the half-orc said. “Still out of the business. Still running fat tourists from Nona to Karim.”

“An honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay,” the halfling droned. “How quaint.”

The half-orc chuckled. “Last time I worked a gig with you I almost lost a leg. Certain point, you just gotta call it quits.”

“Well, this isn’t that certain point. We’re working a job, and we need your help.”

The huge man and blue-skinned woman came up beside Conrad then. Now that things had quieted down, Riordan recognized them both. “Dav, Sori,” he said with a deferential nod. “How’s tricks?”

“He is drunk,” Sori said with a disapproving frown.

“Damn near got the life choked out of me a minute ago,” the half-orc replied. He retrieved the still-upright bottle from the ground at his feet. “Least you can do is cut me some slack, huh?”

Conrad interjected, sounding anxious. “There’s no time for this. More of Whittaker’s goons could show up any second. Whaddya say, my old and ugly friend?”

“I’m not running jobs anymore, Conrad. You know that. If I ever want back in the business, you’re the first one I’d call.” Riordan climbed to his feet, finally breathing normally. “Now, if you don’t mind, I suppose it’s time I get off-world till this shit cools down.”

The halfling nodded, toying with one of the many pouches dangling from his belt. “Fair enough. Just take a look at this before you go.” He loosened the drawstring and opened the pouch.

Despite himself, Riordan stepped forward and stared into the cavernous room within—the mounds of gold and gems piled higher than the half-orc was tall. A coating of sweat beaded up on his brow. He absently brushed it away with one hand, enraptured by the fortune before him. Without looking, the motion as automatic as drawing breath, he raised the liquor to his lips and took a long draw.

Finally, the half-orc wrenched his gaze away and met Conrad’s eyes. “Where, uh… where do I sign up?”

Quest Progress: 3,644 / 10,000
 
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Conrad Jamboy

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Day 11 (cont'd)

By the time the four companions set off for the Whispering Tankard, having removed any explicit traces of their involvement in the skirmish, the emaciated forms of Karim’s horde of vagrants, feral dogs, and carrion birds had already congregated around the seven corpses left in their wake. They watched with wary, sunken eyes until Davroar, bringing up the rear of the party, turned the corner before descending on their gruesome feast.

The innkeeper shuddered, trying in vain to force the image from his thoughts. A study in contrasts, if a handful of words could ever truly encapsulate Karim. In his younger years, street-fighting for scraps and sleeping six to a room in crowded tenement buildings on the city’s outskirts, Davroar had known hunger—had known that unique desperation characteristic of most of Karim’s itinerant masses. Having clawed his way up from the bottom rungs of the societal ladder, he had vowed to help elevate those who found themselves in a similar position.

As they progressed onto the wide avenues approaching the Market District, ramshackle architecture giving way to well-appointed manors and storefronts, Conrad slowed his pace, his eyes fixed forward but his eyes darting nervously to catch those of his companions. “Being followed,” he muttered. “Act natural.”

Riordan, clearly well-versed in matters of high subterfuge, launched back into his slurred sea shanty, exaggerating his lurching stride. The act played well, at least as far as Davroar could tell, but while the half-orc’s feigned high spirits were convincing enough, the innkeeper noted the blood still staining Riordan’s lips, the raw garrote wound on his throat, and the distant, glassy look in his eyes.

“Ye ain’t gonna stay upright much longer, kid,” Davroar said. “‘Bout time we find a place to rest our heads, wouldn’t ye say?” As if in response to Davroar’s words, his knees buckled and he stumbled to the ground, the half-orc’s retort absorbed by his contact with the ground and emerging only as a groan. The innkeeper knelt beside Riordan, supporting him by one arm.

Any pretense of nonchalance having flown the coop, Conrad and Sori brought their weapons to bare. Only then did Davroar note the flickers of movement all around them, dark forms coalescing from alcoves and dropping from rooftops. In moments the companions were surrounded, long-barreled blaster rifles poised to leave three-and-a-half suspicious stains on the streets of the desert city.

Conrad recognized the dripping insignia of the shadowy figures at the same time Riordan gasped, “Jabba―don’t―run!” The half-orc slumped into Davroar’s arms, losing consciousness.

