Step one on my brilliant descent into the underworld? Call a taxi. No way in hell was I going to slog a couple kilometres underground like some beginner spacer fresh off the shuttle. Work smarter, not harder—besides, the fares were dirt cheap compared to the blisters I'd earn otherwise.
The speeder cab was better than expected: smelled faintly of oil but not toomuch, which was a pleasant surprise. I slouched back, let my mind wander, and—because the galaxy has a sense of humour, I noticed a bronze Chaos Gatcha card stuck to the roof like some bizarre sticker prize. Just hanging there. Watching me. My reward for dramatic sighing. Or more likely, taking on my first job.
Now, did I crack it open right then and there? Tempting. But I already had everything I needed for this job, and I wasn't about to mix up my abilities or end up with a complication right before a job I was perfectly suited for. So, the mystery card stayed in my pocket for later.
Once I got dropped off in the right quadrant, I headed for the nearest elevator, and that's where the real adventure began. Lantillies' "lower levels" aren't one neat shaft that takes you from Point A to Hell. No, just like Coruscant, it's like descending through centuries of bad urban planning piled on top of each other. Every level is another layer of rust, grit, and forgotten promises. And elevators? Half of them were dead, the other half were possessed. One groaned like it wanted to snap its own cable, another reeked of ozone so badly I thought it might just catch fire, and one had a door that kept trying to close on me, like it wanted to shear me in half.
So, my descent wasn't so much a "ride down" as a scavenger hunt. Take one lift down three levels, hop out because the next ten floors were collapsed, cut through a stairwell with missing steps, shuffle past pipes dripping mystery fluids, catch another elevator that rattled so violently I could swear it was trying to throw me out. Rinse, repeat.
If not for Alpha, I'd still be wandering in circles, starring in some undercity horror holo. They had scraped together a half-broken map of the shafts and corridors, then played verbal GPS in my ear. With them, the trip was only mildly complicated. Without their help, I'd be tragically lost to the underlevels, never to find my target. It wasn't like signs were pointing to 'Bad guy base, this way'.
And the people. That hit harder than the elevators. Up top, the streets had been all humans, all business. Down here? Whole communities of non-humans, jammed into the shadows like Lantillies wanted to forget they existed. Twi'leks, Rodians, even a couple of Ithorians trudging along, all trying to survive where the sunlight doesn't reach. It was… depressing. Humans get the nice levels, the air that doesn't choke you. Everyone else gets shoved down until the weight of duracrete crushes their spines. And yeah, it left me with a gnawing guilt—my species was the one building the ladder and kicking everyone else down it. It made me question who led Lantillies that started this horrible affair.
The air itself changed as I went deeper. The top layers smelled like recycled ozone and too many bodies pressed together. Lower down, it turned into something heavier: the tang of rust, rot, and fried mystery meat being hawked at street corners. The light thinned too. The further down you go, the more neon has to work overtime to fake a sun.
I sighed (again), and a few people glanced at me. Then they saw the tall, armoured silhouette, helmet hiding my face, and quickly decided "nope." That was fine. Between the height, the gear, and the fact that my helmet made my species impossible to pin down, I read as "dangerous mercenary" instead of "fresh meat." No anti-human stares, no pickpockets. Just space made for me on the crowded walkways.
So yeah, my trip was relatively undisturbed—for now. But I wasn't fooling myself. The further down I went, the more desperate things would get. Up here, fear outweighed greed. Lower down, greed was going to chew me up and spit me out if I wasn't careful.
It was a neat little preview of what Coruscant's infamous underlevels might be like. One day, I'd check that nightmare off my bucket list. But not yet. Best to wait until I was a little less "rookie bounty hunter" and a little more "seasoned professional." Right now, Coruscant is a bit too high-level for me.
The base, or if you could even call it that, was an old apartment block. Once upon a time, it was probably upper-class, the kind of place with expensive chandeliers and doormen in pressed uniforms. Now it was just another buried relic.
