Murder on Level 1313: War Beneath their Feet
Posted on Sat Dec 21st, 2019 @ 8:23pm by Loren† & Thurius
Edited on on Wed Jun 8th, 2022 @ 2:02pm
4,320 words; about a 22 minute read
Chapter:
Additional Stories
Location: Cargo Port, Level 1313, Coruscant
Timeline: After "Cream of the Core", New Year Fete Week, 1,199 ABY
This post takes place in 1,199 ABY, only four years after the Second Outer Rim Conflict, and follows Jedi Master Thurius and his former padawan Mykles as they journey into the Coruscant undercity.
With a distorted synthetic voice, the now-ancient lift platform announced their arrival at level 1313. By the time the two disguised Jedi stepped out onto the deep sub-city level, the sun had set on the golden skyscrapers above. For those on this level, they had to rely on the dimming of the artificial lamp strips that stretched around the main thoroughfare. But for the citizens of 1313, night brought little rest.
This entryway into the level still had some semblance of its original design: a cargo depot, receiving essential supplies intended for the various establishments that some great designer had imagined for these lower streets. The lift they had descended in was, in fact, intended for cargo but it was one of the few remaining entryways that still functioned that allowed for a more inconspicuous entrance onto 1313, which, according to Loren, would not attract as much gang attention.
Loren had darted ahead to try to find the office one of the few delivery crews that still came to this level; she claimed to know someone there who had helped her in the past. Mykles was left in a mostly-deserted courtyard, lit primarily by the flickering glow of a public HoloNet terminal. The visions projected onto the thin, warped screen painted a very different image of life on the capital planet. It was a view of the Galaxies Opera House, which had been adorned with sweeping purple banners in celebration of the first Core World performance of the Serennian classical opera: “The Last Count of Maudavia”.
Scenes of glamorously dressed patrons departing from luxury speeders spoke of the tremendous class and wealth divide between those living in the light and those living in the dark. Mykles had been fortunate to have lived most of his life in the relative comfort of the Coruscanti Jedi, but even the extravagant excess of some of the ultra-wealthy seemed a world apart from him.
The glimpse of the world above was interrupted as a figure suddenly emerged from behind the terminal and struck a hairy green fist against the screen, causing the projection to flicker slightly as it showed images of the opera house interior. Mykles flinched as the twin-tusked face of a male Aqualish came into view. He barked in his native tongue something the disguised Jedi Padawan vaguely understood as, ‘Hey you!’
Mykles half-reached for his concealed blade before thinking better of it and simply turning to face the newcomer with narrowed eyes. The man tried to take another step forward but stumbled as his foot dropped down from the curb. Mykles relaxed slightly, seeing that the individual was clearly inebriated, but he glanced around to see if there was anyone else close by.
The Aqualish hunched over and held his knee, taking a moment to gather himself. He mumbled some more incoherent language, directed towards Mykles but the Padawan had already begun to walk on, not wanting a scene to erupt. The Aqualish did not give chase but shouted after him a string of curses. Mykles stopped abruptly as he heard the tipsy man mention ’Dark Star’ and was about to turn back when he saw Loren emerge in front of him.
The casually-clad, but combat-ready, disguised Jedi Sentinel looked the Cathar up and down, a judgemental right eyebrow arched up at the younger Force user. Her eyes wandered over to where the Aqualish was still stood and cursing, his guttural barking language carrying quite effectively across the squalid air and rusted metal construction of the cargo port.
"Makin' friends?" She challenged Mykles, now placing a disapproving hand on one hip, and she looked now briefly to where the young man's hand had almost grasped his lightsaber hilt.
“I was just…” Mykles trailed off, looking back over his shoulder at the drunkard before dismissing him, “Well, I was only standing there by the screen, when that guy came and starting blathering away at me. I didn’t do anything.”
He now was watching Loren and absorbing the judgmental body language she was providing him. He didn’t really want to be babysat by someone while his Master went off and completed the job without him. He had been promised his first real mission of importance and he was relegated to some reconnaissance role that would likely come to nothing once the Wild Pack leader had been dealt with.
“Loren,” he screwed his furred face up so that his yellow eyes were tiny slits staring back at the Human, “What are we really going to accomplish here? Nobody is going to talk to us. We’re just going to get shouted at or, worse, shot at by street thugs and low-lives.”
