Murder on Level 1313: Splitting the Pack
Posted on Sun Mar 8th, 2020 @ 10:39pm by Amare & Thurius
Edited on on Wed Jun 8th, 2022 @ 2:02pm
4,042 words; about a 20 minute read
Chapter:
Additional Stories
Location: Exotic Tracks, Lower Levels of Coruscant
Timeline: Concurrent with "A Life Cut Short", 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.
Exotic Tracks had a checkered history in Coruscant's undercity. Starting as a genuine attempt to display some of the most varied racing sports in the galaxy to the public, mixing swoop-racing and podracing with traditional mount racing. However, the owners had quickly found that engines and livestock did not mix and keeping their assets in working order as well as organising races was a tricky business to keep afloat.
However, their popularity with the locals kept them afloat for several years before they found themselves under scrutiny for keeping their racing animals in inappropriate conditions and failing to declare a number of their rarer creatures to the proper authorities.
When the original owners were about to give up the business, it was miraculously saved by an investment by a "local consortium of businessmen", otherwise known as the Wild Pack gang. Their intervention ensured that all investigations into the business' activities ceased and also meant that the gang's leader, known only as 'Tank', permanently acquired the VIP box overlooking the racetrack.
It was this jarringly vibrant-appearing location that Master Thurius of the Reborn Jedi Order found himself entering during their "Fete Week Spectacular" event. His nondescript grey cowl was pulled far over his tall Cerean head as he could manage as he shifted through the crowds and under the neon sign that beamed out the racecourse's name across the dim streets. It seemed that most people on this lower level were patrons of the racecourse but the dreary eyes he met did not speak of the excitement one might expect from the anticipation of a day at the races. He saw how the masses began to join various queues to purchase betting slips for the day's fixtures.
Gambling was an artificial thrill that offered no genuine reward of the spirit (as the Order taught very early on); Thurius felt a pity for those around him who lived for that fleeting high that was almost certainly not going to raise them out of the lives they found little meaning in. However, the wash of indifferent sentients made it crystal clear to the Jedi which people here were not attending out of some addictive obligation, but were simply here for pleasure. Thurius spied a group of individuals, of varying species that were laughing together as they walked stood by the pens. They had stopped to jeer at a particularly vibrant creature: a feathered reptilian mount the Cerean knew to be a Varactyl. The species had risen to prominence sometime before the inception of the Third Republic, having been widely exported from their homeworld of Utapau and bred into many fascinating different variants (with many planetary breeders claiming to have developed the superior specimen). This particular Varactyl appeared fairly classical, save for the rainbow spectrum of different feather colours across its back.
The creature cawed with a rattle in its voice that spoke of its discomfort at its current attention. Fortunately for the animal, the onlookers very quickly lost interest and carried on along their way. Thurius slipped closer to the individuals, allowing himself a brief glance of appreciation at the majestic creature he passed. He fell in step with another group just behind his current targets and was close enough to see them more clearly and catch some snippets of their conversation.
The closest individual, a pale-skinned Zabrak, wore a worn olive military shirt with a poorly sewn-on patch on the shoulder that bore the emblem of the Wild Pack gang: an unknown predator beast's head with exaggerated teeth. He threw down a bottle, which rolled out onto the tracks, where a silvery-metal swoop bike shot past and rattled the glass container back out. He spoke with a deep but raspy voice, "Why do we never come here when they're racing the beasts? I tire of seeing those boring swoops go round and round."
"Ay! I don't pick when we come here," came the retort from a heavily bearded dug who led at the front of a group, walking on his sturdy upper limbs, "If you paid any attention, you'd know we came here every Taungsday specifically for the swoop race. Boss likes em', you see, and if you av' any hope of stickin' around, you'd better make a show of likin' em' to."
The Zabrak waved a hand dismissively, "Sure, sure. I can make a show of it, but how much longer is the boss going to be up in his box for?"
"He always stays till the end, buddy, so get another drink and relax," came the Dug's reply, "This here's a break; we'll be back on the streets before you know it, don't you worry."
Thurius looked about for the 'box' he had mentioned and, sure enough, saw the large protruding room with the wide glass window looking down on the racetrack. This may well be easier than he had expected; he could easily make his way up there and, from the looks of it, his 'security detail' here was not going to be a bother to him.
The Jedi cut away from the crowd and begun weaving up through the seats towards the outer wall of the racing stadium.
A short while later, Thurius found himself nestled just above the VIP box in a small crawlspace. He heard a deep voice shouting and jeering at the ongoing race, interspersed with the excitable arachnid clicks characteristic of the Harch species. Thurius sensed that Tank was alone, but that he was in good spirits and likely slightly intoxicated. His odds of this being a quick conflict continued to improve; he may even be able to secure a surrender without taking out his blade, but was certainly not afraid of it coming to that.
