Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….

It is a time of great prosperity.

The galaxy is at peace. It is the era of the HIGH REPUBLIC.

And these are the stories of—

of those that seek the Light and defend the helpless

those that thrive in the Dark and seek power

and those that make a living through deception or goodwill.

These are their stories told across the stars.

Chapter Text

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THE TRACKING FOB is beeping. It is a faint but distinctive sound that indicates his quarry is near, a reminder he’s a predator honing in on his prey’s scent. The louder and faster it beeps, the closer he’s from ending the chase. As he surveys the dark and desolate streets of a world he’s never been in nor wants to return to, he listens to the fob sing its monotone tune.

Ping-ping-thump! Ping-ping-thump! Ping-ping-thump!

Qian Kun stands under an old-stone archway not so far from an alleyway that leads to a variety of businesses of ill repute. From here, he sees the ruins of buildings recently restored to lure in customers and hears the distant laughter and conversations that echo in the dead of night. This particular corner of the city, carved by years of conflicts within the planet’s criminal element, has become the home of grifters, petty thieves, and wannabe gangsters; it is often avoided, and rightly so. There isn’t much here except the stench of selfish ambition, greed, and dead dreams.

To come here means getting robbed blind or stabbed in the back. Or both, if you’re lucky enough.

But Kun isn’t one to worry about either of these scenarios happening. Not because he knows places like these like the back of his hand, but because he’s prepared to avoid said scenarios from happening. Bounty hunting is a complicated profession and one must always be prepared to either outlive their bounty or die in the pursuit of it. To say this job isn’t for the faint-hearted is, perhaps, the understatement of the millennium. Kun thrives on this notion because those that try and fail are feeble competition, at best. Or pitiful obstacles, at worst.

“Anyone can go after a bounty,” said Vozkaj, the Kaleesh from whom he takes bounties, flashing that wicked smirk of his. “But it takes a hardened individual to bring their bounty back without breaking a sweat.”

These words, which he recalls every so often, Kun has taken to heart. He remembers them now as he closes his fist around the fob and stashes it in the leather pouch tied to his belt, gently patting it out of habit. Standing to his full height, tired of leaning on the archway’s sturdy but grainy side, he unslungs the electrobinoculars from his belt and brings them to his helmet’s visor. He blinks at the darkness until finding the end of the street and honing in on a tilted, tall building that is a poor excuse for a cantina.

The rangefinder numbers skitter at the bottom of his field of vision as he thumb-wheels the ‘binocs into a closer focus. By the looks of the place, it had once been an apartment complex. Its architecture is generic, familiar, and reminiscent of structures manufactured and sold by construction corporations in wholesale. The building has seen better days and those days are certainly long gone.

He diverts his gaze to the cantina’s entrance just as its door opens and half a dozen people walk out either shouting, pushing each other, or continuing an intoxicated conversation about successful cons. Kun ignores them and scans further, not finding his quarry among them. 

He watches for about ten minutes when—then, as if on cue—he sees his intended target. As he lowers the ‘binocs and stashes them in his bag, he faintly hears the fob’s beeping grow steadily louder.

Without wasting another second, he sets off after his quarry.

GIK TIPHI IS many things and being reliable is not one of them.

He will be the first to admit he is not to be trusted. And yet, for whatever reason beyond his understanding, people just seem to trust him with everything—money, secrets, their lives—and he’s the first one to be immediately exasperated when things fall apart. The blame is always his and no one else’s. Because, apparently, the blame was orphaned long ago and is reluctantly taken in by unlucky folk like Gik.

But he perseveres.

Or tries to. 

He has accepted that no matter what happens he’ll have to bear the brunt of unexpected and inevitable failure. He has also accepted that not everyone is as forgiving and that some people want his head and will pay good money to separate it from the rest of his body.

Gik tries not to think too hard about that—about dying or being tortured or owing money to undesirables—and instead thinks of ways to make profit as quickly and as easily as possible. Making profit means being on the move and being on the move means putting as much distance between himself and those that would have his head. It’s a win-win, he thinks, because it’s exactly this that keeps him alive and capable of making a profit.

And Gik likes—no, loves —living. And if he lives, he can always make up for all the things that didn’t turn out as initially planned or pay back the money he either gambled away or got conned out of.

