Keldabe

m.youtube.com/watch?v=3aYiiGd3PZc

Sunrise had just begun to creep on bringing about a warmth that seemed to spread with the light; a new day.

The night had been a difficult one for Ronin, a tension hung thick in the air leaving a feeling of complete unease. Occasionally Ronin would open his eyes to scan the are throughout the night only to come up with nothing. Soon Ronin nolonger opened his eyes caulking his unease to a readyness to leave. The warmth had just begun to creep over his hands as the sun's light made contact when a severe cold seemed to ignite sapping the area of all warmth. This sensation was followed by what could only be explained as a match ignited in the dark except there were five and they walked silently cloaked in black robes out of the streets facing Ronin. He felt them, his eyes shot open and only two words escaped his mouth

"Oh kriff!"

As if in response to his words five crimson blades ignited to life confirming to Ronin he was really up shit creek on this one. Withdrawing his cat mask from his jacket and placing it upon his face Ronin called Don, the only one to give Ronin his number.

I need you to wake everyone asap and get that ship of yours off the ground now.

Ronin cut the line not having time to linger with pleasantries, this was his moment to earn his pay, and a bonus better be on the table now. One of the five stepped forward, a younger looking female, Ronin withdrew his .48 and fired two rounds for her face. The mistake of a youth, you never try to deflect a slug. The crimson blade met both slugs with ease, the slugs seemed to melt like molten butter hitting the young sith in the face. The blood curdling screams quickly faded into gurgle as he body crumpled and moved no more.

One down 4 more to go. The other sith seemed to pay their fallen comrade little more than a glance, a glance that may have lasted a few moments longer had Ronin not pushed his luck by unloading the rest of his clip at them. The others brought hands up and countered with a force push halting them in midair. When the slugs weren't sent flying back Ronin knew he had the advantage, they wouldn't risk damaging the ship which held their true target.

Placing the .48 back in its holster Ronin extended his wrist blades out as two more sith stepped forward. Twin males unless some sort of sith magic was in use creating a mirror image. Hoods pushed back in unison they charges weaving in front of each other like ribbons being braided. Ronin tool off to match their charge. As they neared they maintained an equal distance to one another, their sabers could easily touch one another. Ronin aimed in between them and waited for them to make their move. It came in the form of mirrored swings at chest level. Bending back Ronin went to his knees and slid, the sabers swinging a hair's breath away from his nose. Ronin's own blades made contact with the leg of each. The blades did little more than make a cut into the first few layers of skin causing no real physical damage. What Ronin was relying upon was the Atracurium that Coates the blades to kick in and slow down his opponents enough for him to take them out.

Ronin got back to his feet and turned in time to catch a pair of sabers from striking him down. Blow after blow Ronin countered in a whirl of red color in a back drop to a raising sun. Being true mirrors their facial expressions seemed to change as their movements seemed to slow quickly, their faces met in a matching mask of panic; now was Ronin's chance. Going on the offensive Ronin swung at the twin to his left while kicking at the twin on his right. Blade met saber pushing the sith back several steps as he struggled to maintain his footing. The other twin took the kick to the stomach doubling him over. Spinning on the balls of his feet Ronin's blade caught the cheek of the doubled over sith spinning him with enough force to land him facing away from Ronin. Ronin brought a hand up and force pushed the brother on the left several feet back while plunging his free hand's blade into the spine of the other brother. Ronin made eye contact with the helpless twin as he launched a wave of force lightening into his brother back.

Electricity traveled down the blade frying the nerve and burning muscle an skin alike. Traveling up the spine into the brain the sith did little more than shake upon the blade, th electricity being the only thing keeping his legs from crumpling beneath him. The twin watched in horror now unable to move as he watched his brother die.

As soon as the electricity stopped flowing the body dropped with a sickening thud. Taking several steps back to the ship so he faced the remaining two sith Ronin hoped the ship would be ready for him to make a quick get away. With all of his surprises out in the open he had little left up his sleeve, and something told him the remaining two weren't low ranking Sith.

