Casa Nostra No-More

[Tally]

It was a late evening and Markus was sat, alone, hunched over at the Dac City Hotel’s Resort his hands nursing the fifth fruity cocktail of the evening.
His evening was about to come to a close he imagined, the bartender would likely cut him off at some point, regardless of the fact that he felt fine, better than he had in the past week at least.
Between Ira’dana and Feya’s amnesia, the mounting tension in Viscara, the news about Darien it seemed the galaxy had little trouble reminding him of what it meant to be on the bottom rung of a ladder that led down to a sewer pipe.

Taking the little umbrella in the rim of his drink and stirring it, he reminded himself that he was hardly the only one feeling this way, and it wasn’t exactly helping to mill about feeling sorry for himself on the beach resort planet.
“Markus, Markus, Markus…”
Came a distantly familiar voice from behind him, ah voice that riled up some long ago, indignant fury that he’d done his best to bury.

“Mama’s Boy…”
Markus muttered as he looked back at the figure behind him, a Nikto, sharply dressed in a black business suit and red dress-shirt, Mar’din Boide, or as people around his old neighborhood called him “Mama’s Boy” for short.

“So this is what a “Hero of the republic” does in his spare time.”
The Nikto tutted as he walked over to, near enough to speak more clearly but not near enough to be considered a threat.
Still, the day the Nikto had twisted the head of a shopkeep off of his body still lingered in Markus’s mind, and so he held a hand cautiously over his holstered pistol, hoping the threat of apprehension by local security would keep things civil.

“What do you want Boide?”
The smuggler asked tersely, taking another sip of his cocktail and suddenly wishing it were something stronger.

“Just wanted to share some news, that’s all. Thought you might wanna hear about how the old crew is doing…”
The Nikto said with a shrug of his burly shoulders, squared off by the neatly pressed and tailored suit he wore, specially gifted to him by his own boss, of course.
The Smuggler gave a deep scowl as he eyed his former Capo, before he wouldn’t dare do so much as make eye contact, but now after all he’d been through, a single nikto in an expensive suit hardly terrified him.

“I’d like to think the fact that I’m drinking alone at a resort is enough of a clue that I’m already full up on bad news. Besides, why would I possibly care about the crew now? In case you forgot I had to leave and go be your scapegoat.”
“Best decision we ever made by the way.”
Boide said with a chuckle as he grabbed Markus’s glass from the bar and downed it in one before continuing.
“Every time you and your little friends go dress up and play hero it makes us look just a little bit better, after all, if you can go around killing sith troopers and fighting in wars, what does that say about all our men? Our reputation’s skyrocketed ever since you put on your silly action figure costume and started doing your little “roguish hero” routine.”

Markus’s attempts at maintaining a neutral face must have clearly failed as the Nikto’s grin only seemed to grow after he’d said that, clearly sensing that he’d managed to strike a nerve.

“Oh don’t give me that look, you’ll like the news I’m bringing you. It’s another chance to be a big damned hero, in fact. Y’see one of your old Associates, Catin Bartanos, has been looking to leave and get into a different business, specifically starting up a little meat market for himself.”

Whatever idle boredom or skeptical interest Markus had felt, melted away as he heard those words. In the criminal circles he used to run with “Meat Market” was a term for any market involving slaves.
Something which was forbidden in his old criminal family by Boyde’s own boss, the Baroness Vuldune herself, for a host of different reasons, some integrity-based, but most profit and risk-minded.

“I don’t know where he is…”
Markus muttered out dimly, reflexively. Already trying his damndest to figure out where the man might be hiding.

“Lucky thing, I do.”
The Nikto replied, with a shrug, pulling out what looked to be a chip and gently placing it inside the stunned Smuggler’s shirt pocket.

“Now of course we COULD take care of Catin ourselves, but why pay the cleaner the scratch when we got a genuine hero here to deal with it for free? After all, we know you’ve got a soft spot for these kinds of sob stories”
And with that the Nikto strode away, leaving the smuggler slumped in his stool, alone once more. The weight of what he’d just heard weighing on him.

