Miun the Mighty Keeps on Riding!

Posted on Wed Aug 6th, 2025 @ 9:24am by Thane & Bomoor Thort

2,416 words; about a 12 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VII: Uprooted
Location: Pearl of Apalis, Alderaan Astoid Field Heritage Site
Timeline: Around the same time as the conflict on Öetrago ("Miun the Mighty Rides Again" continued)

OLD

Miun didn’t move for a moment. The job was aligning perfectly. The vault would be minimally staffed. The guards were gathering for the ceremony. His crew was in position, and they would utilise utmost poise and efficiency to heft away the genuine articles with none the wiser - aside from a few embarrassed and confused characters.

And yet, something gnawed at the base of his well-muscled neck.

He gave a grunted order and began to move, just as the corridor lights dimmed slightly - and the first distant echo of blaster fire rang out from somewhere aft.

As though on cue, the voice in the headset cut in once more.

"Uh, boss man, we might have a problem," his young voice cracked slightly, "Someone just tripped a silent alarm... and it wasn't us."

NEW

"I'm just accessing that section..." A pregnant pause, the Sullustan glaring at his companions. "Yep, in the main docking bay," the slicer continued, "Some group just crashed their ship in without even faking a docking signature and started shooting their way through to the reception. Hey, they can't just do that!"

Miun's jaw clenched so tightly, the veins beneath his dewflaps quivered. His single black eye twitched, staring off in the direction of the echoing blasts. He hissed a breath through crooked, yellowed teeth, then smacked his forehead against the nearest wall with a low thud – not enough to hurt, just enough to signal to the others that someone had just made this personal, and his ire had risen ever higher.

They had planned this - he had promised results. The Hutts did not pay for chaos - they paid him for grace, precision, and for his name.

A name that hadn't meant a damn thing since Jericho.

He spat a string of Sullustese, guttural and rapid, ending with a chopping gesture across his throat. The crew froze. Then, slowly, all heads turned to the one-eyed Sullustan. Miun's glare was volcanic.

He did not want the credits; he wanted the story. He wanted whispers in the smoke dens of Nal Hutta to start with 'Did you hear what Miun the Mighty pulled off? Right under their noses – while a war broke out two decks below!'

He jabbed two small fingers upward, then spun them in a circling motion – go loud... but make it artful. Then, without another sound, he was moving down the corridor, into the firelight of chaos – but past it rather than towards it.

If this rival crew wanted to draw every guard and sensor on the ship, let them. Miun would let them take the heat, the crossfire, and maybe a few bolts to the gut. He would be the shadow that passed unseen through a burning room – again. And when the history of this night was retold in hushed, admiring tones, it would not be about the bruisers who bled and died for a ringed chunk of metal and minerals.

The Besalisk let out a low grunt as he jogged behind Miun, two of his four arms raised in mock surrender, the others gripping a pair of stun batons loosely by their coils. Despite his size, he was struggling to keep pace with his much-smaller boss. His voice, always half-sarcastic and too loud for corridors like these, broke the tension with his usual blend of gallows humour and bravado.

"Just once," he muttered, breath heavy but steady, "I'd like to finish a job without some amateur hour swoop-jockey crashing the whole karking ballroom!"

Another distant burst of blaster fire echoed down the corridor, closer now. One of the wall sconces flickered and burst, showering sparks that caught on a nearby ornamental curtain and briefly sent it smouldering before the ship's internal systems doused it with a hiss of mist.

A trio of dignitaries in elaborate cloaks darted past an adjacent corridor, shoes slipping on the polished floor, one of them screaming into a bejewelled comlink. From the ballroom, security announcements began overlapping, broadcast in clipped Basic across the loudspeakers, warning of 'unauthorised entry' and 'lockdown.' Somewhere aft, the sound of a disruptor pistol cracked, followed by the shriek of a guest or a guard – it was impossible to tell.

Miun didn't break stride. His stubby feet pounded over velvet carpet, one hand already signalling a diversion path as he rounded a curve, his single eye catching a reflective panel ahead. Flames glinted in the corner of the mirrored wall. The fire was far behind them now, but certainly spreading, the ship's environmental systems advanced but unlikely to be able to keep up, especially with the ornate and indulgent trappings of the cruiser.