The signs of its past still clung to it. Tall columns, cracked and collapsed under their own weight. Fancy windows, smashed out, glass long gone. A grand double door that had seen better centuries, one panel missing entirely, the other wedged permanently open. What had once been a welcoming entrance was now a ruin.
The front plaza had been designed for speeders to pull up and let the elite disembark, luggage whisked away before they'd even stood. Now, that wide, open area only meant there was no cover for anyone approaching. Around the corner, a parking garage sagged in on itself, half-swallowed by rubble. Convenient for high-class guests once upon a time—now convenient for criminals. A single guard could cover the entire front. And, sure enough, one sat there, looking bored but alert enough, blaster across his lap.
His armour was a scavenger's patchwork: mismatched plates from a dozen different suits, all bolted or strapped together. He'd at least tried to unify them with paint, but the scratches gave away the original colours underneath. A medium-range blaster, scuffed but functional, sat ready, perfect for the job of keeping anyone from sneaking up.
The streets around the base were eerily quiet. No foot traffic, no loiterers. This stretch of the underlevels had been carefully cleared, tucked far enough out of the way that nobody wandered here by accident. A perfect hideout. Too perfect. Intel had said "thieves," but thieves didn't usually post guards with rifles and armour. Either someone had gotten sloppy with the report, or this crew had graduated from mere thieving.
I tucked myself behind an alley corner and studied the scene, committing every detail. It didn't change how I would approach things, but it did mean the stakes were higher than expected. Potentially more dangerous than described to me.
Time to begin.
I pulled in a slow breath, found that mental toggle, and flicked on invisibility. Instantly, the world dimmed, as if someone had pulled a shade over my vision. Light bent around me. My brain itched with the contradiction of "I shouldn't be able to see, but I can." I looked down at my arm—nothing. Gone. That would take some getting used to.
I layered Shadowcloak on top, and the air pressed closer, muffling my breathing. Shadows thickened, edges blurred. I knew, even invisible, that it would help—make me indistinct, harder to notice if anyone caught even a flicker.
I waved my invisible arm experimentally. No shimmer, no flicker, no "cheap holo-disguise" effect. This was the real deal.
So, confident but cautious, I started forward. Invisibility might hide me, but I moved as though it didn't: timing my steps, sticking to the guard's blind spots, keeping to shadows. This wasn't just about trusting the ability; it was practice for my other skills.
Eventually, cover ran out. Nothing between me and him but open ground. He was alert, scanning, his blaster within easy reach. My hand rested on mine, set to stun. His eyes swept over me. Nothing. Not a twitch.
I crept closer, every step muffled by Shadowcloak. My heart hammered, but my training—that wasn't mine but now lived in me—kept my body steady. He never noticed as I slipped past, right under his nose.
The receiving hall beyond was a ruin of faded grandeur. Torn scraps of curtain clung to the ceiling where once-heavy drapes had been. The chandelier was gone, only a rusted chain dangling as proof it ever existed. Twin staircases curled up either wall, framing a central passage deeper into the complex. Wealth had lived here once, now only decay.
Alone in the hall, I exhaled. Now—where would they keep the data? Probably security. I pinged Alpha, and after a pause that felt far longer than it probably was as they hacked through databases to recover long-abandoned blueprints, then came back cool as ever: "Left staircase, down the hall, emergency stairs at the end." No commentary on difficulty, no boasting, just the facts.
I slipped into a shadowed corner, invisible, waiting, listening. Voices murmured deeper inside, but no one was near.
It was a chilling walk, following Alpha's directions. Every step screamed wrongness: me, an average nobody, strolling invisible through a den of armed thieves. My discomfort wasn't fear of discovery; it was the contradiction in my bones. All these gifted skills, all this assassin's instinct. Not earned, just dropped into my lap. It felt unnatural, like wearing someone else's skin. But it wasmine now.