The older Jedi looked back at the padawan for a few moments after he spoke, her expression indicating she was trying to work out what she should feel and, more importantly, what she would say. Although now well thought of within the Reborn Order, she remained without any padawan learners of her own. Given her chosen field and approach to her work, it seemed unlikely that was going to change - and it was clear that she probably had no desire for that to change any time soon.
"You're a very intense young man," Loren said finally, her voice interrupting the low humming of the failing diodes within an ancient light above her head. Her tone had slipped from condescension to something friendlier once more, almost familial. The woman's expression had softened, but she was clearly thinking about something. "I gettit. I do," she explained, walking them away from the dying light towards a half-working HoloNet two-sided billboard display. "I... You were only a youngling during the war, weren't ya?"
With a wary tilting of his head, the young Cathar nodded. He was not sure where Loren was going with this talk of the war.
Loren nodded sagely, bangs swishing with the motion. No one had been entirely free from the Second Outer Rim Conflict, not even the youngest in the Reborn Order. Many had seen their prospective masters leave for war, or even found them and their temple tutors leaving the Order to join the newly-founded renegade Rift Jedi. Some, surreptitiously, and in acts that drew widespread condemnation, even took their young students with them. Some had argued, such as the High Council, that they had stolen the younglings' choice from them, whilst the Rift retorted that only those willing had joined them on their journey. No forced repatriation had taken place. The Republic Senate and ORA Caucus, even with the involvement of Grand Master Quellus and other notable figures, had been wary of getting involved in Jedi business.
"That intensity... it don't always last," she replied. "And it shouldn't. I was a lot like you before, and durin' the earliest battles, too. When you're out there, on alien worlds and wavin' a laser sword around, you start to feel important. You feel like yer doin' something for the Republic - for the galaxy, y'know? Isn't that what all Jedi want, after all, to do the right thing for the people?" The question had been posed rhetorically, but the Human did not seem to want to spend too long philosophising on the subject. "But on 1313 and the like, you see the impact it has had on everyone else, even if they didn't even pick up a blaster or saber during the war. Bein' down here doesn't mean you'll be savin' whole planets from tyranny, or rescuing space princesses from star prisons, but you can try to make things right for the strugglin' - for the people that make the Republic what it is, and make it what it should be. Master Sotah once said to me: 'Jedi alone cannot change the universe, but together, we cast stones that cause many ripples'."
Loren scrunched her face after the quote, losing the hint of seriousness she had adopted. "Or something like that," she dismissed with a little wave. "Point is, it don't get more Jedi than walking amongst these folk. Kark, if it weren't for one of the hooded brigade marching about these underlevels, I'd never've been found!" She gave a warm, tooth-filled smile to the Cathar, and clapped a hand onto one of his robust shoulders. "Don't be in such a rush to take on the galaxy, Mighty Mykles. Too many folks get stepped on, that way."
Mykles had braced himself for Loren’s dressing down, but she did not unleash the stern words he had been preparing for. In fact, he found himself reflecting on his motivations for being down here. He wanted more than anything to be the shining Jedi he saw in so many before him. But Loren was right: being a Jedi was not always clean and glamorous. His rose-tinted view on the Second Outer Rim Conflict had not allowed him to tie together what he saw down here to the rippling effects of that conflict and its eventual outcome.
For a moment, the padawan felt a deep discomfort with himself for looking down his nose at these people. He drew his breath and clenched his teeth, holding back an influx of conflicted emotions that almost made him teary-eyed, “Master Sotah always knows the right thing to say, doesn’t he? I guess I shouldn't think myself too important for these people. I just wanted my Master... I wanted everyone to be proud of me...”
Loren raised a hand to place upon Mykles' thickset shoulder, her surprisingly calloused fingers gripping the younger Jedi tightly. Her face softened somewhat more, giving her much more understanding expression. "Mykles, I've not seen Thurius happier than he is now. During the war-"
A series of derogatory comments in a couple of languages interrupted Loren, along with the familiar jingle of one of the free, mandatory HoloNet broadcasts that still managed to find their way onto the advertisement/information terminals scattered about Coruscant's various inhabited levels. Unlike on the higher levels, where floating billboards and screen-laden skyscrapers would have the faces of the Third Republic's ruling classes and celebrity plastered across them, the denizens of Level 1313 and the associated floors were treated to more conservative displays.