Taking a step back, the halfling lowered his crossbow. A distant humming filled the air, the sound of gathering energy. Their silent assailants raised their weapons, the barrels glowing as they charged.

“Ajax Whittaker sends his regards,” the figure directly in front of Conrad intoned, in a voice devoid both of gender and emotion.

The halfling jammed a hand into a deep pocket, but knew already that he was too late. In perfect synchronization, no fewer than a dozen blaster pulses cut in at them from every angle. He threw himself at Sori, aiming to bear her to the ground and protect her from the deadly salvo, but to his astonishment she neatly side-stepped his attempt.

As if in slow motion, Sori’s nimble fingers flicked a switch on the side of her rifle and she fired straight into the ground. A flash of blinding light and a plume of smoke, like a tiny nuclear blast, marked the point of impact, and Conrad watched as the blaster pulses―every last one―veered off course, drawn to that single point by an unseen force.

Sori turned to Conrad, the hint of a smile twitching around the corners of her lips. “Get us out of here, please.”

The street lit up with another volley of pulses, but the light at the blue-skinned woman’s feet continued to absorb them. Undeterred, the assassins tossed aside their rifles and drew glowing swords, advancing steadily.

Conrad continued digging around in his pocket until he felt the familiar shape of the clay pellet. A sword arced in at the side of his head but Sori interposed her rifle and deflected the attack with a metallic screech and a burst of stinging sparks. Behind them, Davroar growled and waded into the fray, his fighter’s instincts helping him to avoid most of the incoming attacks as he delivered heavy punch after heavy punch, sending men staggering back or dropping them unconscious to the ground.

“Back to us, Dav!” Sori cried. The brawler retreated, blood trickling from a dozen superficial cuts.

Clenching his fist, Conrad crushed the pellet into powder, releasing the spell trapped inside it with an audible whoosh, followed by a thunderous crack. A moment later, the companions were someplace different.

They hit the sloping roof and started sliding, grasping at the textured shingles for handholds that would not materialize. The beam pellets had fulfilled the base function of extricating them from danger, but the halfling’s aim had been anything but true in that adrenaline-fueled moment, depositing them on the opposite side of a nearby building. Conrad bounced and skidded his way over the edge, managing to right himself and hit the ground in a roll, coming up with his crossbow in hand. Sori too landed in a crouch, no worse for wear after their harrowing descent.

Davroar and Riordan, however, were not as lucky. The huge man, having wrapped his arms around Riordan for protection, slammed down beside Conrad in a heap, the back of his head smacking audibly into the cobblestones.

The halfling rushed to Davroar’s side. “Hey, big guy,” he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice. “You gotta get up, okay? They’ll be back on us in a few seconds.” No doubt the assassins had heard their descent and were in quick pursuit. Indeed, a moment later Conrad saw the tall shadows and heard their whispering footsteps.

Shaking his head to clear his vision, Davroar clambered to his feet. He hefted the unconscious half-orc over one broad shoulder and nodded at his companions.

“You first,” Conrad said, gesturing down an adjoining alley. “We’ll give ‘em something to chew on and catch up.”

“We cannot go to the Tankard,” Sori whispered.

Conrad nodded his agreement. “Your place, then?”

“If we must.”

Satisfied, the halfling set his jaw and whirled around, the melodic click-click-click of his crossbow heralding a volley of poison-tipped quarrels. Most skipped off stone or embedded themselves into the nearby buildings, but a pair of muffled grunts told him a couple of pursuers would be out of commission for a while.

Davroar took off, Riordan’s boots bouncing on his back as he cut left and then ducked right into the alley, pushing a grueling pace to avoid the flanking maneuvers of the approaching assassins. His head pounded from its meeting with the hard stone, his vision blurring at the edges, but he growled his denial and ran on.

Behind him, the first assassins flitted over the apex of the rooftop and exited the mouth of the alley, weapons bare. Sori twirled her rifle into alignment and loosed a flashing blue pulse, then a second. Her aim proved true as she plucked two attackers from the air, sending them hurtling to the ground with the crack and crunch of broken bone. The others skidded to a halt and dove aside, seeking cover behind nearby barrels and crates.