No matter how much Boide infuriated him, no matter how far he’d distanced himself from the old crew, this couldn’t be allowed to pass, the thought of someone hurting people the way Callista, Qyl, and gods rest her soul…Irad had been hurt was boiling his insides.

It couldn’t be avoided, Catin Bartanos would need to be made an example of, before others in the old crew got any ideas.
With a slight adjustment of his tie, Markus waved down the Bartender.
“Barkeep, tab please. I have a lot of work I need to attend to.”

[Tally]

"Folks'll tell yah "There's no honor among thieves", of course, most of these folks aren't thieves themselves and don't have a Karking clue what they're yammering on about. Honor exists on the streets the same as it does everywhere else, a luxury for those with the power to afford it, a pact between those who need it to cooperate, and a con the rest of us buy into. Only difference between crime an government is an elected official's constituents won't gut them and throw em in the river if they grow wise to the Con."
The dirty streets of Nar Shaadaa brought a sneer to Markus’s face, already in a decidedly foul mood the tacky, neon charm of the gaudy streets did little to lift the man’s spirits. His signature red reptilian skin jacket worn under a light flak vest for some moderate protection. He was here to perform a hit, not make waves, he told himself as he stomped along on his gross, uncomfortable combat boots.

“What a goddamned eyesore,skrogging outer rim shitholes.”
The Gangster pulled out a cigarra and lit it up quickly, striding forward towards the street that Boide had indicated in his data chip.
Clubs and back-alley markets continued along with their neon harassment, needily begging for Markus’s attention like an obnoxious, glowing hound lapping at his heels, some even trotted out their employees to tend to their hustle.
Amid the calls of “Looking for a good time handsome?” and “I bet you like to party, big man.” the smuggler managed to push his way to the address.
The building was two stories, though it hardly looked like they finished the first one with the amount of unpainted wooden walls and empty scaffolding with tarps hastily thrown over them. That little there was of the finished product was lit with a noxious pink glare from the neon sign at the top that read “Catin’s Corner” underneath was a Weequay, formidably armored in a T-shirt with what appeared to be the logo and name of some band that Markus did not recognize, but assumed was overrated.
“Where do you think you’re headed, Slick?”
The Weequay asked testily, his hand moving downward as he spoke, initially convincing Markus that he was reaching for a weapon before it became clear he was just scratching himself.

How Classy
Markus thought to himself before giving his best “Friendly and obliging smile”
“Vienmann, Markus Vienmann…I’m an old Associate of mister Catin’s from a long time ago.”
The thug eyed him suspiciously before cautiously shrugging and pulling out both his holophone, and more disconcertingly, a large pistol from his belt.
Markus’s eyes narrowed as he saw the weapon, despite this the weequay held his conversation over comms unpreturbed.

“Yeah, Markus Vienmann, says he’s a friend of yours from way back when. Mhm…Ord Mantell? Yeah I heard of it. Friend from the old neighborhood you say?”
As the Weequay spoke, his eyes started to wander, and for the briefest second they flicked to one of the windows in the club, within which Markus saw the silhoutte of a figure that quickly hurried into relative cover clearly spooked by the Smuggler’s attention being put on him.
He also noticed the doorman not-to subtly reaching again, this time very clearly for his weapon.
With a sigh, Markus quickly reached over his back and in one smooth motion, pulled out his shotgun and aimed it at the doorman.
“Sonno-”
…
With a heavy “Thump” the body of a large, headless Weequay went skidding across the club’s main floor as all the gangsters milling about the area, preparing for a potential fight all scattered for cover at the gruesome sight, none of them eager to be on the receiving end of that weapon.
Two more shots rang out from the entryway and two thugs were immediately cut down mid-run, each with fist-sized holes blown into their bodies by the high explosive rounds.
From the shattered glass door of the entryway, a grenade rolled out, a small hiss and a plume of smoke rising from it and just as quickly a few of the braver thugs answered back with a few staggered plumes of blaster fire one of which seemed to hit its mark if the slight pain grunt from within the cloud was any indicator.
The smoke cloud responded with the loud crack of another shotgun blast, another dead thug, and more of the gunmen going behind cover in fear of the weapon that was killing their compatriots so graphically.
Unfortunately for one of the more lightly armored thugs hiding behind a support pillar, the cover would not prove to avail him as the quiet but distinct “tink” of a small, metal object landing nearby hit his ears, before the world around him quickly burst into fire and shrapnel.