I clenched my jaw, forced myself to breathe. Not the time for an identity crisis. Take what you've been given, make it your own. Snap out of it, Jax.
Balanced again, I pushed my ear against the stairwell door. Quiet. Safe… Hopefully.
The stairwell was lit by dim emergency strips; those thin bars bolted along the walls flickered, making everything look like the galaxy's saddest nightclub. They stuttered just enough to set my teeth on edge, throwing shadows that shifted with every buzz of dying power. Probably all running off some ancient backup generator buried five floors down, the kind of patched-together thing you couldn't hear but just knew was one cough away from giving up forever.
I climbed slowly, one hand brushing the cold railing, counting two levels until I hit the floor Alpha had flagged. Each step was silent with a hollow weight, boots against bare duracrete. There hadn't been carpet here in decades. The locals had likely stripped it long ago for fuel, or maybe for bedding.
The emergency door was propped open—rusted hinges jammed halfway through their death rattle. I slipped through, careful not to breathe too loudly, and found myself in a corridor stretched long and empty, lined with doors that probably once led into luxury suites. Now the silence was oppressive, every sound feeling like it could crack the whole place open. My senses were sharp, too sharp; eyes darting from shadow to shadow, ears straining for the slightest shuffle or creak.
Alpha's voice filtered into my ear, hushed even though they didn't need to be. "The door should be the last one on the right."
They didn't have to whisper. Nobody else could hear them. But something about a normal tone of voice in this graveyard of a hallway felt obscene, like shouting in a temple. The whisper matched the mood, and fine, I wasn't complaining; it felt right.
I made my way carefully down the corridor.
My steps were measured, deliberate, quiet as a ghost. I pressed my ear against the apparently correct door, the metal cold and rough against my skin. There it was—typing. Rhythmic, steady. Someone was working at a console.
Alpha confirmed this was the only entrance. Which was a problem.
I wanted this op silent. Nobody touched, nobody aware I'd ever been here. If I stunned him, the guy would be out for hours, slumped over his desk like a neon sign flashing intruder alert. Not exactly subtle.
Option one: open the door and stun him anyway. Simple, but sloppy.
Option two: knock politely, which would either get me shot in the face or, worse, make the guy alert.
Option three: … improvise.
I took my time looking around, and that's when I looked up and noticed it—the ceiling. Or rather, the lack of a ceiling. There was a jagged hole above me, probably from a collapsed floorboard, leading to the next level. And right next to me, sitting in a pile of rubble like fate had just tossed me a bone, was a cracked old glass bottle.
A grin crept across my face. Plan Bottle Break. Engaged.
The second I picked it up, the bottle winked out of sight. Apparently, my invisibility extended to whatever I held, which was one of those surprises you don't question too hard in case the universe realises it made a mistake. I stood directly beneath the hole, lifted the bottle high, and let it slip from my fingers.
The fall was short, the silence long. Then—
Smash!
The glass shattered against the bare duracrete floor, the sound sharp and clean in the stillness. Perfect bait.
I stepped back against the wall, heart thudding, and waited. Seconds dragged out. Just as my optimism started to crack, I heard the scrape of a chair and the hiss of the door.
Out stepped a Twi'lek—green skin, lekku swaying lazily behind him, blaster hanging heavy on his hip. His armour was the usual scavenged mess, more duct tape than design. He glanced both ways down the corridor, his gaze sweeping right through me. For half a second, my breath hitched, but then his eyes moved on. He frowned, tilted his head back, and spotted the hole. A muttered curse later, he shook his head like a man resigned to living in a building that hated him.
Exactly the assumption I'd been counting on.
The moment his back turned, I slid through the doorway, a shadow gliding past reality. Perfect timing. By the time he wandered back in, I was already standing invisible against the far wall, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.