“Time to go,” Conrad said, grabbing Sori by the wrist and tugging her along.

The woman shrugged him off and fired twice more. A barrel burst apart in a cloud of foamy liquid. The two men behind it howled and dropped to the ground, their cloaks smoldering and their flesh charred. Her expression grim, Sori relented and took off after her halfling companion.

Quest Progress: 4,941/10,000
 

Conrad Jamboy

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Day 12

By the time the companions reached the outskirts of the Karim, a rim of fire had conquered the horizon and given way to a pastel dawn. Out here, row after row of shanties and rundown, abandoned warehouses crowded against the towering wall surrounding Karim as if clamoring to escape, some built several stories stories tall and connected by rope bridges. Aptly named Vulture Row, as much for the many unscrupulous thieves and hucksters as the carrion birds forever wheeling in the sky above, waiting for the vagrants to drop dead beneath the desert sun, the slum was among the most dangerous in the city.

“Always wondered what compels you to live all the way out here,” Conrad said, glancing, as he had every few seconds since their narrow getaway, over his shoulder.

Sori shrugged. “What better place to get lost?”

“True enough.”

They wound their way through the narrow corridors between buildings―little more than one-room hovels with torn and filthy rags for doors. The hungry eyes of the impoverished followed their every movement, peeking through curtains or shifting their weight beneath makeshift shelters of fabric and cardboard. A normal traveler would have been approached by pickpockets and beggars, but it seemed their weapons held the horse at bay.

“What was that, uh, thing ye did with yer rifle?” Davroar asked suddenly, breaking an extended period of silence. Riordan, still draped over the innkeeper’s shoulder, bounced in time with Davroar’s long strides, still very much unconscious.

“A recent modification.” Sori pulled the rifle from across her back, indicating a second, smaller barrel beneath the first. “EPIRR. Electromagnetic Projectile Identification and Redirection Rounds.”

Davroar scratched the back of his head with his free hand. “Dunno what that means, but it’s sure as hell impressive.”

Nestled deep within the slum, they came upon a squat, windowless building. A blinking neon sign marked it as The Weeping Harlot. The two ogres flanking the door, larger even than Davroar both in height and bulk, marked it as the sort of place where trouble was not a foreign concept.

Aware of the conspicuous, unconscious half-orc draped over his shoulder, Davroar stopped short and looked to his companions for guidance. Conrad merely chuckled as he and Sori approached the door. The menacing bouncers marked their approach with suspicious glares, but as soon as they recognized the halfling and the blue-skinned woman, their faces split into broad grins.

“Well bless me rotten heart,” the first ogre rumbled.

“If it ain’t our good pal Jamboy,” the second boomed. “Been a while, ye bite-sized little bastard.”

Conrad, who stood scarcely taller than the twin ogres’ knees and thinner than their tree trunk-like legs, peered up at the two without a trace of fear. “Stomp and Chomp,” he said, sniffing the air. “As rancid as ever, I see. And twice as ugly!”

The ogre duo’s booming laughter roused a handful of nearby bums, huddled in blankets around a smoldering burn barrel. They shot the group hateful looks, some staggering to their feet, others hunkering down to continue their early morning snooze. As warmth spread through the streets, the robber and crane flies had come out in force, swarming around their heads and filling the air with audible buzzing.

Chomp―or was it Stomp?―leaned down to meet Davroar’s stare. “Who’s this big fella?” he asked.

Stomp―or was it Chomp?―seemed not to notice Davroar, instead focusing on the unconscious half-orc. Riordan’s head lolled about, half snoring and half wheezing. “Riordan fuckin’ Glenn. Same ol’ drunken louse. Half a decade don’t change a man, do it?” He lifted Riordan’s head by his hair and, before any of the companions could voice their protest, smacked the half-orc hard across the face.

The force of the blow lifted Riordan off Davroar’s shoulder and dumped him unceremoniously in the dirt at the innkeeper’s feet. With a yelp, the half-orc’s eyes popped open and he scrambled backward, kicking up clouds of dust. He only stopped when he recognized his friends and the two grinning ogres.

“Stomp and Chomp,” the half-orc groused, climbing shakily to his feet. “No uglier mugs in all the Crossroads.”

“Beat you to it with that one,” Conrad said.