This notion motivates him to take whatever job comes his way. Be it blackmailing someone or kidnapping their loved ones or committing arson. He isn’t picky nor are the people that are foolish enough to trust him with absolutely anything.

And so, as he walks out of the Dusty Oasis, a holograph tightly gripped in one hand, he thinks of his new job and how he’s going to carry it. In order to settle a debt with a loan-shark, he agreed to “convince” a client to reconsider going to the authorities after witnessing “an unfortunate event befalling an unlucky individual.”

Easy credits , Gik thinks, bringing to mind the face of the Kessurian female he’s supposed to have a nice, friendly chat with.

Yet as Gik walks further away from the Oasis, keeping himself to himself, he feels watched. He gives his surroundings a cursory glance and finds that no one in particular stands out or is leveling their eyes at him. He shrugs and figures that it’s just the usual bout of paranoia one experiences after weaseling their way out of trouble. Or accepting questionable jobs from very questionable people.

Clearing his throat and venturing forward, walking past what once used to be a modest marketplace, he can’t but help feel preyed upon. Gik glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowing mid-grimace. 

Someone is following and though he can’t see them, he can feel them.

“If I were you, I’d turn around and walk away,” Gik says to the darkness, reaching for a concealed blaster on his belt. “I’m in no mood for practical jokes.”

From the darkness comes a voice—soft, low, modified by the use of a helmet—that says, “Neither am I, Gik Tiphi.”

“Who are you?”

But Gik chokes on his gasp when the answer presents itself. It’s swift and direct, like a vibroblade in the hands of a deft assassin. A figure steps out of the shadows and into the light with a measured gait and posture. It’s a quiet predator clad in armor from head to toe.

“Karabast,” Gik mutters and takes three steps backwards.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he breaks into a desperate run.

No one has ever told him what to do when a Mandalorian comes for you.

Apparently that’s the one thing no one would trust Gik Tiphi with.

THOUGH HE’S GRADUALLY gaining a reputation in his line of work, which at times can be more than a little volatile, Qian Kun is an experienced bounty hunter. 

He has pursued all manner of quarry: belligerent folk who put on a tough act that immediately dissipates when they’re put on carbonite; quiet folk that are genuinely confused; and a good amount of smug bastards who believe they can deter their already sealed fate by bribing him.

Then there are the runners. This type of quarry often thinks they can get away by putting some distance between themselves and the bounty hunter someone sicced on them.

Much to Kun’s exasperation, the Mimbanese is a runner. Gik Tiphi, thin for a member of his species, is clad in dark green robes that conceal a limp—and thus his missing leg. The replacement is subpar, a creaking cybernetic that is clearly impairing him. Yet Gik Tiphi makes up for his lack of speed and agility with his familiarity of the landscape as he wades in and out of shadows and abandoned buildings to evade capture.

Kun loses him for a few seconds but the Mimbanese’s deficient prosthesis gives him away after kicking and subsequently stumbling on the carcass of an astromech droid. The chase goes on for a bit longer, though it comes to an apparent conclusion as Gik Tiphi runs four more blocks and ultimately finds himself coming to an abrupt halt on a particularly dark corner.

“You don’t—you don’t have to do this!”

Kun approaches. He says nothing. His is an ominous yet striking presence as befitting of a Mandalorian. A worn, saffron poncho conceals the armor he rightfully inherited through his fealty and dedication to his clan. Beskar—delicately crafted and polished—covers his head, chest, shoulders and forearms; the rest is his own, a mixture of old and new from materials he’s scavenged or bought off Jawas.

They are both enveloped in shadows but with a quick adjustment to his visor he can make out the Mimbanese’s terrified face. There isn’t much to Gik Tiphi’s expression other than the dilation of his round, fish-like eyes and the odd grimace in his small mouth.

The Mandalorian motions his quarry to step forward.

“I have credits—I can pay—”

“I’ve heard that before, Gik Tiphi,” says Kun, softly, almost bored.

The Mimbanese blinks and seems to smile, though it looks like he’s bearing his teeth mid-wince. “That’s not me,” he replies, shaking his bald red face. “I think you’ve got the wrong Mimbanese.”

The bounty hunter tilts his head to the side. “I’ve heard that, too, Gik Tiphi,” he whispers, his tone aloof. “But if I’m wrong, you have nothing to worry about.”

