Loose Ends (Bounty Hunters, Smugglers, Criminals Preferred)

[Ehrlich Mar]

Loose Ends​

Background Music​

Death is just the beginning of new life as the building blocks of creation are dispersed back into the universe. Yet so often, these blocks bond together and do so with such fervor that eventually they obtain the notion that they were supposed to be bonded. This notion is wrong; nothing lasts forever, and certainly no relationship can weather the test of time. Still, they try, and some are more successful than others at achieving their derogatory goal of mutual survival.

But they are not merely satisfied with living on indefinitely in this manner. Many, indeed most, are obsessed with the notion that the time spent in this form must be lived happily. No one could say that happiness is a bad thing; happiness is one of the few things in life that is virtually harmless and entirely enjoyable. Yet this continual search for pleasure often succeeds in boring the seeker; for when the body is accustomed to pleasure, it builds up a tolerance to it. So it must be that with every ounce of pleasure comes two ounces of suffering. Every mountain is made by placing two valleys on each side, and there is no such thing as pleasure if its antithesis is not there to define it.

The man known to some as Jack Rackham understood this idea most fully. And it quite-rightly angered him that no-one else seemed capable of identifying this most obvious of truths. If you're hungry and have only a little food, that food tastes so much better than if you had much. But no matter how often or how earnestly he pleaded with people to see things through his eyes, no one took him seriously. "After all," they'd say, "you may enjoy it more, but you're still hungry."

It was obvious to Rackham that being full didn't cure one of the desire for more, however, and that even the sated still consume needlessly. What waste! It was enough to make a man sick. So he endeavored to make them understand in new ways...

Their screams were like those that rang out in hell, and in the hours they spent in Rackhams studio, many men, women, and children came to understand what true pleasure really is. It is when total and utter pain is absent. It is when one can embrace death with open arms, knowing that it will release them from the sheer agony that engulfs their every waking moment. It is when every primordial building block and bond in the body rises up and gives utterance to an outraged, tortured, and bloody hallelujah before finally breaking asunder and vanishing.

Rackham was pleased with his work; it was simply artful. He commemorated his finest subjects in works of cruel elegance and beauty. A painting, a sculpture, a textile; those were the things that were made to last, never to see decay. Not like the body, which peters out of its own accord. Strange to say, despite Rackham having made much of his own artwork, you'd be hard pressed to get him to remember what most of the pieces were made out of, or the process by which they were created. He explained by saying that he was often subject to what he called "artistic blackouts," wherein he, with great inspiration of the mind, simply acted instinctually, not taking into account what he himself was doing.

Rackham had been creating, collecting, and selling artwork for years, and it had never caused him any trouble. However, as he was well aware, his time of relative happiness would not last forever. And indeed it did not, for there came a time when Rackham placed in his trophy room a most peculiar piece of artwork. Despite many queries, Rackham said extraordinarily little about it, save for that it was "unfinished." The piece was a pedestal for a statue, large enough to carry a life-sized figure, and approximately one foot high. The peculiar thing was that there was no statue to be found; the pedestal was completely bare. When asked about it, Rackham said that he lost the figure and had yet to retrieve it.

To look at the collector himself, one would think that the man had lost a pencil, so little concern did he show for his missing artifact. But privately, Rackham bit his nails with worry, for the piece was not simply mislaid, nor was it even stolen; it had escaped. The escapee was a male, approximately mid-twenties, and had caused Rackham no end of worry by his absence. The artist had spared no effort on the young man, and the frayed nerves, damaged optics, and a shaved head were all signatures of the unspeakable bestiality that was wrought upon him shortly before he fled into the night. If the victim survived his injuries, if he told the police, Rackham would suffer. Not that Rackham would mind this, of course, but his vision and his legacy would be stopped short if he was thwarted by the elusive little whelp. No, this was one loose end that needed tied up, preferably gagged and maimed for good measure.