The security room was… bigger than I'd expected. The bones of a once-fancy hotel still clung to it—the proportions wide and generous, with ghost-marks on the walls where expensive panels and fittings had once been mounted. Now it was stripped bare, scavenged down to its skeleton. Just one stubbornly functional terminal sat in the middle, cables trailing like veins into the wall. The rest was dust, broken furniture, and the faint scent of mould.
If the data were here, it wasn't lying in plain sight. I scanned the room, stomach sinking. It would be on the terminal. Damn. I could stun the guy and take his terminal—except no, idiot, remember the ghost rating. I sighed inwardly, resisting the urge to smack my forehead. I might have the skills, but I didn't have the instincts honed yet; I wasn't yet to the point where I could just instinctively account for things like this. Skills without practice made me dangerous to myself.
Alpha, as always, saved the day. "Check your link cable. If it's invisible too, you can jack in without him noticing."
'Oh, you're brilliant,' I thought towards the AI.
I ducked deeper into shadow, fingers brushing the edge of my wrist. Felt the connector unspool like a snake, smooth and silent, invisible, even as it extended. Invisibility confirmed.
Carefully, one step at a time, I lined up with the terminal. A slow breath. Then I plugged in.
Alpha hit the system like a hawk diving on prey. Firewalls shredded. Alerts neutralised. They narrated casually as they worked, because of course they did.
"Closed system. CCTV operates only in select areas. Door controls for secure floors accessible from here. Droid schematics were copied to this system, but I've overwritten them with junk code; it will read corrupted now. As for your prize? Notes say the boss keeps it with him. Penthouse level. They are still trying to arrange the sale."
I nodded invisibly. Annoying, but not unexpected. Data meant value, and value meant the boss wasn't trusting anyone else with it.
I unplugged the cable, retreating into my wrist like it had never existed. Now came the delicate part: getting out without breaking the illusion.
One finger press on the door control. The door slid open with a whisper. I slipped through, silent as shadow. Behind me, the Twi'lek blinked and muttered, "Huh?" His head poked out a moment later, lekku twitching as his eyes scanned both directions. Nothing. He scratched at his scalp, frowned, then retreated back inside.
The door hissed shut again.
I grinned behind my helmet. Still clean. Still invisible. Triple SSS rating, still locked in.
I was starting to get concerned about numbers. So far, I'd only seen two: the front door statue with a gun and the Twi'lek tapping away in the security room. But I had heard voices earlier, drifting from deeper inside the building, which meant the bulk of the gang was probably downstairs. That tracked. They would most likely have their fun in the communal spaces, rather than in separate rooms.
Which left me wondering about the boss. Was he upstairs in the penthouse, stretched out in some moth-eaten bed pretending he was important? Or was he down in the muck with his boys, holding court like a budget Jabba?
If he were upstairs alone, this might actually be easy. Slip in, find the chip, slip out. Nice and clean. Triple SSS rating intact.
But if the boss kept his prize in the middle of a room packed with thugs? …Then I was in trouble. Oh, sure, I could run a one-man terror campaign—play invisible wraith, pick them off one by one, lure them into the dark until the survivors were too paranoid to breathe. But that would mean rifling through every target's pockets in the hope that one of them carried the chip. Not exactly subtle. Not exactly efficient.
The only other workable plan I could come up with was patience. Wait until the boss eventually staggered upstairs for the night, let him tuck himself into his penthouse bed, and then waltz in behind him. Easy snooping. No extra bodies. Low blood pressure. Definitely my preferred option.
But preference didn't matter. I was already nearing the suite Alpha had tagged, and whatever I found inside would dictate how this played out. Plans were good. Reality was better. And reality usually had a way of laughing at plans.
I sighed, tightened my grip on the blaster at my hip, and kept moving. The penthouse was up this last set of stairs.
Once I finally reached the suite, I was pleased. Pleased because the boss was in—at least, someone was in. Who knew? Maybe it was grunt number thirty-six, the one relegated to sweeping up bloodstains and emptying ashtrays.