…
Held up in his Office, Catin heard the bark of gunfire, screams and explosions. With an audible snarl the slightly overweight gangster reached behind his desk and pulled out a small SMG blaster, his cybernetic eye scanning the door, his expensive dress suit darkened with sweat.

“C’mon you miserable scum-sucking shutta.”
He shouted as he aimed the barrel of his gun at the door, waiting for whatever came through. With another “CRACK” the door blasted off its hinges and with a kick was sent into his body, knocking him over and sending the blaster tumbling out of his hands.

“Knock Knock!”

Came a voice from the doorway, a familiar figure draped in red and black stomping forward, shotgun at the ready.

“…Markus you Kraking, spineless, simpering slag, shoulda known you’d be the one doing the old Bat’s dirtywork.”
The man spat, even as Markus stepped onto the collapsed door, pressing his weight further.

“Her? you think I’m doing this for HER? Catin, buddy…you think I’m really gonna kill you because some old crone back on Ord Mantell told me too?”

The smuggler asked as he leaned down to the man and patted his cheek with a dire smile.

“Nooooo, I’m going to kill you because correcting nature and gutting slavers makes me smile.”

He stated Darkly as he lifted up his gun and pressed it to the man’s sweating temple as slowly as possible, stretching the seconds for as agonizingly long as possible if only to savor the look of false brovado on the man’s face melt away like his cheap hair-gel dribbling down his brow.
Then suddenly a splitting pain coursed through the back of his skull and he felt knocked forward. In a blur of seemingly random motion, he briefly became aware of Catin pushing himself up and running past him, as well as a figure holding some large object standing right behind him.
The blurry figure raised the object once again, to which Markus responded by dizzily drawing his blaster pistol and firing into the shape, earning a cry from it as it collapsed to the ground.
When the headache stopped and the vision cleared, Catin was long gone and in his stead was a young man, freckled, redheaded and bleeding from a wound in his leg.
Scrabbling he looked around the office for documents, addresses, literally anything that could bring him closer to wherever Catin had gotten to, all with the young man screaming and wailing in the background driving up his mounting frustration.
“…Oh gods, oh gods please save me.”
Finally Markus turned to acknowledge the young man, eyes narrow with naked anger as he stalked over to him quietly as he pulled out a cigarra and lit it up.
“Save you? Alright, I’ll make you a deal…I’ll give you ehhhhh, Fifteen seconds. If the gods really are looking out for you, maybe they’ll change the circemstances.”
He said with a little shrug as he grabbed a bottle of whiskey off of Catin’s desk and popped it open.
The thug looked up at him horrified, his whimpering and pleading exchanged with silent horror.

“Fifteen…”
He announced tursley, tipping over the whiskey and brazenly pouring it over the young man’s head.

“P-please…please don’t do this…N-not like this…”
The man pleaded, looking up into Markus’s cold, unsympathetic eyes for some shred of mercy as he flicked on his lighter once more.

“Fourteen…”
Markus continued.

“I-I’ll go straight…turn my life around, you’ll never hear from me again!”

“Thirteen.”

“I’ll tell you where Catin is if you let me go!! PLEASE!!”

“Twelve.”

“NAL HUTTA! HE’S GOT A PENTHOUSE ON NAL HUTTA!”

“…”

Markus’s countdown grew silent at that revelation, and for a moment the young man allowed a bit of visible relief cross his features.

“…Eleven”

“No!! Please NO!”
And after a short time the sound of fire and screaming rang out through the those dirty Nar Shadaa alleys.