So Rackham summoned as many bounty hunters to the underbelly of Coruscant as he could muster; there could be no mistakes. All participants in this hunt were instructed to meet the so called "Collector" in the dead of night to receive details of their mission. The rendezvous was a back-alley warehouse, distinguished by a "VI" dashed irreverently across its rusted surface. Great amounts of trash lined the alley, made visible by three measly lamps that were separated so far from one another that they afforded little illumination. Who would answer the summons? We can only guess...

 

[Toska]

Jack sent his gaze to the polluted night sky, craning his neck to get a better view of the multitude of speeders that buzzed through the air. Sitting in the passenger seat of an express taxi, he drew his thoughts inward, amusing himself with introspection. His driver had opened the sunroof to give him a better view of the cityscape, allowing the air to sting his nose as they sped across the sky. It was a pleasant feeling, one he did not get to experience often. He closed his eyes periodically, watching the myriad of colored lights flash in front of his eyelids. He imagined neon signs and holographic monitors lighting up boulevards rife with people mulling about. Scantily dressed dancers flung themselves at poles in his fantasies, while their predominately male audience hollered and applauded, piling credit chits at their feet.

The sheer decadence of it enthralled him. Furthermore, it was not all that far from the truth of matters on Coruscant, which served only to enhance the pleasure the image gave him. The metropolis thrived on decadence, its denizens gluttons for sin. They compensated for the mediocrity of their lives by partaking in avarice, turning the cityscape into a breeding ground for the wicked. It was Jack's kind of place.

Cracking his knuckles, he turned to the driver, saying, "Set me down in a block or so. I'm getting antsy." He propped himself up, arms resting on the edge of the sunroof, watching the city lights blur before his eyes. He could only pick out the contrasting colors, namely crimsons and violets that stood out amongst the white that washed over the cityscape. To his surprise, the driver chuckled in reply.

"You've ridden for less than an hour. What, my company not enough for you?" the man asked. Jack liked him already.

"Got that right, bud. I'm looking for something a bit comelier," he laughed. He neglected to add that the company he sought was that of a contractor out for blood. Redoubling his laugh, he added, "What are you complaining about? You get paid by the hour, and I already forked up enough credits to cover your night."

"Very true. I think I'll take the hint and hit a bar before the night's done." Their amusement whithered away into silence. As the minutes ticked by, the driver cleared his throat and asked, "Where do you want me to let you off?"

"Here's fine," Jack said. He shrugged his duffel bag on, shuffling the contents around to ensure that everything was in order. Satisfied, he sketched a salute to the driver as the speeder came to a stop and exited the vehicle. He exchanged a few passing words with the driver before he left. Whistling as he went, he came to realize that the driver might prove to be collateral damage before the end of the night. The thought nagged at him as he made his way to the warehouse district, but he brushed it aside. While he enjoyed the man's company, he enjoyed his line of work more, and he was not about to restrain himself on the off chance a man he had gotten to like might get caught in the crossfire.

Besides, there were countless bars and casinos on Coruscant. The chances of that driver getting caught up in his mess were too slim to even consider. Conscience clear, he continued towards the location designated on his calling card, a slight spring in his step. The duffel bag rubbed against his shoulder, chafing the skin under his jacket, but he ignored it, considering the pain a necessary evil. The bag contained a number of goodies, ranging from his signature carbine to an ablative vest, wrist guards, and thigh plates all for the job at hand.

Shortly after he began his trek, he stepped into the designated warehouse, right hand gripping a heavy blaster pistol hidden in the folds of the bag.

 

[Ehrlich Mar]

The filth-encrusted warehouse was almost entirely barren. A thick layer of dust covered the cement floor, and the only indications that it had been used recently were two sets of footprints that led to (but not away from) a rusty old chair in the center of the room. Seated in the chair was a metal box filled with what appeared to be headsets of various shapes and sizes.

Besides the chair and the box, the room was entirely empty. That is not to say, however, that it was unguarded. On the wall opposite the door there was a speaker, and attached to each corner of the room were video cameras.

