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Author Topic: The Hunter  (Read 685 times)

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Offline Kremon

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The Hunter
« on: 06/07/17, 10:23:53 AM »
A bit of a sidetrack from the current Exephos storyline going on right now, but there was no way I could let this slide past, especially with Gharzog needing a change in pace.

So I give you...

The Hunter

Gharzog carefully watched the street from beneath the wide brim of his hat, noting each Gammorean enforcer and Weequay gunman that passed by. He was monitoring the hideout of a gang boss the Hutts wanted dead on Nal Hutta. The fool had decided to try and muscle out a piece of territory for himself out in the factories.
Poor sod.
But a job was a job. Credits were credits.
He turned away from the factory roof's edge with a sigh, his long coat swirling about his legs as he did so.
It used to be fun doing this job, being cheeky with Hutts, dancing along the edge of danger and safety, toeing the fine line between acceptable conduct and death by bounty. But that fun was gone now. It'd all started with Exephos.
He'd made the mistake of trying to hunt down that old soldier, that brutal executioner. Then he'd found him. Found him and crippled him for months by stabbing him in the leg; almost killing him from blood loss too.
That'd sucked the joy out of the job.
Then combining that with the galaxy's current state... With Zakuul gone, it'd looked hopeful, like the galaxy was going to pick up again. But instead, things had just gone from bad to worse. Shadowy things in motion, rumours of superweapons in places far from here... It scared him.
And he hated being scared.
So he'd wised up. Gone was the wisecracking and fanciful bounty hunter that did it for fun. He'd started training; practicing his draw, his aim, taking up lessons on close combat, upgrading his arsenal, and paying closer attention to his surroundings. Exephos wouldn't take him down again, nobody would. He was prepared.
For now though, business as usual.
He strode in through the factory's roof entrance directly down a won set of stairs before emerging directly onto a catwalk overlooking the factory floor. Factory workers laboured beside droids as they handled fiery hot crucibles of molten metal, dodging out of the way as they poured their flaming contents into molds. Vats of treating acid were carried overhead on arms, dipping and twisting this way, dropping flecks of dangerous corrosive acid on the factory floor below. In a separate corner, industrial droids clanged as workers fed completed molds into their radius where they were chopped and pounded into the shape desired.
Hutt territory had no industrial regulations to keep workers safe; it was a dangerous work environment where losing a limb was a daily risk. If one did lose an arm or a leg, the Hutts sure weren't paying for a replacement either.
As it was, he strode high above the factory floor on the overhang towards a ladder in the corner which would take him down to the ground floor, right beside one of the service doors. It'd be an easy matter to get in here, he'd just needed to blast a token security droid before filching the access card off it and open the door.
Of course, it wasn't like these places were all that secure in the first place. They were more concerned with keeping out the casual thief than someone determined. After all, what was there to steal? Even the products this place shipped out, eating utensils, weren't worth their weight, let alone any of the ancient droids or dirt-cheap raw materials.
Coming up to the ladder, he grabbed hold before sliding down to the ground floor, startling a factory foreman as he did so. He jumped, dropping his datapad as Gharzog's boots hit the ground and turned towards him as though to give a lecture. Before keeping right on turning.
Hutts sent enforcers to check up on their holdings all the time, the poor chap probably thought that he was doing the same. So he gave a tip of his hat to the foreman before walking outside out onto the street. It was like most Nal Hutta streets, close to becoming a bog with puddles, littered with trash, and clogged with smog and who knows what other kind of pollutants.
Gharzog made sure that his respirator was secured so that he didn't breath that in, before strolling across the street, avoiding a string of chained Evocii being led by a taskmaster droid. The boss's hideout was in one of the old factory cellars. Clever, since it would be costly to the Hutts to blow it up and risk harming their precious factories. Not so clever because there was only one entrance and exit. So that meant no escape routes.
He opened up the hatch leading into the cellar before striding down into the darkness. After a few moments, he emerged out into what had been turned into a sort of cantina with a counter with a couple mismatched stools, and a variety of tables scattered around with an equally diverse variety of patrons. Spice dealers, stim marketers, addicts to both, gunrunners, enforcers, and drunks. Two doorways to the left and right of the large room led into adjacent chambers.
Before he could go any farther however, two guards at the door stopped him.
"Koona t'chuta?" One of them derisively asked, a Weequay ugly even by their standards asked.