Gik Tiphi makes a noise between a scoff and a snort. That won’t do , he thinks as he makes another run for it. He tries and fails to tackle the bounty hunter but finds himself tackling air and shadows. Kun barely turns as he grips his bounty by the back of his robes and pulls hard, using Gik Tiphi’s momentum against him. The Mimbanese groans and mutters in his native tongue as he’s immediately dissuaded from running any further.

“No need to make this difficult,” Kun mutters in a casual, almost conversational tone. He gently kicks his quarry’s side with the tip of his boot. “You’re still with me?”

“I’m all ears,” whispers Gik Tiphi, holding back a pained groan.

Kun nods. “Here’s how this goes: I bring you in, they take you, and I get paid. Whatever happens afterwards is out of my hands and therefore not my problem.”

Gik Tiphi rolls on his side, blinking into the night. Slowly, as though he’s making sure he still can see and breathe, he turns to his pursuer.

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” he asks.

“No.” Kun slowly shakes his head. “It’s not.”

“What if we make another run for it?”

Kun releases the catch on his holster. He rests a calm hand on the grip of his blaster.

“I’d strongly advise against that.”

Defeated, Gik Tiphi rests his head against the rocky ground with a huff.

DESPITE ITS WEAR AND tear appearance, the Swift Wing, a modified Ara’nov-class starfighter, is fast and reliable. Some look at it and think it is just a piece of junk that somehow manages to fly and make it from one end of the galaxy to the other without falling apart.

But those that judge her are unaware of all the hard work it had been put into making her as fast and as reliable as she is. The Swift Wing is more than a means of transportation or earning his livelihood. It’s, above all, home. Not only for him but for Kilvshaak. The Wookie—who has been responsible for adding all the modifications to the hull, weapons, and hyperdrive—is very proud of their ship, of their home away from home.

So it’s with good measure of intrigue and dread that Gik Tiphi looks upon the ship as its ramp descends and reveals Kilvshaak’s enormous and shaggy silhouette. It contrasts with the rear-hold’s dim-lighting and the darkness that envelops them as they walk up to the ship. Gik stiffens but nonetheless matches Kun’s pace, even as he hears his prosthesis make a high-pitched whine-hiss that lets him know it needs to be oiled.

It’s not the first time Gik finds himself in a situation like this. He’s been chased before by bounty hunters who thought themselves tough or deadly. And so far he’s always found a way to evade them. Much to his chagrin, however, this is the first time he’s been caught and he’s found himself without an escape plan. Mostly, of course, because he’s never had to think of one.

The Mandalorian strikes Gik as an odd fellow. He’s quiet, precise, and oddly gentle. This, against his own judgement, makes Gik take him very seriously. Not because he doesn’t threaten or push him but because he’s going out of his way to keep him alive. And Gik has given him plenty of reasons to kill him—yet the bounty hunter has ignored all of them.

That, or Gik hasn’t been obvious enough.

“You got any oil in that ship of yours?”

The Mandalorian very subtly turns to him, seems to stare, then looks forward.

“Depends.”

“Depends?” Gik narrows his eyes. “On what?”

“What you want it for.”

“My leg. If I don’t oil it soon it’s gonna get real stiff . . . and, y’know, walking won’t be easy.”

“And you might slow me down?”

Gik half-smiles, showing his pointy, black teeth. “Yes,” he replies, nodding. “I’d only slow you down.”

“Hmm.” Kun cocks his head and shrugs his right shoulder. “Won’t stop me from bringing you in.”

“You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

Kun says nothing, his heavy footsteps echoing in the night.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll know when we get there.”

“What—”

Kun strikes the back of the Mimbanese’s head with swift motion and drags him by his robes toward the ship’s ramp. Kilvshaak stares at the unconscious body then shakes her head. Without another word, she easily lifts Gik Tiphi and throws him over her shoulder.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Kun walks up the ramp and reaches for a nearby panel, closing it as soon as he steps in the hold. “Save it. I don’t need to hear it.”

Kilvshaak utters something laced with a I-told-you-so tone and shrugs Gik Tiphi off on the floor. She glances at him, cocks her head, then turns to Kun with narrowed eyes. She growls softly, saying something along the lines of hey, he doesn’t look like much . From the rear-hold, a string of beeps and bleeps lets Kun know that QT-23, the odious astromech droid they picked up in Jedha, is hearing everything that’s being said. 