"Come in, Bounty Hunter," said a snide, drawling voice. "You've been expected."

 

[Captain Flynn]

If one looks closely in the deepening dark of a city's alleyways, one can almost always espy strange creatures slinking from shadow to shadow, their eyes glittering in the dim lights that sometimes manage to penetrate the shade. This is a constant wherever you go; there is no star system that has yet managed to avoid it. Wherever there is civilization, there will always be things that prowl in the night; it is the way of things.

In places such as this, however, womp rats and the like are the least of a population's worries. Criminals and innocents alike fear its name, its dreaded title. The greed of this creature is insatiable, and it hunts not for food, or shelter, but merely for the highest bidder. This has made it an unpredictable kind of beast, one which will follow its prey to the ends of the earth....the Galaxy, even. They call it....a "Bounty Hunter". And on nights like these the hordes of wanted individuals throughout the solar system lock and bar their doors, cowering under their blankets and wishing to the heavens that the beast does not pick up their scent.

It is the unhappy fortune of this sector of Coruscant to be host to such a creature tonight. It lurks in the very underbelly of the planet, bounding from one building to another, taking great care to go unnoticed. Like a wild dog it lopes on all fours across the rooftops, scraping their surfaces with its sharp claws. Its breath is uneven and heavy, and coughs and labors with a rattle as it escape through the panting maw.

As it arrives at its destination, the creature grinds its pace to a halt, peering down with gleaming yellow eyes at the warehouse bellow. With a daring leap, it catches one of the lamp posts in its clawed hands, soaring forward to land catlike before the warehouse door, its profile enveloped in rays of yellow light. From a first glance, it would appear to be a canine alien of sorts, but any details of its features are obscured by the shade of a wide-brimmed hat that perched upon its head. Rising up onto its hindquarters impressively, shoulders back and chest out, it tilts its head back and.....

Doubles over hacking and spluttering horribly in a cacophony of lung crushing wheezes. "Dang *COUGH* nabbit! I'm too old to be prancing about like a blooming hound. I need to get me a *HURUMPH!* dang speeder! *COUGH!*"

Still choking on the steaming Coruscant air, he shoves the warehouse door open and staggers weakly inside.

 

[Ehrlich Mar]

As the Claantani stumbled into the dimly-lit warehouse, the durasteel blast door slowly closed behind him of its own accord. The two bounty hunters were left alone in that dark, dank warehouse, with a chair as their only source of company and a single light fixture as their only source of illumination. The smell of mold and stagnant water filled the nostrils of those present, and it soon became apparent that a water pipe had sprung a leak some time ago.

But the voice that had spoken to Atlas moments earlier continued to drawl and sneer as though nothing had happened; it gave no exchange of greetings to its newest guest, nor did it wait for a reply from the mercenary. The static and failed frequency on the line caused the voice to sound more nasally than perhaps it might ordinarily, and continued system failures caused it to fade in-and-out of audible frequencies.

"...I suspect you arennnnng wondering why I summoned you to this particulannnnnnng warehouse? I cannot-*t-t* -ell you precisely as to why I chos-*s-s-s -isss* spot, except that it is for the security of our enterprise. *K-k-k-k-k*

"Inside the box on the-eE-ee chair are a number of ear-pieces. Take a pair and put them on; the frequencynnng -s not as poor on my private line.We shall be able to communicate more clearly-eeEeeeEe- -hrough them."

 

[Kant]

Sentu’Karan’Nuruodo staggered through the rain on Coruscant. "This bloody planet" he drawled, "It is always miserable here". He had come in search of a bounty hunter ad in the paper. Karan was not typically one to answer those general come if you please adds, but money was low and he was getting bored to boot. He climbed into the first cab that he could find and directed the driver where to go. As he the driver drove along the impoverished and, in some cases destroyed, neighborhoods, Karan couldn't help but wonder why it was that Mar had wanted them all to go to Coruscant. But that was okay, he was here now, he might as well find out what he could possibly want.