<<Going somewhere?>>
"Wata che chunkee lorda, kung." Gharzog replied.
<<Here for your boss, scum.>>
"Cheespa bo coopa, Gharzog." The Weequay returned, but gesturing him forwards.
<<Better watch out, Gharzog.>>
He walked in past the two muscles-for-brains before making straight for the right side doorway. The 'boss' as it were was a certain Rodian named Rhoota. He'd met him once before, a lazy overseer that took bribes from every person he possibly could. Rhoota must have figured to try his luck and carve out a little niche for himself. Bad luck for him that the Hutts didn't like that though.
Gharzog strode into the 'audience' chamber as it were, where the Rodian had set himself up a throne using an old starship chair where his overflowing rolls of fat were bulging over the sides.
Various workers were gathered around him, tending to his needs, or begging for a lower 'tax' for their families. Well, the Hutts would be taking care of that later.
As he walked in, Rhoota looked up and the green colour drained from his face to a more pallid olive colour.
"Gharzog!" He exclaimed.
Even in his depressed state, he wasn't going to go without a crack at the junior crimelord.
"Hello, Rhoota. Lost some weight?" He asked, before drawing one of his wide-bore blaster pistols and firing it from the hip in a lightning quick motion.
He tumbled over backwards in his chair, oozing like a meat pastry. The people around him moved back, shocked, but no screaming. This was Nal Hutta; blaster fire was an everyday occurrence. That did not mean it went unnoticed by his followers though. Shouts carried through the doorway before two or three blaster bolts arced through.
Gharzog through himself to the side, his coat trailing behind him as he drew the matching twin to his other blaster.
As more shots came hurtling through the doorway and the workers previously gathered around Rhoota scattered, he ducked out and fired off a volley of high-powered rounds into a group of the cantina patrons that had turned weapons in his general direction. With a renewal of fire on his position, he rolled a thermal detonator into the opposing room before rolling over to the other side of the doorway.
As the resulting explosion shook the structure, he used the moment to lean out again and fire off a few accurate shots directed at those with blaster rifles.
As shouts of anguish rang out, he ducked back again before holstering one of his weapons. With one hand, he fired a stream of suppressing blasterfire out into the cantina area, while with his other he tapped out a quick command on one of his wrist guard's control panels.
He'd upgraded and invested in some handy new things.
Like a flamethrower.
Triggering it, he stuck one gloved hand around the corner before shooting out a stream of fire into the cantina. People shouted and yelled as the white-hot flames flew in. For ten seconds, he kept up the torrent before it shut off. Each wristguard didn't hold much fuel to keep the size and weight down.
As he drew his second blaster again to have one in each hand, he paused to listen for blasterfire. There didn't seem to be any, but that didn't mean he would lower his guard.
He rolled out into the cantina area with both blasters raised, before gunning down three that had been trying to sneak up on him around the sides of the room. Once they were down, he scanned the interior, determining if there were any threats left. A few that were down were whimpering to themselves, still alive and only wounded, but he'd leave those alone. There were also some that must have figured they'd rather stay neutral who were taking cover behind the bar.
He ran an appraising gaze over them to see if they were the kind that would put a bolt in his back, or if they had bounties or not. Satisfied that they didn't seem to, he turned with a flourish of his duster back towards the outside.
Another contract complete... Another assignment that was too easy. He needed more, not Exephos's bounty; especially not with his face plastered all over the place, but yet... Tiny squabbles on a Hutt world? It was time he got out there and saw the galaxy.
He pondered the problem as he walked through the polluted factory streets of Nal Hutta, avoiding laden down cargo droids every now and then. Of course, he could just hop on a shuttle and go anywhere he'd like to find something to do... But he needed purpose, a reason to go tromping across the galaxy.
As he came up to an intersection though, he idly ran an eye over
a nearby notice pad as he was thinking and paused.
Something had caught his eye on a bounty board.
A face he'd seen before...
Ke'rii Ogasawara.
Eight million credits.
He had to reread that a few times. Eight million credits? Absolutely insane. But where had he seen him before?
That Tatooine place... Yes, where he'd gotten into that argument with a Jawa... That man, he'd said he was the proprietor of the place and that he set the prices.
Yes, that was it!
He hadn't seemed terribly dangerous to him, but then again, neither had Exephos, and he'd only had one eighth the bounty this man did. If he was wanted dead by the Crimson Dread Pirates though? Well... What the kriff, why not?
He knew just where to start looking too.
Exephos; a haunted war-ravaged veteran.
Shad'ra; an indecisive ex-mandalorian.
Gharzog; a happy-go-lucky gun for hire.