As he reached the space just above the room, he finally caught a glimpse of the man. Tank certainly lived up to his name: he had a bulky frame, only accentuated further by his additional pair of arms that seemed to expand his chest further outwards. He wore the uniform of an ORA officer, with the sleeves torn away and a variety of patches emblazoned upon it, with a large Wild Pack crest that filled almost the entirety of the uniform's back and an Aqualish emblem with a red cross through it that took pride of place on the front.
Lovely looking fellow, Thurius thought as he made sure his belt was secure before he dropped down. Like many members of his species that joined the Second Outer Rim Conflict, Tank probably used every conflict as an opportunity to mask his xenophobic hatred for his distantly-related species, the Aqualish.
A buzzer sounded as a swoop bike crossed the finish line and Tank erupted in a violent cry, smashing all four fists down on the nearby catering table, throwing various platters into disarray. Thurius used the distraction to mask the faint plod of his boots hitting the ground as he descended from his hiding place.
Tank did not turn around immediately and Thurius was left facing the snarling emblem on the man's back, rising and falling as the gang leader muttered and panted with internal frustration.
"Oh dear. I don't think today is your lucky day," the Cerean Master took a chance in addressing the man so boldly, relaxing his posture and taking his chin in one hand, "But then again, I could have told you that."
A reactionary click sound leapt out from Tank's arachnid gullet and spun around in shock and stumbled back. "Wha?? Who arhhhh!" He tripped over a large oval-shaped animal fur carpet that resembled the colour and consistency of a tauntaun, and crashed down onto a round glass table that had been covered in empty shot glasses used up death stick vials. Two of his arms helped him quickly push off the shattered glass on the floor whilst another arm struggled to help him back to his feet and the last remaining appendage drawing a small hold-out blaster sidearm. The arachnid man was stoned and clumsy, but being the shoot first and ask questions later sort, he didn't hesitate on the trigger, nor was his aim too shabby as he opened up on the Jedi intruder in close quarters.
Immediately dropping the relaxed posture, Thurius wrenched an arm to the side and threw away the man's blaster, tossing it across the room with the Force. He was somewhat disappointed to see how inebriated the man was; this was going to be far too easy.
"All right," Thurius sighed, starting to walk forwards slowly, "Let's not have your bad day get any worse. Mr Tank, in the name of the Third Republic and the special powers granted to the Reborn Jedi Order, I am placing you under arrest."
"J-Jedi?!" Tank exclaimed with a few compulsory mandibular clicks as he backed away until he made contact with the transparent plasteel skybox window. "I have done not'ing wrong!" He started sliding along to his right
and added as one of his stubby fingers covertly slid across a hidden silent alarm button under the window frame, "Well, okay, there was that Twi'lek escort that got sick after... welp, you know... heh, heh... *click* b-but I had consent in writing! We're supposed to do that these days I think. Holotag 'WeToo', am I right? Hey, need a drink? Gots plenty over there. Help yourself."
The HoloNet reference passed Thurius by, but the implication was clear about this man’s general disrespect for most things, the fairer sex included, “Thank you, but I don’t need a drink right now,” he replied, now wondering if his Liwi Spritzer from earlier was still in his system, “I’m afraid I must insist you come with me now. Your co-operation will make this go much more smoothly.”
The Jedi crept further forwards, approaching the imposing Harch figure silhouetted against the light from the window. He begun to feel uneasy at how Tank seemed to be waiting for something, not knowing about the silent alarm. The Force was projecting that uneasy sense of anticipation and dread that often arose when the situation was about to take a turn for the worst. He tried to look for additional weapons that might be concealed on or near the gangster that he might spring upon Thurius; Tank might be a brute, but he had a military background and just one weapon did not seem quite his style.
Just then, the warning in the Force grew more focused; it was not Tank it was warning him of, but his associates that now prepared to spring in from outside the door. Out of his instinctive connection to the Force, Thurius drew and ignited his brilliant blue lightsaber just as the door was kicked in by the Zabrak gangster from before. Without hesitation, the newcomer began firing a semi-automatic blaster towards the Jedi, who had already begun moving towards the opposite wall in anticipation.
Now in cover behind the drinks cabinet, Thurius waited until the firing paused and another voice, seemingly the Dug, rang out, “Hey boss, you alright? Was that a Jedi?”
"Who cares what he is," Tank growled with a click as he pulled a twin-barreled scatter gun from behind the cushions of his lounge sofa, "slag the fool to a burning crisp!" With an intimidating pull back on the loading action of the shotgun style weapon, both Tank and his henchman took aim to let loose.
"With pleasure boss," the Dug used a powerful hand to pull himself atop the table and brandish his own heavy blaster, which he shook in the air, "Hey you, get out from behind that cabinet or we'll fill ya' with more holes that a Iegoan moon!"