The ride was not long and the driver soon pulled up in front of a warehouse. Karan tipped the driver and get out. He circled around the warehouse and looked it over. It was large as most are and contained relatively few exits. It would make a perfect trap. But Karan was naturally arrogant and hardly ever afraid. He rounded back to the front of the building and banged on the door loudly. With that, he stepped back with his hand resting on his pistol butt. He would be ready in case this was some sort of trick.

 

[Captain Flynn]

As the speakers address them thusly in their crackling, drawling manner, the Canine alien examines the earpieces on the table. Now properly in the light, his features are perfectly visible.

He is....old. Very old; far older than would be expected of a bounty hunter. One would think he can retire now. He appears to be a Clantaani, if one knows what those are. His visage is marred by a scar which stretches across his left eye, and several hideous marks distort the fur on his chest. A rather ostentatious mustache relaxes beneath his dog-like nose, and is tapered at the tips by golden beads. A scraggly beard protrudes from his chin, and short mane of wild grey hair rises off his back, neck, and head. Two long, sleek blaster pistols hang from holsters on his hips, and something like a grenade launcher is slung upon his back.

The creature pulls out a deathstick and lights it, spewing the venomous air from his mouth in a billowing ring. Giving his counterpart a quick glance, he steps forward and picks up one of the earpieces without question, wriggling it about in one of his long, pointy ears. It doesn't fit quite right, as it was probably designed for more humanoid species than he. Muttering to himself about this, he is interrupted from his fiddlings by a loud knock against the warehouse.

His pistols leap from their holsters, twirling deftly into position as he aims for the door. Looking about for some kind of signal of what he is to do, he advances cautiously. Stopping about three meters from the barrier, he begins to address it.

"*Ahem*....Who *COUGH!* *HACK!* *WHEEZE!*.....Ugh...."

He spits out the smoldering cause of his tribulations, stamping it out underfoot. Having done this, he tries again.

"What be your purpose in knocking on our door this late at night?" he growls, waiting tensely for the other party's reply.

 

[Kant]

Karan heard a hacking and coughing sound coming from inside. The owner of that voice obviously had smoked far too many death sticks in his day. When the voice came through a little clearer asking why he was here Karan was a little surprised and annoyed. First, surprised because the voice sounded worried and alerted, as if it was afraid of getting caught or of what might be on the other side of the door. Annoyed because he did not like to converse through walls or doors. Karan raised his voice gruffly in reply "open the door and you shall find out. That is, if your not too scared of what might be out here. You never know what could be out here, I could be a Jedi or some unfriendly person to your cause, or I could be a bounty hunter willing to help you. Is it worth the risk to find out, or is your fear too much bounty hunter? On the other hand, if you don't open the door, maybe I will bust it in on you and have the element of surprise. Or maybe you will just never know who was out here and what his purpose was. So, whats it going to be bounty hunter?"

 

[Captain Flynn]

An expression of confusion plays over the Clantaani's face. It being a simple question, the rather elaborate answer has been, unfortunately, lost on him. No matter. Shaking his head so as to rid himself the daze which had momentarily seized his thought processes, he ventures out on a limb:

"Speak plainly, boy, and tell me, are you here to see the "Collector"?" he queries. It's a risky move, but a calculated risk. It is unlikely that anyone would have heard of this "Collector" before. They were contacted privately....theoretically no one would know what he meant by "the Collector". Hopefully. He adjusts his LL-30 blaster pistols, twirling them experimentally. If they aren't here for the briefing, then he will find an appropriate way to welcome them....

 

[Ehrlich Mar]

"I s-s-shall be the one to decide who joinssssssss-s-s -xpedition," crackled the voice. And without further ado, the doors slid open, allowing this newest arrival entry.

"T-ke a headpiece and move along; do not linger long in mMmy storage room. I s-shal-l-l contact you with the devices. You shall have no other mmmmmmMEans of contacting me."