By the interactive billboard that the drunken Aqualish had first insulted Mykles, that same drunkard and a small cluster of assorted beings had gathered. The piece on the Galaxies Opera House had, perhaps just as untactfully, now been replaced with the instantly-recognisable portly features of Supreme Chancellor Gud Pruuva, the Sullustan premier of the Third Galactic Republic. He was flanked on either side by the Vice Chair & Speaker of the Senate, a Human female of minimal note (but almost certainly counted amongst Pruuva's vast list of sexual conquests), and his Chief of Staff, a Chalactan Near-Human female (against whom the same allegation was frequently made). Behind them, offering his silent approval, was Jedi Grand Master Jundal Quellus, although he remained stoically silent.
In the image, the regally-clad Sullustan was stood before a podium bearing the ancient crest of his noble office, his dewflaps decorated quite queerly with elegant piercings of precious metals, a rare affectation for his species. Diminutive, as was typical of his kind, Chancellor Pruuva was nevertheless considered a well-meaning and outgoing politician, not given to backhand dealings or warmongering. He was, however, felt to be controlled by the corporations; he was easily led into various investment programmes of questionable repute, all in the interest of the public good. It had made him passably popular, if a little embarrassing in some circles.
"-Fete Week has begun with a blast!" The middle-aged chancellor was declaring enthusiastically in heavily-accented Basic, his slightly portly figure resulting in even flabbier dewflaps dangling this way and that with his bombastic expressions. The opening of the presentation had been lost to Loren and Mykles, who had now brought themselves closer, but not too close, to listen in. "All across the Republic, and especially on our fair capital world, the proud people of our nation have outdone themselves yet again, on the eve of the thirteenth century since the fall of tyranny. I think I speak for the entire Senate when I say I am proud to count myself amongst the elected; it is an absolute joy to serve at the pleasures of so many fine, upstanding and aspirational sentients!"
Loren arched an eyebrow at the display from their head of state, ensuring that Mykles caught the disdainful-but-amused expression. "He's drunk," she muttered quietly to him, "and up for re-election." However, the effusive Sullustan continued before Mykles could say anything, but it did not stop the cluster of locals from hurling a few inexplicable taunts at the screen.
"To commemorate this historic event, I am proud to announce that, in partnership with the fine people at GalactaWerks, the Republic will be launching a brand new colonial enterprise towards the Deep Core, a veritable landscape of discovery and opportunity, and the first of its kind for a century! There will be tax rebates for all citizens travelling or working towards this great new opportunity, and the government will cover all expenses for families to join them!"
The misjudged announcement seemed to play well to the crowd at the location Pruuva was making his announcement, and his two female companions beamed obediently at either side of him. A few more questions were asked of the chancellor, regarding other incentives and longer-term plans, but these were drowned out by the growing hubbub about the display by the locals. Very quickly, Pruuva had visibly begun to make some excuses, looped his stubby arms through those of his cohort, and the image split away from the politicians, and offered a grand display of the large parade making its way along the Avenue of the Founders, up towards the mushroom-shaped Galactic Senate building itself. Fireworks, banners and neon displays lit up the screen, thousands of sentients cheering and waving the assortment of acts and machines making their way along the avenue.
"Hutt-lovin' piece of kark!" An inebriated Human then hissed, spitting a large glob of blood-flecked spittle onto the display, an action which drew some guffaws from some of his equally-drunk companions. "Them an' their Jedi overlords!" He shouted haphazardly, swaying slightly. "Startin' wars an' gettin' rich out of it, getting power! Just like 'em. Fakers and liars, the lot of 'em, usin' us regular folk as slaves!" He spat again. "Don't give a kriff 'bout us, prancing 'bout in their fancy robes, power mad, prete- preted- pretendin' to split... makin' us kill each other! Pft. Rift Jedi. Still Jedi!"