Thurius sensed that the man was out in the open and overconfident, which gave him an opportunity to exploit. He sensed the Dug about to fire a warning shot, which was a foolish move against a lightsaber wielding Jedi. As anticipated, the blaster bolt was fired and Thurius ignited his weapon and cut out in a perfectly-timed arc, which sent the bolt back almost precisely along its original course, but with enough deflection to strike the thug firmly in the chest.
"Kark!" growled the Dug as he fell backwards, gripping the serious, if not fatal, wound.
In response, the Zabrak began firing his semi-automatic blaster again at a rate that was harder for Thurius to accurately deflect back. The Jedi kept himself in cover, while trying to deflect as much as he could back across the room. He might get lucky, but relying on luck was not the standard mode he operated in. Something was making him feel more anxious than usual; an extra hint of danger in the Force that made him cautious to step out into the spray of blaster fire that awaited him.
Tank had dove behind the bar counter once the first blaster bolt came back in his direction, narrowly missing his left thigh. Bringing his scatter gun to bear, he growled, "Block this, magic man!" and squeezed the trigger which answered with a very satisfying boom.
The payload from the ignited shell was based on a very old and very brutal weapon of war brought back into fashion among the elites of the galactic underworld. Tank had seen in the past what the Jedi Knights could do, especially their unnatural and extremely unfair ability to deflect blaster shots. One day, he had a crazy idea after a near-fatal run-in with some Sand People on Tatooine and decided that a slug-thrower would fit the bill. But then, he wondered, what if a Jedi could see the bullet and block it? Why not simply come up with something that can throw a whole lot of bullets or razor sharp shrapnel in a wide spread with a single pull of the trigger. It wasn't an original idea, and to his delight, some weapon manufacturers had the same idea, only better; the high-tech shells Tank loaded had contained super-heated plasma pellets for maximum incendiary damage. He was about to find out if the three thousand credits spent on the gun would be worth the investment.
Thurius was forced to move from his hiding place as the scatter of super-heated metal tore through flimsy cabinet. Even moving at heightened speed, he still felt the heat of the shot and used his blade to catch a couple of the wider pieces, that fizzled and crackled on his blade making it flash an irregular orange hue temporarily as the plasma consumed the metal.
He was now out in the open and the wide grin on the Zabrak's face suggested he was about ready to fire again. Thurius had no more cover and too much ground between himself and his enemies so he decided to shorten the gap. Reaching out a hand, the Zabrak was jerked forwards too quickly and surprisingly for the man to resist. His feet dragged a path through the shattered glass and debris on the floor until his collar was firmly grasped by the Jedi, who then spun him around as a humanoid shield before him.
With his lightsaber now raised before the man, having cut down his blaster in the process, Thurius called out, "Tank! This has gone far enough. I will take you in today but perhaps you would care to spare your associates any further injury and just surrender now."
Thurius did not like taking living hostages but it seemed just about justifiable in a gunfight such as this when threatening one man, might lead to far less bloodshed. In a lightsaber duel, as the Cerean was far more accustomed to, the competition was ended when one opponent held the other at a mark of contact. The same principle could be applied to many forms of combat but gunfights were so much more messy. Of course, in true combat such as this, it all came down to the morality of the opponent being bargained with and Thurius did not hold out much hope in Tank's compassion for his fellow man.
"*click*-*click*...That's a neat trick! Fufuhu...*click*," Tank said with a deep guttural chuckle as he held his aim with a trained military rifleman's stance at his Zabrak minion-turned-hostage, keeping all of his multiple red eyes on the Jedi looking for the slightest sign of attack. With a trigger pull away from blowing a massive hole on the Zabrak's center mass, he had with two hands on the scattergun, and a third having drawn a backup holdout pistol.
Tank started to think in his cobwebbed arachnid mind there was a possible opportunity at play. It was a long-shot, but it was always worth rolling the dice when facing a powerful foe. "Maybe I was wrong to want you dead. You should have just knocked on the door. We could have talked, but you choose to be so rude! And look at you now; Jedi big-bad using a meat shield to hide...*click*...when the going gets tough. No shame in it; I would've done the same. *click*-*click-shlurp*. I make you counter-offer: work with me on the side. Help us, and we help your Jedi. You live your Jedi life, but now with bonuses, yes? Everyone needs credits, even Jedi. All you have to do is be *click* civil. What say you, killer? Deal or no deal?"
The furious beating of the Zabrak's heart could be felt as Thurius gripped him tight. The younger man was filled with fear and pulsing with adrenaline that betrayed his thoughts; he was waiting for his moment to break free. But something else kept distracting the Jedi's mind. Somewhere else on another level of Coruscant, Mykles was also feeling a terrible fear.