 

[Kant]

Karan walked into the room when Mar opened the door for him. "Still a little scared eh bounty hunter?" he said to the canine alien. He stepped forward and extended his hand to both of them. "My name is Karan. It is a pleasure to meet you both. No hard feelings bounty hunter, just a part of the business. I feel as though we may be working closely together in the near future." With his other hand he picked up a headset and slipped it into his pocket. "Oh, and rest assured, if I want you I will find you, I always find my man." Karan said with a semi friendly wink. "So, what happens now?" He asked with an inquisitive glance.

 

[Ehrlich Mar]

"Now," snapped the voice, "you s-s-s-shall hunt the target I specify. You will not need to know his na*AAA*aame, for he's easily distinguishable. He is a male, approximately 25 year-r-rs of age, and has half of his scalp shaved. The remainder of his hair is long, and he is clean shaven. One of his irises is completely devoid of color; it is white. If you cannot find a man of that description i- a crowd, you have no business being bounty hunters.

"He was last seen on Corsin, though I have reliable sources in the sentient-transport industry that say he boarded a vessel to Coruscant with a Jedi two days ago. The ship number is 02904. Stop him before he finds sanctuary. Hop to it; I shall be fo-o-ollowing your progress with lively anticipation."

 

[Captain Flynn]

Background Music​

As the Chiss brushes past him, Madd Dogg spins on his heel, managing to croak, "I aint afraid o' nobody, boy!" before he is overcome with a fit of lung-wrenching coughs.

As he regains his breath and his dignity, the Clantaani scans the rest of the room, his eyes narrowed in focus. He examines the cameras. Basic equipment. Nothing fancy. The bareness of the room also indicates that minimal expense was paid to prepare for this meeting. Walking over to the chair, he picked up the remaining earpieces. There were many of them, of various shapes and sizes. Moderately pricey. He's got credits....didn't bother spending a lot of money on the facilities, though. A quick whiff of the air told him that maintenance hadn't passed through in a while. The smell of soiled water quickly overwhelms him, and he recoils from its source, gripping his nose in disgust.

"You sure do know how to make a couple o' chaps feel welcome...." the Clantaani hisses, his eyes struggling to adjust in the terrible lighting in the warehouse.

And then he notices them: that fine detail that he searched so keenly for. On the floor, in the thick coating of dust that littered the warehouse, two sets of footprints marched purposefully to the chair. Humanoid, wearing shoes. Not any one of theirs. He looks towards the cameras. The hairs along his knotted spine reared up with nervous tension. He could almost feel their scrutiny. For some inexplicable reason, he senses that their operator was taking a keen interest in his actions. The other two are louts, here only for the money, and they possess the curiosity of a giant space-worm. They would hold the Collector's interest for only a few moments. No, he feels their host's attention trained upon him, a calculating gaze. He didn't like this "Collector" looking at him so. Easily rectified.

With a grimace, he kneels down, scooping up fist-fulls of undisturbed dust. With a light tread, he smears the dust across the lenses in a thick coat with his thumbs, saying jovially as he does so, "I hope you don't mind, Mister....what shall we call you? Collector, was it? But I'm a suspicious man and in my most humble of opinions, I don't owe you nothin' yet. That includes a glimpse of my oh-so-pretty mug." Having finished this, he brushes past the other two and drops to one knee.

He carefully observes each crevice in the grey powder that litters the floor, tracing their delicate outlines through the air with a yellowing talon. Stifling a cough in his elbow so as not to disturb any slight imprint, he peers still closer. The tracks halt abruptly at the peculiar chair, but do not head back to the door. In addition, one pair left distinct scuffs as it shuffled forward.

And a creeping thought slithers into his mind: There's something below us.... And another still: He has a friend....how very interesting.