The Twi'lek slid up beside him, keeping pace without effort, face expressionless save for the practiced tilt of the lekku that indicated readiness. Miun gave a sharp nod, then hissed something fast to them – short, punchy and clear.

The Besalisk stepped to a control panel at the hallway junction and pried it open with two thick fingers. With a grunt, he yanked the bundle of internal wires aside and slammed his elbow into the release conduit. The corridor lights dimmed, and the heavy security blast door they had just passed sealed shut behind them with a mechanical clang, cutting off pursuit.

"Hope the slicer kid's got a back door for us at the vault," the Besalisk grumbled, seeming to be enjoying himself more, now that violence had taken grip of their mission, rolling one shoulder. "'Cause I think things just got spicy!"

"Course I got you, big guy!" the young Human's voice crackled through their comms, "I bit of gunfire ain't gonna' slow me down. Here, follow the emergency lights."

On cue, a series of pale green lights sprang to life, casting an dim, eerie light into the now dark corridor. Turning on and off in sequence, the lights created a moving wave pattern that appeared to move down the corridor ahead.

"Everything's still under control," the voice continued, "You'll need to stay in the guest section for a little while longer and then there'll be a bit of a tight squeeze into the ventilation system close to the vault. Some may find it tighter than others."

The hallway went still. Not with stealth, but with tension. Not even the distant screams from the ballroom broke it.

Then it came.

A harsh trilling note sounded in every ear of the attacking mercenary forces. All across the Pearl of Apalis, heads turned as commlinks flared with a harsh, official red, and any wearing displays had their feeds overridden by red text. One by one, each of their channels were overriden by a surprise declaration - something that happened only with the most urgent of declarations from Hutt Space.

PRIORITY GUILD TRANSMISSION – SANCTIONED BY HUTT CARTEL AUTHORITY

For those that could hear, the voice was clipped, smooth, and robotic - standard for a cross-sector Guild notice - as it read out the displayed notice.

Targets designated: THIEVES OF THE 'RED RAPTOR'.

• Thane of Caanus, Human male, former Jedi Knight. Known Force user. Familial ties to Caanus' ruling family and suspected underworld connections.
• Bomoor Thort, Ithorian male, former Jedi Knight. Force user. Associate of Thane. Ties to Öetragan rebel network.
• Zaracoda Wolph, Nautolan female. Escaped property of Hutt Cartel enterprise. Believed Force user.
• Kalen Vickers, Human male. Outstanding debts to the Cartel. Known to associate with Jawa mercenary Reave.
• Reave, Jawa male. Armed and extremely dangerous. Targeted due to high probability of reprisal.
• Mentis, Rattataki male, assassin. Suspected Force user. Links to unauthorised mercenary groups responsible for Cartel betrayals.

Status: DEAD OR ALIVE. Payment issued upon full elimination or capture of ALL targets. No partial claims accepted.

REWARD: Forty million credits. Bonus ten million for the intact capture of the Red Raptor vessel.

All proven expenses reimbursed upon provision of receipts. A formal private position within the Hutt hierarchy is promised upon successful completion, if desired.

This contract overrides all local law, Republic charter protections, and rival claims. Effective immediately. Legal writs available for relevant star systems.

Then the images of the targets appeared. Thane's image was seemingly captured during his time serving within the Reborn Jedi Order, garbed in Jedi robes in attendance at some manner of formal event. Bomoor Thort, by contrast, was captured on a frozen HoloNet still, stepping along a walkway on an unknown world. Zaracoda had been treated to a sketch drawn by an unknown artist, depicting her grinning maliciously. Mentis' pilfered image was worse in resolution than Bomoor's, but clearly depicted the bald, pale Near-Human. The image of Vickers showed him as a clean-shaven younger man holding a sign up with Aurebesh lettering and numbers, clearly from a period of incarceration on an unknown world. Reave, a Jawa in an ill-fitting, oversized hat, had a similar image to that of Vickers, glowing eyes frown maliciously.

The projection vanished then vanished, and a subsequent chirp confirmed the relevant data and guidance had been downloaded to personal systems...

And everyone stopped moving.

