For a useless dustball, Tatooine has a storied past. Everything from the near mythic rise of the Sith Lord; Vader, to the near legendary gun fights of Han Solo. Once upon a time it was a true hive of scum and villainy. Those days have mostly passed. Faded into the dust with the sands of time. Though little has changed, in truth, the same people toil away at their moisture farms. Little cities dot the landscape where down on their luck people struggle to make just enough credit to buy their way off the planet. Along with the same criminal underworld working to make sure that once you arrive, you never have the money to leave.
Jabba’s Palace.
One of the major contributing factors in Tatooine’s constant struggle to rise up by it’s bootstraps. The death of the Hutt Cartell’s Prince had sent the planet into a tailspin of endless criminal war. Each mini-faction battling it’s nearest rival. Each holding the other down until no one rose up to take Jabba’s place. Not even his palace has been reclaimed. Looted, yes but put back into function work? Never.
“… I don’t understand, Father, the scanners recognized the bounty markers. We know that they’re waiting for us. Why are we going to walk into a trap?”
Anwyn is a young boy. Raised in the security of the Imperium. Kept apart from the Darkside, because balance demanded that he have the choice his sister never knew. As time had passed hero worship and a little impatience played a role in seemingly giving the boy a clear path to the Darkness. His Father is not now, nor has he ever been, certain the boy understands what the choice even truly means. That often leaves them at cross purpose with the Father constantly nudging the Son to learn patience, to experience emotions and to simply… be a child.
All too soon the choices had begun to be stripped away. With the First Order seemingly locking them all in a path that is hell bent on destruction.
The elder Kueller sighs at his boy, his voice betraying his weariness at having to constantly explain every detail; “Because, boy, this is our rendezvous point. Born from a moment shared with your Mother than few others even know about. The Hunters should not be there, they should not know. Your Mother and Sister should already be here. That they are not here, waiting, tells me one of two things.”
“Either they have been delayed. In which case the Knight may have been damaged, they may not have the ability to recognize this trap before it is sprung upon them. Or. Those Hunters have somehow already taken them.”
By his side the boy’s teeth snap shut and his look of confusion becomes a glowering mask. He’d never considered the possibility of his Mother being captive. Once more buying in to the Hero Worship of a child’s fantasy. Sadly, the reality does not stop him from continuing to live in that false world.
“Hm. Alright, then what shall we do Father? You can hardly hold your lightsabers after…”
“Shh, Anwyn. Lower the ramp and follow me.”
The desert is a harsh reality in comparison to Almania. As soon as four boots touch sink into the sands the Son quickly learns that he is not in the controlled climate of Stonia anymore. With each step into the once illustrious palace the boy’s steps grow heavier. To him this must feel like a death march.
Once upon a time you would meet a large double door and be forced to seek entrance, but those times are long past. The doors stand slightly ajar and the keeper is no longer awaiting the next arrival. Just within the grand audience chamber, that once upon a time played host to parties of the like which this planet will never see again. The pit where Max Reebo’s band once played is now filled with the sand of a nearby dune that seeps through every crack in the palace’s broken facade.
Beside the Son, the Father towers even though he is bowed from weariness. His jet black hair shines with grey flecks that weren’t there just a couple days previously. Though it is the sunlight flickering off the golden krayt dragons embroidered into the Sithian Robes that catches the eye first. Right up until those double doors clack shut.
One by one, from every alcove and pit of sand, a Hunter steps. It is rare for a Hunter to work with a partner, much less an entire Hunting Party. One by one the elder Kueller makes eye contact, while the Son rattles off their names as if he were reading them off a baseball card.
“Raxor the Dread Pirate and his fire mate Disane. IX-901, upgraded hunter seeker droid. Those four are the Death Trooper super-commandos, from Grand Admiral Thrawn’s armada…” His voice rises with child-like excitement with each new name. “…that’s Rel’nor Vix, the Mandalorian hunter that took down an entire Republic Garrison with a credit-chit that he won in a poker game…”
“By order of the Bounty Hunter Guild, if you lay down your arms and surrender you will be taken alive to the nearest First Order facility for processing.” A protocol droid next to the largest creature in the room begins to speak as translation for the Hissing/Clicking language of the species of his boss.. They’ve taken their positions near where the dais was for Jabba to lounge. Fitting, really.
“Oh and that’s Ba’tua, the Trandoshan who everyone thinks is going to be the new leader of the…”
Pew.