Mykles scowled at the man but held his tongue. The man was seemingly intoxicated as the Aqualish before had been, although this individual was dressed slightly better, in a leather jacket with trimmed sleeves over a relatively clean white shirt, although the padawan’s sharp eyes did spy what looked like blood splatters across the sleeves. The man himself, however, showed no signs of injury. He was about to turn his gaze away and look to Loren for some guidance, when the man raised his arm slightly to reveal a tattoo of a diamond-like shape with a cross through it: it was the crest of the Dark Star gang.
The Cathar instinctively moved towards the man, who did not appear to notice the attention as a few more sentients gathered around him anyway. Some seemed to agree, adding their own jeers towards the screen, while a few seemed less agreeable.
Someone barked up and eyes were drawn downwards to where a diminutive Sneevel stood in a faded brown jacket that bore a military insignia, “Hey, I got no love for Poodoo Pruuva and his predecessors, but I fought in the war and some o’ them Rift Jedi weren’t so bad. Took a lot a’ guts to fight fer’ us against their own.”
"You karkin' me?" Then trumpeted a broad-shouldered Pacithhip, barging his way up close to the offending Sneevel. Garbed in tatty overalls stained with oil and other substances, the tusked man's build indicated he had once been strong and muscular, although this had seemingly given way to a grim life of substance and alcohol abuse in Coruscant's lower levels. "It were a Jedi that gave me this."
The man ripped away at the right sleeve of his overalls, revealing a rounded stump where his hand was meant to be. Whilst automated and simple aesthetic prosthetics both existed within the Republic - even being commonplace in some areas - they were not so readily available under the statutory healthcare provisions. In fact, under the reigning political consensus managing the Galactic Senate, much of the basic health service offered on inner Republic worlds, such as Coruscant, had had increasing oversight from private enterprises - such as GalactaWerks and its ilk. Since the most recent war, their services had become a lot more streamlined, despite the government's claims. It was not surprising the Pacithhip did not have one.
"We all got war wounds, mate," the Sneevel wrenched the cuff of his jacket down to reveal a hairless patch with an old laser burn scar just below his shoulder, "Got mine from one o' them GW clankers but I bet a bucket o' spice yours weren't from a Rift Jedi. Probably one of Quellus' Pub' loving lot, come down from their ivory tower to cut down us Rimmers. Don't hate on the Rift ones though; they actually made a difference. Gave us a sh-"
The Pacithhip suddenly charged, his shoulders dipped and head down, straight into the Sneevel, cutting the diminutive figure flying and cutting his sentence short. And, within a matter of seconds, some of the other gathered sentients flew at one another, regardless of which allegiance they had made vague claims towards, and fists, claws and talons began slinging in various directions.
Off to the side, looking decidedly less drunk than he had a moment ago, was the tattooed Human, who grinned at the turmoil unfolding, although the expression was fleeting. Clocking that Mykles had noticed his expression, the smile slipped, and he flung a nearby Advozse straight at the large Cathar, before quickly launching himself away from the fracas, a small alleyway on the far side of the street his obvious destination.
Mykles easily caught the weight of the confused Advozse that had been flung at him and, with simple Jedi finesse, navigated the man’s weight around him so that he was pushed away and back towards the brawl whether he wanted to be a part of it or not. The padawan had not looked at the sentient projectile once throughout the exchange, his wide crystal ball eyes were fixed on the direction the Human had fled in. Like a Gallaze caught in the headlights, he forgot all the cautions Loren had imparted to him and thought only of how he had miraculously found just the lead he had been seeking to root out the Dark Star gang. How proud his master would be if they returned with an informant who could divulge precious details of the syndicate’s movements and hideouts.
“I’m going after that Human!” Mykles announced, assuming Loren would hear him as he sprung forwards, “He knows something important!”
As the two groups had begun falling onto one another, Loren had been shoved backwards away from her Jedi partner, and was now caught between the Pacithhip and another Human, her lithe hands barely shifting past the sizeable shoulder of the nearest brute, a vain effort so that she could get a direct look at the other Jedi.
"No, Myk- Urgh!" Loren tried to call out to Mykles, but her words were cut short by a swift gut punch into her abdomen, knocking the Jedi Sentinel back and winding her, although she did not topple, like most females of her size would normally do from such a blow. Although she carried on trying to look towards the Cathar, who was already angling himself away, she was quickly having to turn her attentions back towards the fight, which was growing in size with each passing moment, as more and more denizens flung themselves into the foray. Unable to call upon her lightsaber or any obvious use of the Force, Loren was caught relying on her wits to manage the escalating situation, no longer able to keep her gaze locked onto Mykles.