Riordan glared at the ogres. “Fuck it. Maybe it’ll sink in if they hear it twice. When’s the last time you immense sons of bitches had a bath?”

“Right after we tag-teamed yer mum,” Chomp said. Stomp guffawed heartily and clapped his twin brother on the back.

Sori observed the exchange impassively, leaning on the butt of her rifle. “I do not think it is wise to be outside at a time like this,” she said pointedly. “Perhaps you can continue this riveting conversation indoors?”

As if suddenly remembering the assassins no doubt scouring the city for their whereabouts, the companions tensed and glanced around nervously. They were lucky to have escaped once. Given the reputation of Jabba the Hutt’s cabal of mercenaries and bounty hunters, they wouldn’t be afforded a second chance.

“Been a pleasure, boys,” Conrad said. The halfling fished around in the pouch at his belt and, after a moment of concentration, a handful of gleaming coins appeared in his palm. He handed the coins to Chomp with a sly wink. “If anyone comes knocking, we were never here.”

With another laugh, Stomp bobbed his head. “So the usual, then. In ye go, ye runts.”

They filtered through the door into The Weeping Harlot, Riordan bringing up the rear. As he passed between the twin ogres, Chomp slapped him across the rump, sending him staggering into Davroar’s back with another yelp.

The ogres’ booming laughter followed them to the bar of the rundown tavern. Davroar, the only member of the group unaccustomed to Vulture Row, put a hand over his nose and mouth to keep from wretching as the stench of sweat, urine, and cheap tobacco swept over them. The dirt floor had turned to mud from countless spilled drinks, and a haze of smoke clung to the ceiling like a blanket.

“Just how I remember it,” Conrad said. So early in the morning, the only patrons were those who had managed to spend enough coin the night before to be permitted to sleep sprawled out on tables or curled up in corners. No small courtesy provided by the establishment, as those who indulged enjoyed too the protection of Stomp and Chomp, but one that came at a price few in Vulture Row could afford.

No one stirred as the companions passed through the room. Through a doorway behind the bar, they heard the clang of pots and pans as the staff sought to close up shop and take a well-earned rest.

“Ye live here?” Davroar asked skeptically, his hand still over his face.

Sori smiled faintly. “In a manner of speaking.” She produced a key as they approached a door in the back of the bar, and they passed through onto a small landing. A flight of stairs descended precipitously on their left.

The innkeeper started toward the stairs, but Riordan grabbed his shoulder.

“Not that way,” the half-orc said with a wink.

“Where else is there to―” Davroar started to say. He stopped when Sori stepped up to the wall opposite the door.

“Sori D’Mani,” she said.

As Davroar watched, mouth open, a panel disguised to match the dirty wall slid aside, revealing a hidden entryway. Blue light spilled out onto the landing, illuminating the four companions in its neon glow. Above the portal, a whirring device, not unlike an eye, irised its shutter as it focused on Sori, scanning to confirm her identity.

“Identity confirmed,” the device’s speaker emitted in a soft, robotic voice. “Welcome home Sori.” The blue-skinned woman entered the portal, leaving her companions behind.

Conrad noted Davroar’s stunned expression and clapped the huge man on the back. “Welcome to the future, big guy.”

Quest Progress: 6,250/10,000
 

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Nishana sighed and slumped into the pilot’s seat of the Osprey, tapping her foot onto the cold metal floor, impatiently. The inky black of space, dappled with tiny flecks of light off in the distance, loomed eerily just the other side of the window before the Mandalorian. She muttered to herself as she turned towards the droid perched in the seat beside her.

“Are the Hyperdrives ready?” Nishana questioned the droid, flatly.

“Ready as ever,” T8-B3 droned, turning it’s metallic countenance towards a series of flashing buttons and dials on the dashboard before the pair.

Nishana reached up to her neck and unclasped the dome-like helmet and tugged it free. She nodded a few times and grunted. T8 knew that, despite the lack of actual words, this meant she was indeed ready to engage the Hyperdrives and take off into Hyperspace. The droid reached forwards and turned a single dial and pulled a lever towards himself.