I pressed my ear to the door, straining. A voice. Then another. For half a second, my pulse spiked—two people? But no, the second voice was too flat, too tinny. A holocall. Which meant I wasn't listening to a bored grunt. This was the boss himself. And if the boss was trying to wheel and deal, that meant the data chit was probably in the room with him. Jackpot.
Now all I had to do was get in there without tipping him off. Easier said than done. There wasn't a keyhole to peek through, but there was a doorpad. If it came down to it, Alpha could pop the lock. So I waited. For what? A noise, anything that would cover the sound of the door opening.
Then my window opened. Raised voices. Heh. Classic bandit negotiation: always ends with shouting. When the boss's voice spiked into the "my lungs are in danger" range, Alpha slipped the lock, and I slid inside, praying the mechanism didn't whine.
Luck was with me. The shouting wasn't coming from this reception room—it was deeper in. Good. That meant distance. I crept forward, hit the interior close, and crouched just out of sight.
The boss was pacing in front of a holoprojector, fists clenched and flailing like he was trying to scare a rancor. In his hands—waved around with criminal recklessness—was a data chit. My data chit.
And across from him, projected in blue light, was a Neimoidian. Which explained the boss's theatrics. This wasn't a buyer. This was the employer.
"Listen here, Neimoidian," the boss snarled, slapping the chit against his palm for emphasis, "you think you can underpay us? We risked our hides, bled men, got you your shiny trinket, and now you want to lowball me?"
The Neimoidian didn't flinch. His voice oozed disdain, sharp as vibroglass.
"You were paid the agreed-upon fee. Twice. Your… losses are of no concern to the Trade Federation."
"Oh, they're gonna be your concern," the boss shot back, jabbing a finger at the projection like it was going to make an impact. "This chit doesn't move until I see more zeroes on the transfer. Triple the original, or it gets sold to someone else who appreciates my efforts."
The Neimoidian's eyes narrowed. "Your efforts? You are scavengers. Vermin. You picked over the carcass of a half-abandoned facility. Do not insult me by pretending it required skill."
Oof. Even I winced. That was cold.
The boss turned red, sputtering. "Vermin?! You watch your mouth, you slimy—" He broke off, raising both fists and miming strangling the hologram. Real mature. "I'm not some gutter rat you can brush aside, you hear me? I've got leverage!"
The Neimoidian leaned closer, voice dropping to a deadly whisper that somehow cut through the static of the holo.
"Leverage can be… removed."
Yeah, if there was ever a moment where I knew for certain this gang was already dead, that was it.
I slid my invisible cable into the holoterminal while the boss ranted, just to make sure he didn't have backups. Alpha confirmed in seconds: no hidden drives, no duplicate files. Just one chit, one idiot, and one very short lifespan Apparently he was on a Holocall with one Nargol Tredd.
Then it happened. The boss, mid-tirade, slammed the chit onto a table to free up his other hand. Both fists now shaking in the air, like he was rehearsing for some kind of one-man stage play about bad decisions.
That was my cue. I slipped forward, snagged the chit, and grinned as it vanished in my palm. Then I turned and ghosted back to the door.
The inevitable shout came right on schedule:
"What the frak?! Where's the data chit gone, you alien frog?!"
Wow. Mean and wildly inaccurate. How would the Neimoidian even get the chit? But at least it bought me cover. I was already down the corridor, muffling laughter. Honestly, the whole scene was going to keep me giggling for days.
Minutes later, I was out the front door, the chit safe in my pocket and the backup fried. Job done. And maybe, just maybe, I could squeeze a few extra credits out of my employer with the little tidbit that the Trade Federation was pulling the strings. That had to be worth something.
I was back in line at the bounty hunters' offices, clutching the data chit like it was the galaxy's most boring golden ticket. I'd already triple-checked on my personal datapad that it was the right one, because paranoia is just good business when it comes to jobs like this—and now all that was left to do was… wait. Again.