The Son’s words die in the air. As does Ba’tua the Trandoshan. The reptilian maw that was just hissing it’s way through an offer of peaceful surrender is now a smoking husk. The droid’s eye-receptors are nearly as large as the hole in the back of the Trandoshan’s skull.
“…Father did you just shoot the …”
Anwyn Kueller’s look of shock is mirrored in all corners of the room. His surprise is the last to fade away. The other Hunters are professions. Some more so than others. Each picking it’s own position specifically to highlight their own skill-set. Their mistake was in believing the Lie. The next bolt in the air goes through the black and gold embroidered robe, at center mass. Dolph just happens to no longer be wearing it when it does.
It takes the Hunters less than a second to realize what happened. In that time Dolph has pushed his son into the sand of Max Reebo’s pit with one hand, the other hand shrugged off the reflective robes and twirled them into the air to shield him from the sight of the Death Troopers. Their bolts tear through the robes, but the Sith who wore them is already gone. Up in a leap that carries him to the balcony, the Dread Pirate and his First Mate track him with their slug throwers. They simply move too slowly against a man empowered by the Force.
The two Pirates were fitting of their names. Dressed to the nines, sporting the regalia of the Mordu Sector. Dripping in gold, jewels. The first mate’s bosoms bulged to show that she was a proper ‘Mate’ to the Pirate Captain. None of it saved them. Raxor’s slug is nearly to Kueller’s shoulder when the force twists around it. Curving the trajectory of the bullet around him, allowing him to not even duck. Disane’s slug was low already, not being able to keep up with the Sith Lord that was quickly moving upon him. Her scream ended in the gurgle that only a vibro-shiv can create when it’s shoved to the hilt in the jugular. Her Captain’s second shot ended that burbling whimper when Kueller used her as a meat shield, leveraging her around by the enamored belt she hung her guns on. The two lovers have a final kiss, when a flick of the wrist puts Disane’s gun to her lover’s crotch and a final kick sends the two of them sprawling off the balcony.
Ducking into the alcove that the Pirates had been hiding in wait for their prey, bolts shower the upper balcony. Apparently the Death Troopers had recovered from both their initial shock and the momentary willingness not to kill members of their own party. Even as the hailstorm of bolts destroys what little remains of the illustrious palace the sith they seek is moving. Down the backside staircase and back to battle.
The Troopers are well trained. Not the confetti soldiers of Palpatine’s ‘Grand Army,’ but the precision soldiers of Thrawn’s elite tactical force. They advance weapons drawn, employing a scorched earth policy to an entire side of the Palace. None of them expected the floor to open wide beneath their feet. It is not a Rancor awaiting them, but the screams are much the same.
It’s the Mandalorian that draws first blood from the Sith. As Kueller leapt from the Rancor Pit, aided by the Force, a tether line of razor wire shot from a gauntlet ensnared the great Sith’s torso. As it synched tight, the razor wire cut into flesh so deeply that gouts of blood spattered the scampering Son as he watched in horror. He’d seen his father gather a storm of lightning, so he believed until that moment his Father was untouchable.
“No!”
Fear is a powerful tool, but it was not Dolph Kueller’s own fear that fed him. For he knew this was not the moment of his Death. No. Dying here would mean only that the trap for Kyla would work. His son’s fear was a fuel, gasoline to be put upon the fire of anger rising inside of him. Though it tore at his hand, he grasped the wire. Even with the pain of having his hands torn asunder, the lightning rode that wire back to the Mandalorian. To his credit, he did not scream.
“Father, the droid…” Anwyn’s words once again trail off as the ‘Upgraded Seeker Hunter’ lumbers towards his father.
That sort of droid doesn’t lumber! Something is wrong with it. Anwyn eyes widen as he notices the hole in it’s optical sensor array. His eyes widen, then blink, and he scrambles out of the sand to see what exactly has happened.
“… but.. that’s impossible… that’s a hole from a slug thrower?! You used the first slug from Raxor to kill the droid.”
“…mm. That droid. There’s still one left…” His Father, even now untangling himself from the razor wire, tilts his head toward the protocol droid. “… it is already com-stating to the Guild that the hunting party is dead.”
“We have to go…”
Finally. The Boy sees the truth of it. If they stay, perhaps they will hold out until Kyla arrives. It is just as likely though that she will take just long enough that the Guild descends upon them in full force or summons the First Order again. No, they can’t stay, they have to go.
“…but there’s still one left…”
The look between Father and Son is primal. Finally a crimson blade ignites. The protocol droid ambles away from the dais, it’s objections of ‘Oh, dear’ fall upon the dead ears of a boy that has been denied his chance to reunite with his mother.