"Does our target have any sort of background, Mr. Collector?" the Clantaani querried, still shifting through the dust, but in truth his concern about mere specifications was trifling. Anything he can do to keep the Collector listening to himself talk would hopefully distract him from his more curious goings on.

With a sweep of his clawed hand, the dust yields before him.

 

[Ehrlich Mar]

As the dust parted, the Claantani soon saw what appeared to be the outline of a sheet-metal trapdoor, made visible by the dust that had filled the cracks in the floor. It was large enough to allow an average-sized humanoid to pass, but not two; they would have traveled one after the other.

And the voice spoke once more.

"It doesn't matter."

A moment later, the speakers died.

It was the answer to all the riddles. It didn't matter what the boy's background was. It didn't matter that the voice could no longer see what was going on. And it didn't matter what was under that trapdoor. As far as that voice, that sneering, slithering voice was concerned, nothing in that warehouse was of consequence. They were its last words of warning: don't go further.

Was it worth looking further? The voice didn't seem to think so. But the voice was gone now; nobody was going to stop him.

 

[Captain Flynn]

The silence left by the death of the speakers can almost be considered audible. It echoes emptily through the room, crashing down to deafen the ears of all present. A sense of foreboding fills the heart of the old Clantaani. After a career of 47 years as a man-hunter, he had learned to keep questions to a minimum. The business demanded such. Sure, he's a little curious as to the motives behind his clients; it's only natural. But he has always managed to suppress it before. It would be just as easy to walk away from this as it had been for the past half century.

But he can't. Something is fundamentally wrong here. That parting phrase in particular, "It doesn't matter.", is troubling. A vital lesson he had learned was to never let anyone know what you're thinking. To mislead those who would read into your thoughts, you should appear unconcerned about that which is truly important to you. And for some stealthy reason that he cannot place a claw on, he feels that this "Collector" learned this lesson too. There is something important down there, just as there is something important about this boy. The next question he asks himself: is it important to me? The answer should be no.

But something tugged at his heart-strings. This creep on the other end of the speakers likes keeping us in the dark. Madd Dogg doesn't like double-crossing no-gooders, and something reeks of dishonesty in this arrangement.

Consider this insurance, Mr. "Collector".

Pushing the chair back, he sinks his claws into the crevices and, with carefully hidden strength, lifts the hatch.

A flight of stairs leads down into the creeping shadows. It is unlit, and even his keen eyes cannot penetrate the darkness.

"Ah....lovely," he groans into the gloom. Without so much as a second thought, he carefully makes his descent.

 

[Kant]

Karan looked interested by what Mar was doing, although he wasn't worried and didn't really consider it to be any of his business, but he was still curious. When Dogg moved down the steps he decided it would be worth while to have a look also. "Fine, if we're going to go exploring let's do it and get it over with then." he said in a cold emotionless tone." He stepped rapidly forward, reached into his pocket and pulled out two things, the first was a flashlight, the second was his beloved lightfoil. He flipped the flashlight on without a word and began to descend into the darkness below. He was curious how Mar would react to this and remained alert behind him in case Mar tried something.

 

[Ehrlich Mar]

The stairwell was deep; some thirty steep steps down, as a matter of fact. The smell of mold and decay became intensely strong as the trapdoor was flung open; clearly the source emanated from below.

The pair descended one after the other; for there was no other choice, and as they carefully tread down those treacherous steps, it became apparent that one of the two figures who had entered the passageway earlier had not walked down those steps at all; he was thrown. Blood clotted in the dust and scuffs here and there, and from the shapes of the imprints in the dust, it was doubtless that he had struck his head on the way down, likely concussing him.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, they leveled out and became a hallway approximately 50 feet in length. At the very end was a plain metal door. The pair cautiously crept down the hall, careful to disturb little. They needn't have worried; the only things they were likely to disturb in that hall were cobwebs, so barren was the place.

As they approached the door, they were afforded the opportunity to contemplate this situation; whatever was behind that door was not meant to be witnessed by prying eyes. It was now or never. Go through...

Or go back...