“He really doesn’t and yet he made me run for it.” Kun rests his hands on his waist and nods at Kew-Tee. “Got anything to add?”

The droid’s dome-shaped head swivels in place as he backs up then rolls away, its tone condescending as ever. Nothing to add, Kew-Tee says, as if he’s bored of the conversation.

“ Urrrr…. ”

 “Yeah, he’s fine.” Kun sighs. “Tie him up, will you?”

Kilvshaak makes a sound between a groan of complaint and a disbelieving laugh that says yeah, sure, whatever you say, boss.

KUN REACHES THE cockpit in no time, too worried about having wasted time and making his client wait, and sits on the captain’s chair with a heavy sigh. With Kew-Tee having already started the ship’s ascent, Kun simply leans back on the pilot’s chair, rubs his wrists, then reaches to remove his helmet. 

For a moment, he hesitates. But only for a moment. He lifts it and stares at it, his reflection staring back at him. He notices the dark shadows under his eyes and the old scar across his face—from his left temple to his right cheek, ending on his jawline—and closes his eyes as if to erase his own face from his mind.

He has spent so much time behind the helmet that he has almost forgotten how he looks. Shame and duty have led him to conceal his face. Shame due to the things he regrets and the mistakes he has committed. Duty to his clan, to his people, to preserve their reputation, their livelihood, and prevent further embarrassment—and, if it comes to it, exile.

After a moment of contemplation, he rests the helmet by his boots and begins programming the navicomputer with the coordinates Vozkaj provided him. A second later, Kew-Tee tells him they’re course has been set. Before he knows it, the Swift Swing has reached the planet’s exosphere. He sighs and blinks, immediately seeing the familiar blue-white light of hyperspace enveloping the cockpit.

VOZKAJ IS TALL is tall for a Kaleesh. At nearly two meters, he stands over Kun and can nearly meet Kilvshaak eye-to-eye.

Granted, it is not because he’s naturally tall. Years ago, during his bounty hunting days, he lost his legs in a job gone wrong. As a result, the cybernetic replacements grant him his current height—of which he’s very proud of since he spent, in his own words, a small fortune on them.

As The Swift Wing descends and quietly lands on a golden Mapuzo meadow, Vozkaj waits for the bounty hunters to bring forth his bounty. The Wing is a ship that he has learned to never underestimate. Though modest, if worn-looking, it’s a ship full of surprises and more tricks up its motor than any other ship he’s seen in the past standard decade.

As the ship’s ramp descends, the first light of the day shines upon himself and his usual enforcers—a Zabrak female named Lia and an Ithorian male named Ruk—and a gentle, refreshing breeze washes over them. The benefits of living a lush world , he often thinks to himself whenever he has the blessing of experiencing a fine morning such as this.

Mapuzo, a mining world near the outskirts of the Mid-Rom, has been nothing but paradise for the Kaleesh. In the past eight standard years, it has provided not only shelter but plenty of connections and business opportunities that neither the Republic nor the Hutts could ever touch or tarnish. From this small, unassuming planet, Vozkaj has made his own little business flourish. As a broker and a former bounty hunter himself, he knows the value of a job well done—efficiently, quickly, without complications—and the importance of subtlety and laying a low profile.

He greets Kun and Kilvshaak with a nod and idle wave of his hand as he walks up to the Swift Wing . Lia and Ruk are a few paces behind him. Their demeanor, as always, is one of paranoid awareness of their surroundings.

“You two are quite the efficient duo,” says Vozkaj with a chuckle. If it weren’t for the crimson mask he’s wearing, his smirk would be visible. And yet, despite the mask, his yellow eyes and split pupils are impossible to miss. “I wagered you’d be here within the week—and here you are!”

Kun descends the ramp but doesn’t walk further beyond it. His posture is confident, hands to the side but within reach of his blaster or his vibroblade. He has discarded that worn and unfashionable poncho he’s so attached to and instead proudly displays his heritage: that gleaming and unmistakable beskar armor.