Gods, if bounty hunting came with a manual, half of it would just be pages and pages of standing around until somebody lets you move forward. I felt like I'd spent more time today loitering in corridors than actually doing anything dangerous. But hey—that's how the cookie crumbles. Or in this galaxy, how the death sticks burn.
Eventually, it was my turn, and I was waved toward the same office I'd visited earlier. Funny thing: it had only been hours, but it felt like a lifetime ago. I noticed I walked differently now, straighter, more solid, like I actually believed I belonged here. Confidence is a weird drug.
Inside, the same human male from before looked up, gave me a practised smile. Not the "happy to see you" kind, more the "oh good, you didn't die, saves me paperwork" kind. I pulled off my helmet; no need to be rude, and slid the chit across his desk.
He took it with the nonchalance of someone who'd seen a hundred before, popped it into his terminal, and frowned just slightly as he read. Then he looked up.
"It has been copied once."
My heart didn't skip a beat. I'd rehearsed this lie already.
"They copied it onto their security terminal," I said smoothly. "I deleted and scrambled the data. They won't be able to recover anything from it. That's the only copy."
Technically true… if you didn't count the one sitting quietly on my own system. Thankfully, Alpha had already sterilised the trail. No one would ever know.
He studied me for a second, then nodded. His nametag read John. Really? John?For all the spice-addled Rodians and barrel-chested Trandoshan names I'd run into today, I get saddled with John. How aggressively human can you get?
"Very good," he said. "Then I see no reason this job can't be marked complete. Is there anything you'd like to add?"
I leaned forward. "Yeah. Is there extra pay for discovering who hired the gang? Because this wasn't some casual snatch-and-grab. They were working a contract."
That got his eyebrows twitching. He turned to his terminal, fingers tapping. After a pause, he nodded. "Not much, but the pay will go up. From two thousand credits to twenty-five hundred. But the information must include a name, and we must verify the gang members are still alive."
"Well…" I gave him a helpless shrug. "Not sure how you want me to prove they're breathing, but they were definitely alive when I left. For now. They were hired by a Neimoidian named Nargol Tredd, who works for the Trade Federation. And let's just say Tredd wasn't exactly thrilled with their behaviour. The gang boss tried to extort him for more money. From the way Tredd reacted, I'd bet my last credit they're already on some very short kill list."
John considered that, lips pursed. "I see. If that is the case, there is little we can do. But your information is too detailed to be fabricated. We can research this Nargol Tredd and verify his connections to the Federation. That is the client's concern, not yours." He tapped a key. "Very well. I mark this job complete. Here are your funds, bonus included."
The credit chit slid across the desk with a neat little clink. I took it with a quiet, "Thanks, John," and got the hell out.
The taxi ride afterwards was… weirdly nice. Relaxing, even. For the first time since arriving on this planet, I felt proud of myself. Really proud. Sure, I was ridiculously overskilled thanks to my gacha lottery ticket from the cosmos, but that didn't mean the job had been easy. For a normal, green bounty hunter, this op would've been a nightmare of creeping, improvising, and praying to whichever gods hadn't already checked out. For me, though? It had been a casual walk in the park.
Still, it was practice. It mattered. I'd improvised, I'd adapted, I'd proven I wasn't just going to choke under pressure. Maybe the Jawa god of the gacha was smiling on me after all.
Speaking of, I hadn't actually gotten my reward card yet. Weird. Usually, it popped up right away after a job. I leaned back, cracked the cab window for some air—
—and immediately got smacked in the face by a card.
"Pfft—khaff!" I sputtered, swatting at my forehead. The damn thing had plastered itself against me like it was mocking me. A shiny platinum card. Of course. Of course, it would literally hit me in the face.
I grumbled, peeled it off my skin, and tucked it away. I'd open it—and the bronze one I'd been putting off, once I got back to the apartment. Hopefully, in a place where the universe wouldn't think it was funny to throw rewards directly at my head.
Oh, who was I kidding?