Gradually, the stars in the distance drew ever closer, elongating into a swirling blue vortex. As the ship began to pick up speed, the entire cockpit lit up and flashed red intermittently, a screeching alarm pierced the cacophony of the Hyperdrives engaging. Nishana sprung up in her seat, panic spread across her features as the color from her cheeks drained, the intermittent flashing dashboard casting an uneasy hue of scarlet across her now ivory visage.

“Asteroid in our path,” the Droid chimed in, “moving to avoid.”

“Wait!” the Bounty Hunter spun about to face T8 once again, arm outstretched to keep her companion from changing their course. Her efforts came a split second too late, however, and the Osprey veered away from its original course.

Nishana slumped back into her seat once again, hanging her head dejectedly. A mistake like that could cost thousand of units and hours. Her mark, one particularly zealous Republic trooper, would most likely have moved on from where she had been informed he was bunkered down.

“Shut ‘em down and reset the drives.”

“The drives aren’t responding,” T8 droned, “We are going to have to sit this one out.”

“Shab..” Nishana curse, slamming a fist into the controls beside her. The alarm and flashing dials faded back into nothing. The swirling vortex of Hyperspace reflecting on the dull surface of the controls.

“Where are we headed?” the Bounty Hunter demanded, turning her attention to the navigation system that sat in the centre of the dashboard before her.

The droid turned to face the navigation system as well, a faint whirring of it’s moving parts echoed from within.

“An unknown system,” the Droid started, “I can’t get any readings on our destination.”

“Seriously?” she huffed, “come and get me when we’re close.” Nishana rose from her seat and stomped out of the cockpit, following the corridor past the communications room to the main hold of the Osprey. The door slid open as she approached and closed behind her. She sighed heavily and threw herself onto the crescent seat in the middle of the hold. Nishana kicked her boots off which clunked to the ground heavily.

The Osprey creaked and whirred around her, the bellows of the twin engines at the rear of the ship echoed throughout, dully. The cold abyss of space intruded upon every nook and cranny of the ship, embracing the Bounty Hunter in it’s own callous way. She groaned, irritably, and wrapped herself up in a thick blanket. She slowly drifted into a light sleep, awaiting her arrival at the unknown system.


* *

As quickly as sleep had come, it was summarily torn away from her. The hold, no, the entire ship heaved and jolted awkwardly. The same intermittent flashing of red and shrieking alarms reverberated through the Bounty Hunter’s groggy train of thought. She hefted herself from the seat and cast her blanket aside. She threw herself into a sprint, heading directly for the cockpit. The ship lurched once again, apparently churning downward into a nosedive. Nishana found herself launched from her feet and unceremoniously tossed into the sliding door which, much to the Bounty Hunter’s ire, did not open as she approached. Instead, she was thrown into the solid metal with a sickening crunch, her head colliding with the cold surface.

The Hunter’s ears rang and her sight faded in and out as she attempted to right herself against the lack of gravity. She planted her feet against the frame of the door and dug her fingers into the barely there crack between the door and the other side of the frame. With an audible heave, Nishana struggled against the door’s weight and managed to just about drag it open enough to slip through. The usual dank corridor was light up a sharp orange, flames licked at the cockpit’s window as the Osprey surged into the planet below’s atmosphere.

Nishana squinted against the blinding flames, dragging herself the wall of the corridor. As she reached the cockpit, she cursed loudly. T8 was still in his seat, but apparently powered down, his metallic skull perched against the co-pilot’s controls. She pulled her legs in below her and pushed off of the wall, hand outstretched to catch the seat nearest to her. She careened into the pilot’s seat, missing her mark by a good stretch, and bounced from the seat into the dashboard, eliciting a disgruntled growl. She clawed at the controls, trying to correct the Osprey’s nosedive. However, she failed to recognise the ship’s power was cut. How, and why, crossed the Hunter’s mind for a miniscule moment before the flames gave way, revealing a vast expanse of sand interrupted by a city surrounded by huge walls, lit up by the delicate hues of the early morning.

The city found itself illuminated as the Osprey streaked across the sky before coming to a volatile landing, sand thrown into the sky. The ship ground to a halt, nose buried into the sand, smoke billowing from the hull of the creaking starship, the Hunter lay in a crumpled heap against the cockpit window.
 
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