Behind him, nonchalantly dragging the troublesome and craven Mimbanese by his shackled hands, is Kilvshaak. Her brownish-gold fur is showing white instead of gray. Despite her imposing presence and wristlets made of what looks like teeth and fangs, she’s nonetheless a Wookie that cares for her appearance. Bits of her fur are intricately braided with colorful pieces of twine, feathers, and shiny materials Vozkaj can’t identify.

Gik Tiphi sways in place, as though in pain, and looks defeated. A brown rag is tied around his mouth and every time he glances in Vozkaj’s general direction he seems to cringe.

“How much did you wager?” Kun asks in his usually even-tempered voice.

Vozkaj cackles. It’s an ear-splitting, raucous sound that the Mandalorian has learned to tune out but that annoys Kilvshaak to no end. The Wookie roars softly, as if to display her displeasure but Vozkaj doesn’t notice; Kun, on the other hand, idly signs with one hand that it’ll be over soon.

“Quite a lot. Enough to buy me a ship like yours.”

Kun gives the Swift Wing a cursory glance then shakes his head. “It’d be a waste of credits,” he retorts.

“I doubt it, burc’ya . I know what this beauty can and can not do.”

The Mandalorian scoffs. The Kaleesh has butchered his birth tongue and he can’t help but chuckle and rest his hands on his belt in disappointment and mild offense. If he had a credit for every idjit across the galaxy that butchers Mando’a, he’d have enough credits to settle down somewhere in the Inner Rim.

“You can speak all the Mando’a you want, but you’re not going to charm me.”

Vozkaj shrugs, raising his arms in defeat. “It doesn’t hurt to try.”

“Urrrr! Urrrr!”

Vozkaj hears the usually taciturn Mandalorian chuckle heartily. He doesn’t speak Shyriiwook but he has the impression it was something at his expense. Without asking, Vozkaj turns to Kun and offers a small, if curious smile.

“It hurts her,” says Mandalorian, humor laced in his voice. “So don’t try it. Not anymore.”

“Apologies, my darling.” Vozkaj sincerely bows to Kilvshaak then snaps his fingers. “Allow me then to offer payment to our most efficient and swift associates.”

The Zabrak female, Lia, approaches her employer with the trained poise of someone who knows the value of time and promptness. She carries a small, silver case in her right hand and a spear on the other. When she offers the case, which Vozja accepts without looking, she bows and takes two steps back. The Kaleesh opens it with a flourish, showcasing the credits within. 

“A thousand, as previously agreed on.” Vozkaj closes the case and promptly snaps his fingers again. The Ithorian approaches and offers a similar case to Kun. “And five hundred more for the speedy delivery.”

Kun stares at the Ithorian. He looks over his shoulder to see Kilvshaak staring, not confused but certainly surprised. A look of confusion appears in Gik Tiphi’s face, which is immediately replaced by shock and indignation. Kilvshaak pulls on his shackles when he takes a step forward, as if to protest, but he nearly falls face first and any attempt to show further resistance or interest in credits that aren’t his own are immediately dismissed.

Cautiously, Kun inspects the case. Sure enough, there they are: five hundred credits. He closes it, offers a nod, peruses his pouch for the tracking fob. He hands it over to Vozkaj with a word.

“You’re feeling awfully generous,” he says, his voice laced with suspicion.

“My wager was quite ambitious.” Vozkaj sounds equally amused and grateful. “And, lo and behold, I was generously rewarded for placing my faith in you.” 

The Kaleesh waves a dismissive hand and rests it on Kun’s shoulder. His hand, like all members of his species, has four digits, two of which protrude from the either side of his palm like opposable thumbs. Kun has always been intrigued about their anatomy and is always reminded of just how strong Kaleesh are whenever Vozkaj shakes his hand or squeezes his shoulder.

“Faith,” Kun deadpans, “what a concept.”

“Yes. What a concept, indeed.” Vozkaj nods then looks over his shoulder, as if to confirm they’re away from prying eyes and attentive ears. When he turns to Kun, he inches closer and rests his long thin arms on his waist. “Say, Mando, you don’t owe any outstanding or exceptional debts to the Merciless, do you?”

Behind his helmet, Kun squints. He cocks his head and glances past Vozkaj’s shoulder, giving his surroundings a cursory glance. Here in the middle of nowhere, in a meadow just like any other in this side of Mapuzo, no one is sure to listen in to their conversation. 