Thurius was concerned but brought his mind back into the here and now, "I'm sorry, but I have no time to entertain your offer. No Jedi in their right mind would ever consider such an offer. But I resent the implication that I have not been 'civil' with you. This never had to turn into a violent negotiation yet here we are."
With a light prod into the Zabrak's back, the pair moved forwards slowly, "Now, empty all your hands and surrender. We can still..."
His voice trailed off as he seemed to feel himself leave his body so that he found himself seeing a vision of his padawan. But he was slipping away from each other as though they were passing ships in space and Mykles flew away from his grasp into a blinding void that burned him to stare into. However, the fading Cathar's voice echoed back to him:
I'm sorry, Master. Live on.
The Cerean then felt a sudden pain in his abdomen that wrenched him back to the racetrack box where, for a brief moment, he helplessly watched as the tide turned against him in slow motion. The Zabrak, having thrust his elbow into Thurius, dived to one side as Tank pulled the trigger on his scattergun, sending another round of superheated metal shards over towards the Jedi. Thurius stumbled to escape the attack but was caught along his right hand side with the small projectiles that burrowed through his robes and into his skin.
Falling to the floor behind and exclaiming at the searing pain, Thurius tried to piece together what he had just felt and what was going on around him. His lightsaber had been cast off in the other direction in the confusion (a serious failing for a Jedi) but he realised he had fallen beside the Dug and his now-unclaimed heavy blaster. He grabbed it in his hand and quickly swung it around.
"Fufuhuhu!" Tank triumphantly chuckled as he latched back the pump action, another smoking metal casing on the floor. "I was never going to cut you *click* in a deal. Now I'm going to show them all why no one can take down the Ta--?!"
It all went down faster than a Coruscant minute, almost impossible for Tank to see and mentally process it in time. The motion was so swift, so fluid, a loose blaster on the floor snapped almost instantly to the Jedi's grip. Two semi-automatic shots fired as quickly as an automatic rifle burst, one blast frying one of his two left arms, the other his left shoulder. Tank was down on his back in the blink of all his eyes. He did not cry out in pain, or writhe or react in any way one would expect after having been so brutally wounded, but his breathing became laboured, and his arachnoid mandibular clicking was continuous and unrelenting. The stench of burning flesh wasn't new to him, but he had never before experienced it coming from himself. It was a scent he did not like one bit.
In a desperate bid to retaliate, he lifted his head to try and find his scattergun. Unable to sit up or move most of his body due to shock, he stretched his right arms, desperate to grasp the weapon that was mere inches beyond his reach.
Another green blaster bolt collided with the gun, sending it flying and likely damaging the vintage weapon beyond repair, "I think now is the time we discuss my deal for you," Thurius had managed to wrench himself up, holding his wounded right arm tight against his body to stem the bleeding around the wounds that would need medical attention fairly urgently. He called out across the room to where the Zabrak was fearfully huddled in the corner watching events transpire, "And you there; Don't move! I'll deal with you once your boss here is in cuffs."
Tucking the blaster carefully into his belt, Thurius waved his hand over to where he sensed his lightsaber and the Durite and Osmiridium-plated hilt sped back to his grasp. Placing this too into his belt clasp, he then produced two pairs of binders, which he placed around Tank's uninjured hands.
"I only carry two pairs of binders, I'm afraid," Thurius commented, knowing full well this was of little importance, but continuing to talk prevented him from thinking upon what he had just experienced, "I trust you won't be pulling any more foolish stunts?"
"Typical Republic muckamuck," Tank grumbled as he gave no resistance, trying to pretend he wasn't bothered by his defeat, or his pain. "Always with your moral superiority, *click*. Be smart and kill me now. You know I'll just be back on these streets again. Go on, take that fancy laser sword of yours and be a real man, *click*."
Thurius had had just about enough of Tank, "A real man knows when to temper his blade. There's been enough death... enough death."
He repeated his last two words, seeing Mykles face again in his mind's eye. As he reached out in the Force, he sensed the weak life essence of the Dug gang member behind him. He may yet live and Thurius should not deny him that chance, despite the way things had gone.
With the cuffs now on, he pushed Tank towards the door and ushered the Zabrak towards him, "Go tend to your friend back there. Get him to a medic and we shall speak no more about your involvement here. But take my advice and get out of this game before you end up as just another casualty."
Just another casualty in the eternal war the Galaxy wages upon itself, Thurius thought as he brought Tank out into the bright artificial daylight of the racetrack and onwards to face Republic Justice, What more will it take from me before my own time comes?
Thurius knew the news that was to come. He knew already that Mykles was dead but still he dreaded the moment he was informed as though it would somehow set it in stone as an immovable fact in time. This was the day he had defeated a gang leader and the day that he had failed his padawan.
TBC
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