Tucked away in a little corner not far from Keldabe's spaceport, a small clinic was set up, largely hidden from those not actively looking for it.  It was an unassuming little place; simple sign, simple sliding door, simple waiting room, simple droid running the reception desk.  Even the air was simple; in contrast to the veritable assault of scents that one ran headlong into in the streets of Keldabe, the clinic had the serene smell of petrichor floating through its small, simple space.  And while it could not be more different than the city that surrounded it, the clinic made enough to keep serving the locals of Keldabe that didn't care if an off-worlder treated their maladies.

"Try to keep the pressure off it," said the clinic's head doctor - a light-skinned Human man with shoulder-length black hair and a bad case of perma-stubble - as he finished wrapping the bandages on the hand of a young boy in one of the clinic's simple treatment rooms, "and change these out daily.

"And remember; when it heals, punch the other guy with the index and middle knuckles.  More meat and more bones behind it means more padding and more power."

With a wink and a subdued smile, the doctor sent the boy on his way.  The lad had been brought in due to a scuffle with another child almost twice his size over some trivial childhood matter.  At eleven, the boy was almost a man by Mandalorian standards, and alleyway fistfights were going to be more and more common.  If the boy was to be a man, the doctor figured, then he had to learn how to throw a proper punch.  Had he known how to do that, he wouldn't have even seen the doctor in the first place.  Not that the doctor himself was going to complain; such injuries were the primary source of income for the small clinic.  They were too ill-equipped to handle the major injuries like a hospital could, too small to handle a massive influx of patients, and the general atmosphere of the place didn't suit the general attitude of the clientele.  But for quick - and lasting - fixes, there were few places in the city that could match it.

No sooner had the young boy left the room when a Lethan Twi'lek woman had entered it, already wearing a big smile.  The doctor, facing the medicine cabinet on the opposite side of the room, didn't even need to be told that his most frequent flyer had once again graced his humble clinic with her presence.

"Before you ask," she started, a noticeable slur to her speech, "yes, this one had it coming."

The doctor let out a small chuckle as he readied the usual treatment.  "I don't doubt it, Sarena.  Not if you were taking the job."

Sarena was a bounty hunter, and had a knack for going after the bounties predisposed to fight their way out of situations.  When coming off a job, she often found herself taking a small layover in Keldabe to refuel her ship, grab a drink, and get into a few more bouts before coming to the clinic to get patched up.  Over the past year and a half, this had become so common that the doctor and his patient had almost perfected their routine.  She didn't usually come in drunk, though.  Whatever fight she had been in must've been a good one.  As the doctor turned around with the pre-made bacta patches, Sarena had already stripped away her chestplate and bracers and sat in the provided patient bench, leaving little to cover her bright red skin but a dark, sleeveless top.  She was a good-looking woman, the doctor had to admit.  She always had been.  The patchwork of bruises and cuts did little to diminish that.

Letting out a jokingly flirtatious moan as the doctor began to apply some cleaning salve to her lower back, Sarena launched into her regular spiel.

"Big kriffer.  Trandoshan, had a few warrants out of Imperial space for murder and busted out of jail a couple months back.  I says 'Hey, sounds good, put me on it!', see and hear nothing until about a week ago, I'm catching a podrace in Mos Eisley when who should be sitting three gorram rows away but Mr. Scales himself!  Race ends, he goes out of the arena, and I make my move.  Right in front of his buddies.  All four of them.  All as big as he is."

"Wouldn't know anything about it," the doctor said, gently placing a patch on her surprisingly soft skin, "but that sounds like the kind of thing you get a shotgun for."

"Well it's funny you mention it, Doc, I just so happened to have one on me!  Wham, bam, thank you ma'am, and business gets businessed!"

The doctor couldn't help but laugh.  "Not your style to just shoot the guy."

"I know!" Sarena replied, "That's why I didn't shoot him!  He bucked, I took off after him, rounded the corner and got met with a big ol' helping of lizard fist!  So I gave him a few back.  Y'know, interest."