Kun knows Vozkaj isn’t paranoid but the Kalessh doesn’t trust easily so he’d avoid being followed. Yet the possibility that someone—or something—could always subvert his security and be attentive of the Kaleesh’s patterns has always been present in Kun’s mind. 

If it could happen to him, a Mandalorian with eyes behind his back and a hand nearly always hovering his holster, it could certainly happen to a hermit-like broker such as Vozkaj. The Kaleesh—who rarely ever left the planet, let alone the star system—is widely known in his close circle for keeping a low profile and every business transaction a discreet encounter.

So at the mention of the Merciless, Kun can’t help but wonder if Vozkaj asks to provide a helping hand in the direction of safety or a swift kick toward imminent damnation.

“All my debts have been settled. I owe no one. Except my clan.”

Vozkaj nods. A hand reaches his tusked chin, visible through his mask, and caresses his left tusk as if in deep thought. “Better keep it that way,” he responds in a soft, if weary whisper. “You know who and what Fei the Merciless is.”

Kun purses his lips then mutters, “Nothing but trouble.”

“Indeed.”

“Is she around?”

“No.” Vozkaj’s eyes grow wide for a second. “But if the rumors are to be believed, she’s in the sector.”

Kilvshaak purrs, a low sound of annoyance and exhaustion. To Vozkaj, it sounds like the Wookie needs a drink—or, perhaps, complaining about the Mimbanes’s constant squirming. Based on Kun’s quick hand motions, no doubt their own form of sign language, it’s not that the Wookie wants a drink but that she wants to move things along.

“You upheld your end of the deal. Now, it’s our turn.” Kun motions for Kilvshaak to follow him with a subtle tilt of his head. “Where do you want him?”

“The usual place.” Vozkaj eyes Gik Tiphi, eyes narrowing. “The client who put a bounty on his head wants him alive.”

Kun grunts softly then mutters, “Poor bastard.”

The Kaleesh chuckles, a dark and foreboding sound. “Gik Tiphi is many things,” he says, pointing a finger at the Mimbanese, “and poor isn’t one of them.”

Gik Tiphi’s eyes widen and begins protesting, but every word, every plead, is hard to hear with that rag in his mouth. Kun turns to him, points, smacks a fist into an open palm, then very slowly places a finger right around where his mouth would be. Gik Tiphi’s protests are instantly silenced, his eyes somehow widening further.

The Kaleesh witnesses this with quiet awe. “Come,” he exclaims, getting their attention as he points towards a landspeeder transport parked a few paces behind himself and his escorts, “let us leave before the morning sun scorches us.”

The Mandalorian nods and talks into his comm, “Kew-Tee, we’re headed to the Polis. Secure the ship.”

From the other end, a number of beeps and bleeps let him know QT-23 copied him.  Whether or not the ship will be secured or not, is anyone’s guess. Kew-Tee is many things, and a cooperative isn’t one of them.

THE POLIS IS the local waterhole of a nearby mining village. It’s been there, supplying the locals with imported ale and modest food, for nearly fifteen standard years. Its previous owner, an Ardennian named Roa Shial, left it to Vozkaj after a rather frustrating, if entertaining game of sabacc.

To Roa, it was a way to start anew elsewhere.

To Vozkaj, it was an opportunity to transition from the illicit to the legitimate.

Overall, it was a win-win.

Vozkaj’s ambition and charm has not only made the Polis a popular place to frequent, but a rendezvous point for greenhorns to the Bounty Hunters’ Guild or anyone else looking for work—dirty, clean, or otherwise. The Kaleesh’s philosophy, after all, is simply: If you can make it here, on a planet no one really knows, then you can and will make it anywhere .

The Polis is a dome-shaped building, modest, dusty-looking, and lacking windows. The last time it was painted it was red, but now it looks like rusted metal. The entrance is a tall arch with durasteel doors that whoosh themselves open when Vozkaj, who’s leading the charge, approaches it. Kun follows, Kilvshaak close behind, while Lia and Ruk bring in the rear. The moment Kun steps into the Polis he’s met by a cooling breeze—air conditioner, no doubt—and a dim-lighting.