With powerful steps and marginally Force-assisted speed, the Cathar set off in hot pursuit of the presumed gang member. He shot into the narrow alleyway to find it littered with trash and other discarded rubbish. He vaulted over another zoned-out Aqualish, who shivered at the sudden gust of wind the leather-clad youth swept over him with his speed, and followed his senses around a sharp bend in the alley.
He stopped dead, finding himself facing a dead end. The short passage ahead yielded only more detritus piled up around a sewer grate. Mykles crept forwards, his sensitive nose already flooded with the vile smells of 1313’s sewer system from the opening. Every level of Coruscant, even the golden floors above, had a labyrinth of sewage channels below the street level that channelled waste far away from civilisation and towards the processing plants found in the less residential sectors of the capital planet. But, much like the rest of the level, the sewer systems on the lower levels were rarely, if ever, maintained and the filth did not always flow as intended.
The tall, young Jedi squinted through grating on the entrance and into the darkness beyond. His target must have somehow quickly passed through into the tunnel, which meant that there must be some way to open the passage nearby. His thoughts were briefly drawn to his weapon concealed at his side, which would make quick work of the barrier, but he remembered enough caution to think better of this notion. Instead, he felt around the rim of the circular grate until he felt the firm sensation of a switch, which he hastily clicked. The grate slid aside, revealing its hidden mechanism just long enough for Mykles to slip in before it wrenched back into place behind him.
With greater caution, but still at a hasty speed, Mykles moved onwards, slightly hunched as the tunnel wound down into the subterranean passageways, gathering more and more of the rancid liquid by his feet, which trickled in from smaller channels feeding into this one. Mykles noticed, however, that this passageway contained some unexpected objects. There appeared to have been some effort to create a boardwalk along the centre of the tunnel, above the level of the water, and there were food wrappers and other signs of recent sentient activity down here. The young Jedi was more and more convinced he was in the right place, despite what his nose was screaming at him.
"Dirty little ORA cub-scum," then came a sing-song mocking tone, spoken in a thick, base Coruscanti accent that carried along the twisting labyrinthine tunnels of 1313's sewage system. Mykles had no trouble recognising it as the tattooed man. Whilst his voice definitely betrayed his lack of intoxication now, it had also taken on a more sinister edge. "Yer a long way from home, cub. Came 'ere for a real fight, eh? 'Aving GalactaWerks ram-raid yer planet not enough for you - you Cathar slime can't 'elp yourselves, can ya?" The voice cackled, the laughs resonating and bouncing about the tunnel, making it sound as though it was coming from a dozen different directions at once. "Can't wait to slice me more Rimmer trash."
Mykles knew that the taunts and insults were meant to rile him and he bit his lip with a sharp canine as he tried to channel those emotions down, thinking instead of the great boon it would be to find the man and have him spill all Dark Star's secrets to the Jedi. He thought about how pleased his master would be that he had grown so strong and independent. Even the shadow Loren would have to admit how ready he was to face the Trials.
Reaching out, his senses allowed him to find the man in the Force, quietening the environmental noises and other distractions so that he could practically see the man outlined in his mind, just a few turns along the sewer passages. Like a homing missile, he set off with tunnel vision towards the man, visualising how he would instantly disable the vile Human before he knew what was happening.
The boards splattered filthy water against the walls like froth from a rabid beast's jaws as the Cathar's strong feet pounded along, weaving through the dark pipe-ways until he eventually came out into a more open room. It was some kind of shallow cesspool, with various other entrances spilling the level's waste into this spot. He saw the man immediately, leaning up against another sewer grate across the far side of the water. He had no weapon but the gaping smirk he wore across his face that seemed to invite his capture.
Barely pausing, Mykles leapt forwards, darting across various scraps of waste material that had found their way down here and prepared to leap forwards and grasp the man with his clawed grip. He propelled himself upwards, but found something held him back. A slimy appendage had grasped his ankle and nullified his effort to jump. Instead, it pulled him down: down through the heaps of refuse, down below the water level. The last thing he saw was that satisfied smirk bearing down on him as all his hopeful energy transformed into fear.
TBC
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