Nar Shaddaa. How he hated this place. The frothing rot of dereliction and desperation wafted thick from the bottom to the top. Singh could hear it, ringing from hungry mouths and aching bones. He could see it in the color of the wind, stained by death and foul industrial fog. His senses picked up everything in a city like this, and though he hated it, it was yet a hate to draw on when the time came for killing.
Dressed in their mixed-culture working clothes topped over with jorongo-like cloak in black with hints of green and equipped for hunting with belt and all, Nakoa was on the prowl. They'd tracked a specific, troublesome target all the way to the Smuggler's Moon, where rumor and sightings suggested they were hidden away in the AMS-ravaged depths. Even as he descended on a rickety service lift he could already feel something strange had happened on this world. Perhaps it hadn't been a simple plague.
That would explain why the Hutts still hadn't cleared the problem out. Or perhaps it was simple neglect and disinterest. Either.
Singh's lift shuddered to a stop closer at the middle depths of the city-moon and he slid the interwoven metal door open to step out. He checked- yet again- the seals on his half-face mask that kept the planet's harsh pollution out of his lungs and ventured forward. Down here it wasn't much better than above, truth be told. Just a being was more likely to openly kill another for a scrap of bread.
Most didn't notice Nakoa striding by as he reviewed his datapad for the day's bounty information. His presence was concealed from the weak-minded masses, hidden beneath the background noise of misery in the Force. Maybe this job would go well and nothing strange or unexpected would happen, for once. A low-effort end to the game.
But where would the fun be in that?
@Fine Dining Set