In the center of the waterhole, above everyone’s heads, an hexagonal-shaped skylight illuminates the bar below. Kun counts eight tables just by the entrance—four to his left, four to his right—and notices several more past the bar. There are four booths in the back, shrouded in darkness, but he catches movement in two of them. Checking his chrono, he assumes some folk would be here to grab an early breakfast. But, by the looks of it, no one is really eating; people are consuming alcohol. Kilvshaak roars, startling the Ottegan barkeep, and promptly pushes the Mimbanese onto the ground; she shakes her head, purrs, and flexes her arms upward. Gik Tiphi groans and twitches on the ground, but doesn’t get up. He slowly rolls himself upright and stares at the ceiling, as if to avoid the glances Kun and Vozkaj are giving him.

The Kaleesh blinks, unfazed, turns to Lia and says, “Take him to the back, will you?”

Lia bows and lifts Gik Tiphi easily. He staggers for a second, turns to look at her in an attempt to seek and obtain her sympathy but she merely pushes him forward. Together, they disappear behind a curtain at the end of the room to Kun’s right, and Ruk follows when Vozkaj dismisses him with an idle wave of his hand.

“Tell me, darling, would you like a drink?” Vozkaj asks Kilvshaak and based on her head tilt and soft purring he knows she does. He turns to the barkeep and nods. “Three shots of Corellian brandy, Noll.”

Kilvshaak barks and shakes her head in disgust. Anything but that, Vozkaj assumes.

“She’ll have a Takodana Quencher,” says Kun, removing his helmet and carrying it under his left arm. “I’ll drink her shot of brandy.”

“Greedy,” Noll mutters, serving the drinks with his usual slow pace. He holds his gray beard to avoid it getting wet or onto the cups. “Here you go, gentlemen.”

“A drink is a drink.” Kun shrugs. “I don’t discriminate.”

“Talking about that . . .” Vozkaj downs his brandy shot without breaking eye contact. “How would you feel about going after a familiar face?”

“Depends. Are they an enemy?”

“That is relative. He might be an ally to you but an enemy to me.”

“Or vice-versa.”

Vozkaj nods, his yellow eyes intently fixed on the Mandalorians bare face. He notices how young he is, the length and depth of the scar across his face, the sweaty green-mint hair, and the nothing behind his dark eyes. Humans are bizarre, not only in appearance but in demeanor, and Kun is but another example of their strangeness.

“Say it’s an old associate of yours.”

“Out with it.” Kun downs the first shot then the second without a pause in between. “Stalling is a waste of time employed by liars and smug snakes.”

Vozkaj cackles and shrugs. From his robes, he extracts a bounty puck and activates it. The holographic image of an unmasked Mandalorian comes into view: shoulder-length black hair, oval-shaped face, pale, alluring eyes, a scar above his left eyebrow, and a wicked smile. His crimes are listed—blackmail, extortion, arson, kidnapping, smuggling, hijacking Republic ships—and the price on his head exceeds that of Gik Tiphi’s by virtue of being tripled. 

Below the wanted sign, his name is listed: CHITTAPHON LEECHAIPORNKUL.

“Ten,” Kun mutters in a cold voice.

“There’s history there, I think.”

Kun snatches the bounty puck off the Kaleesh’s hands. “There is.”

“He runs with a crew of smugglers. They’re mostly legitimate, but he’s with them . . .”

“That doesn’t bode well for their morale or their ship.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Vozkaj slowly shakes his head, yellow eyes scrutinizing Kun’s stern expression. “Nor does the fact that they, by virtue of being affiliated with your friend, are in her pocket.”

The Mandalorian raises an eyebrow, squeezing the bounty puck in his hand to the point of hearing his gloves squeak and feeling his hand ache. Vozkaj leans in and cock his head. By the look of his crinkled eyes, he’s smiling.

“He’s involved with the Merciless.”

“As in, he works for her?”

“As in, they’ve been inductured by her. As in, they owe her a substantial debt and won’t be free until it’s paid.”

“Who placed the bounty?”

“I don’t know.”

His tone is sincere. His eyes don’t lie. Kun trusts the Kaleesh, not because they’re good acquaintances or because they’re history together has proved to be mutually beneficial but because there’s uncertainty in his voice.

“Can you find out?”

“I can.”

Kun raises an eyebrow. “For a price?”