Someone exhaled, shakily. The corridor felt tighter. Even the walls seemed to lean in. One of Miun’s crew, a dark-skinned Human with a visible vibroknife hilt, shifted his weight.

Too casual. Too obvious.

The moment stretched.

He turned slightly, eyes flicking toward Miun’s back. His hand twitched toward his belt.

He never got there.

Miun spun on the spot, little cape flaring just long enough to conceal the throw - a glint of metal and hiss of pressure.

The Human staggered, a thin dart protruding from his throat. He reached up, as if in disbelief, then crumpled to the floor with a soft thud, fingers twitching.

The Twi’lek didn’t move, but the lekku were stiff with tension and betrayed the moment.

Miun’s eye locked on them. There was no rage. No flourish. Just the twitch of one ear, the shift of his stance - a silent promise that he was faster.

The merc hesitated and a second dart hit them in the shoulder before they finished their blink. Expression numb, they collapsed to the floor.

The Besalisk’s arms were up before Miun even looked his way.

"Okay! Okay, boss! Look, we’re good, right? I was just thinking-" Miun didn't give him time to finish. A third dart hit square between two folds of flesh under his chin. The Besalisk let out a gargled "Kriff me—" and collapsed like a felled tree.

"Uh..." the young slicer's hesitant voice echoed on the local comm channel like a Gungan clearing his throat, "So I take it you all got that transmission too. I'm...uh... It's all still good with me. You still need directions boss?"

Miun gave his direction. Block the rest of the crew, clear a path. They get the jewels, and then they find their new mark. Miun the Mighty finishes his jobs.

Only momentarily dampened by his colleagues' fates, the slicer jumped back into action.

"Right, so get going and follow those lights. You're almost there, just look out for..."

He continued laying out the plan as Miun took in the chaos around him.

Behind Miun, the sound of blaster fire resumed - further away now, deeper into the ship. The rival crew must have turned on itself, fighting over the bounty before they could even agree on a plan. Miun did not look back or around. He simply adjusted his armaments, slipped one of the Besalisk’s spare grenades onto his belt, and marched forward toward the crown jewels, the escape, and the chance to kill the Raptor crew before someone else did.

Following the trail, Miun found the ventilation access port and deftly slipped inside. Shuffling forward with haste for a short distance, he saw glowing light ahead emitting from another access port ahead. He peered through the gaps and realised he was right above his destination. The small, square room below practically glistened with various objects of interest to the gaze of the criminally-inclined. Around the walls were a series of lockboxes and on the central table in a little glass enclosure was his prize.

"Said I'd get you there," his ever-present earworm declared smugly, "And I've rolled out the red carpet too. All access ports to the ventilation system are unsecured and unarmed. In fact, you could crawl unnoticed from one end of the ship to the other now without worry. In fact, you might have to to make it back...out."

His final word trailed off as other voices could be heard on his end.

"Kriff," he hissed faintly, "Those damned amateurs are bringing the heat this way. I'm going dark. Just don't l..."

A double chime indicated the connection was lost before he finished his sentence.

The grille shifted with the softest metallic creak as Miun pressed his fingers to the edge, testing the weight. Below, the chamber flickered with climate-controlled brilliance—glass, velvet, security tags, silent systems all ready to be bypassed.

And there was his prize.

The Crown Jewels of Alderaan.

They sat beneath its enclosure like an echo of ages past: glimmering, reverent, surrounded by symbols of heritage and worth that meant nothing to the kind of man staring down at it now.

His black eye narrowed.

The room had no guards. No traps. No challenge worth the name.

Miun leaned forward into the vent, not dropping down just yet. Not quite.

He stared at the jewels.

And smiled.

It was not the grin of joy. Not relief. Not awe.

It was the grin of a Sullustan who had been laughed at in back rooms. Who had been spat on in ports and chased from dens where his name once meant something. It was the grin of a man who had survived Jericho, not by mercy or strength—but by refusing to die until everyone who said he would be forgotten was wrong or gone.

First the crown.

Then the crew.

He would bag them all—those Force-addled Jedi, that treacherous Ithorian, the stolen ship they blasted about in—and parade them in chains, or their corpses, before every slicer den, pit-broker, and Hutt that ever doubted him.

Miun the Mighty had returned!

RSS Feed