The doctor couldn't help but admire Sarena's pluck.  Going hands on for a woman of her species was inherently dangerous, especially against people with track records for fighting back and fighting dirty.  The lekku - the head-tails natural to all Twi'leks - were not just fatty deposits bestowed by a cruel Force, but actually held the majority of the Twi'lek's brain cells.  Even grabbing onto one was immensely painful, and cutting one off would have devastating consequences for the person in question.  And not only did Sarena go after the bad guys with her hands if at all possible, she did so without a helmet.  It was the kind of manic bravado that he'd had himself, long ago, in another life.

"So, that's me.  How're you," Sarena asked, throwing an arm up to thump at the barely hidden respirator underneath the doctor's shirt, "still breathing?"

The doctor smirked.  "Still breathing."

"Y'know, it's weird, I tell you all these stories.  Trandoshan on Tatooine...the Kel'dor over Ord Mantell...sneaking into a spice dealer's compound...and you never even mention how that happened.  It's not fair."

"Oh?" the doctor mockingly asked, walking around her to begin work on her front side as the bounty hunter moved to lie down, "and you're deciding what's fair in my clinic now?"

"Surely am, Doc."

The doctor smirked as he began applying the salve and the patches to her navel.  He saw the Twi'lek's insistence for what it was; an extension of the mutual crush the pair had had on each other for most of their relationship.  There were multiple reasons for each liking the other, all wrapped in a nice big bow of snark, friendship, and genuine interest in the other.  Sarena was never this open about it, though; she never wore tanks under her armor, never came in inebriated, and never looked at him the way she was doing then and there.  The offer was there, and by the Force it was a tempting one.  But unlike his respirator, the doctor had been very frank with Sarena about why it would never work.  He had to make things right.  He never said how or why, but he had to make things right.  And until he did that, he simply couldn't muster the interest.

"So," Sarena began again, her finger finding its way back to his respirator, gently tracing a fingernail up towards the collar of the doctor's white shirt, "about that thing..."

Politely - but firmly - the doctor took Sarena's hand and put it back by her side, but not before her handiwork had helped reveal the deep scarring of his flesh and the top of a silver rectangle on the doctor's chest, making a barely-audible blowing noise.  Gently shaking his head and rolling his eyes in an attempt to wave off urges he had denied himself for Force only knew how long, the doctor decided to entertain the request.  It would keep her placated while he finished his work, and if there was any justice in the universe, it would keep him focused on the task instead of the gorgeous woman in front of him.

"It was about a decade ago, give or take.  I was rolling with a weird outfit, real 'ragtag bunch of misfits' type of deal.  We get a calling out to deal with some insurgents in some random swamp in the middle of nowhere, and I'm not on the ground there for two seconds before we start taking fire.  Vos...Vos, take your Trandoshan, make him a Zabrak, and you'll get the idea...he's cutting trees down with his weapon, and Jade and I are crawling through the muck to try and flank the bastards, and we hit a trip mine.  Jade's head goes ker-pop, and I take it to the chest.  Blast ate right through the armor and damn near reached my heart.  Thus, respirator."

The Twi'lek's glassy eyes were fixed on the doctor, filled with a mixture of interest, awe, and barely-concealed lust.  After a few moments of mulling over the story and glancing down at the top of the respirator, she finally made her response.

"...dammit, you're never gonna tell me, are you?"

The doctor flashed her a wicked grin, one he hadn't worn in what felt like a decade.

"Probably not, no."

In a small apartment in western Keldabe, a lone Mando sat in his living room, watching the HoloNet news, and generally relaxing after a day's work in his smithy. His name was Darzeka Australis, and he had been working as a smith for the past few years, earning a decent living, and spending his evenings drinking in the Oyu'baat. He was a fighter, and without a fight, he kept himself busy. He was not expecting what came next.