“No,” Vozkaj says and shakes his head. “The information, much like the drinks, would be on the house.”

Kun nods, the gesture small yet openly displaying his gratefulness.

KUN SITS ON the pilot’s chair, helmet off, gaze forward but not quite taking in the beauty of hyperspace as the Swift Wing follows a set course to Concordia. Kew-Tee, once again, has taken care of punching up coordinates and getting them off Mapuzo.

In silence, he thinks of the last time he saw Chittaphon—Ten, as everyone knows him—and can’t help but feel a seething anger consume him. The last time they were together, they were brothers, escorting foundlings from Nal Hutta and back to Concordia. Hijacked by pirates, he and Ten drove them off, but Ten had other plans and left him and the three foundlings stranded in space aboard their ship’s shuttle. 

They were there for a few hours. And though Kun later learned that Ten had transmitted their coordinates to their clan so that they could be rescued, the disappointment and rage that brewed and burned within him had lasted for far longer.

It had been six standard years since that happened. And while Kun has tried to forget the event, for his own sake, for the sake of his clan, he hasn’t been able to. The betrayal broke his faith in his brother and led to his great shame.

He remembers Ten’s face as he left him: a look of smugness underlined by ruefulness. It was the look of his least preferred quarry: the running type. The very same expression that spreads on their faces before the chase begins, before they realize they’ll be caught, before his shadow looms over them and the chase is over.

In the end, by hook or by crook, Ten, much like Gik Tiphi, won’t get to run away.

“WHAT DO YOU want?” says a voice that’s oddly familiar to Gik Tiphi. It’s laced with annoyance and the white noise of static from a none-too-stable holo resolution. “I’m busy.”

They’re in a back room. A storage room, by the looks of the place. It’s dark, damp, and smells of aged ale and dust. Tied to chair, Gik stares at the Kaleesh—who is, by far, the tallest Kaleesh he has ever seen—with apprehension. Whoever he’s talking to is undoubtedly related to his capture and subsequent imprisonment—or prompt execution.

“I assumed you were,” the Kaleesh responds in a stern voice. “I have held up my end of the deal. We are even.”

Gik looks up to see the Kaleesh giving his back to him, a hand raised to hold up a holoprojector. He can’t quite make out who he’s talking to but Gik quickly ascertains that it’s a female human by her voice and the way she speaks Basic.

“Show me.”

The Kaleesh turns, the holoprojector balanced in his hand, and gently places it on a crate opposite Gik. Sure enough, it’s a female human, and one Gik has heard of and briefly seen before. He hasn’t had the misfortune of ever meeting her, but he’s had the terrible luck of slighting her. Her hair is shoulder-length, the right side shaved off to a neat, close trim, and her gaze is that of a predator used to tearing their prey apart.

“Gik Tiphi,” says the woman, half-smiling.

“The Merciless,” is all that Gik Tiphi can mutter, blinking, his mouth suddenly dry.

Fei the Merciless smirks. “The one and only, yes,” she retorts. “I can’t wait to meet you. Face to face.”

“My associate delivered in time,” says the Kaleesh. “And I already have him tracking yet another debtor of yours.”

“I have people who can do that, Voz. No need to try to impress me.”

The Kaleesh clicks his tongue. “I’m not trying to.”

“Whatever gets you through the night, dear.” Fei points at Gik. “I’ll have my folk come and pick him up.”

“As you wish.” Vozkaj bows his head. “Just do it before sundown.”

“Obviously,” the Merciless deadpans. She raises an eyebrow and cocks her head. “Who’s this debtor you’re so keen on capturing to impress me?”

“If you think I wanna be in your good graces, you’re wrong. I’m doing this because I owe you a favor—”

“How nice of you to remember . . .”

“—and the bounty my associate is tracking is Chittaphon.”

Fei’s eyes darken as understanding and rage wash over her. Her mouth set, she tilts her head as if to crack her neck.

“Is it now?”

The Kalessh nods.

“Very well, Voz. Keep me updated.”

Her image flickers then disappears. 

The Kaleesh sighs as he stares at Gik. He says nothing then pats him on the shoulder.

Defatead, no longer capable of crafting a plan or scheme to save his skin, Gik Tiphi accepts this is how he’ll die.

✦ ✦ ✦