His comm beeped for attention, and when he saw the incoming code, he frowned. No one had used Clan command codes for years. Only a select few had had access to them, and they were all dead, weren't they? The transmission link said Kiffu. He didn't know the Clan had anyone on Kiffu, and he was in touch with most of the scattered survivors of Clan Australis. Never one to die wondering, Darzeka opened the link.

Yes?

The unmistakeable voice of Kaine Australis came from the comm So, you're still not dead?

Darzeka let out a long breath. Neither are you, apparently. Where the hell have you been, Kain'ika?

Kriffing Belsavis. Long story, vod'ika. I'm on Kiffu for now.

Kain'ika, the aliit, things changed when you went away.

Yeah, I figured you'd pick a new alor. Ashrah, was it?

The silence dragged on far too long. Darzeka found it hard to speak. Not exactly. I'll get some of the lads together. I need to see you face to face.

Kaine's voice was flat and emotionless. I don't like the sound of that. Alright, get a crew together and meet me in the Bonadan system, coordinates to follow.

Darzeka was shocked. What the kriff was in the Bonadan system? Right, Kain'ika. Give me a few days.

Make it a week. Bring as many as you can. The link went dead, and the coordinates came through.

Darzeka checked out the coordinates Kaine had sent, if it was Kaine. He realised this could all be an elaborate scheme. If so, they would pay dearly for the slight. Still, if it was Kaine, he had to go, to try and explain what had happened. If nothing else, at least he'd find out where his friend had been all these years, before he died. If nothing else, he had a purpose again, and that alone, was worth living at least another week for... He started making calls right away...

Bloodshot arrived with all his typical fanfare, which is to say none at all aside from his towering presence, and stopped just inside the door to the hangar. He wore his usual under-armor, though aside from his mask the suit currently lacked the plating that made it truly formidable. Instead, he had draped his form with a dark brown longcoat that made him only slightly more nondescript than he would have been without it. The duffel he carried no doubt contained the un-worn portions of his armor, as well as whatever weapons weren't currently on his person.

His gaze swept over the various dock workers scurrying about the hangar, then settled on a man sitting alone, seemingly content to wait for whatever would come. That must be their medic, because he sure as hell wasn't a gunman. Bloodshot had come to Mandalore in pursuit of his prey, but an altercation with the sith of all things had forced them to depart before he could catch them. Luckily, his employer had agents already in position on Coruscant, and had simply re-allocated those resources when the target's destination was ascertained. The doctor himself was another such lucky break, just so happening to be the proprietor of a small local clinic with the expertise they would require and the flexible morals to accept payment with no questions asked. His long strides carried him quickly across the distance between the two men, and he stopped no more than five meters away.

"You Jef?"

His protege was due to arrive shortly as well, since Bloodshot doubted his errand would take very long at all. Disposing of the bodies of several errant sith on a planet known for its dangerous predators should be no difficult task.

"Bloodshot." His tone held a distinct mechanical tone as his voice was filtered through his mask, and he reached out to grasp the doctor's hand to complete the greeting. "This is Drallinix, and I believe that's out ride." He released the hand and turned to regard the ship as it descended into the hangar. Watched as it settled onto its landing struts and a moment later the ramp descended and a man walked out, clad in what looked to be partial stormtrooper armor. "We're waiting for one more member, then we can get underw.... Ah. Her he is now."

Adjusting his grip on his bag, Bloodshot headed for the ship's ramp as an individual in a hooded jacket stepped through the hangar entrance. His face was young in spite of the white hair that could be seen beneath his hood, and from his chin to the bottom of his shirtless torso (or at least what could be seen of it) there were finely stenciled tattoos of a cyan hue that almost seemed to glow. "Glad you made it, Sev. You can get acquainted with the others onboard."

"Heh. You say that like I had a choice. Just keep your goons the hell away from me and let me do my thing. Better for everyone that way." Sev didn't even acknowledge their captain with so much as a nod when he brushed past and into the ship.

"As you can see, he's a real people person. Captain Fel, I presume?" He stopped at the bottom of the ramp, looking evenly at the captain despite the other man standing several inches higher. "Permission to board?"