Offline Kremon

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Re: The Hunter
« Reply #1 on: 06/13/17, 08:33:17 AM »
After Gharzog meeting Keiko on Nar Shaddaa last Dancer's Palace Night, I'm sure everyone knew this post was coming. For all of those eagerly anticipating the current Exephos arc, don't worry. I'm working on that one too. But enjoy, for I give you...

The Hunter; Part 2

Gharzog was looking for information, and the best place for information? A cantina, especially one occupied by just the kind of people he needed to talk to. So he found himself strolling through Nar Shaddaa's Promenade, keeping a keen eye out for Imperials, not as targets, but as wells of information.
He'd done some asking around, and word was that Ke'rii Ogasawara was with some Moff Heerman's division. Imperial Wild Space Corps. Or Command. One of the two, close enough anyway. What was even better for him though? Turns out that this IWSC group with the Imperials had just started sending out soldiers on leave to Nar Shaddaa, at least according to his sources. Soldiers on leave tended to drink, and drink loosened one's tongue. Especially when the person with the questions was buying said drinks. Perhaps the first one or two wouldn't have much to say, but you could usually find at least someone who was talking, especially the boasting type, you start stoking their ego, questioning just how smart they are, and they'll let you know everything.
He paused in his steps as he sighted a cluster of gray uniforms heading into one of the cantinas. Needed to get closer, get a better look at their shoulder patches to see which unit they were from. If they were Imperial embassy guards or something like that, dead loss. But if they had the brown shield with the spade and pick... Well, then he could get to work.
Making himself as anonymous as possible with his coat and hat, he ambled aimlessly across the square as the Imperials disappeared inside, before eventually making his way in a roundabout fashion to the door, just in case anyone was watching if he made directly towards them. The bouncer at the door nodded him through, not so much by reputation, he wasn't really known on Nar Shaddaa as compared to Hutta, but probably because he didn't look sleazy like a spice dealer or a criminal with a bounty.
After descending down a short ramp, he emerged onto the cantina itself, filled with a variety of characters from across the galaxy. There were bounty hunters like himself of course, then there was slavers, businessmen, gunrunners, informants, slicers, and patrons looking for a drink in all shapes, sizes, and species. Twi'leks, Houks, Rodians, Evocii, Weequay, Nikto, Muuns, and a dozen others who he didn't know the names for. Nar Shaddaa was the place where the variety of life was unique and diverse. Which meant that the gray-uniformed Imperials stuck out like sore thumbs over in the corner. Before he did anything, he paid careful attention to their shoulder pads. He needed the right division. All turned away from him, not clear to see until... There. A brown shield, with a shield and pick. These were the ones to speak to. Gharzog, instead of making straight towards them, made off towards the side to a table that was unoccupied and offered a good view of the group.
Now, he had to wait and observe.
Go in too quickly when they were alert, and he'd spook them off. Go in too late, and they'd already be too drunk or tired for him to get answers out of them. He could use the waiting time to pick a target though; someone on their own but a loudmouth. The kind that couldn't hold their drink that well either.
He was disturbed in his observations though by an astromech serving droid that chirruped questioningly, proffering it's serving tray. To avoid arousing suspicions, he took one of the drinks from the tray and placed a credit chit in it's place. It warbled happily before scooting off. It was a pity that he had no intention of imbibing a drop of the liquid, but he was here on business. Mixing pleasure with business never went well.
Turning his attention back to observing though, he started regarding the Imperial soldiers carefully. Anyone with a Lieutenant's bar was quickly disregarded. They'd be too experienced and drilled to try to squeeze anything out of them. No, he needed someone like an NCO, a sergeant or maybe a corporal. High enough and experienced enough to know things... But not enough to know to keep their drink or perhaps disgruntled and dissatisfied about their position. Those were the ones to go for.
There was a couple of them grouped together as they drank and chatted, those were off the list. Solitary. He needed solitary.
There was a handful of them around, two were clearly too green, and their rank insignias as privates certainly reaffirmed that. There was a corporal sitting alone too, but he wasn't drinking, just cleaning his sidearm.
There was one though... Sitting alone, drinking from a large mug, scowling at everyone around him. Perfect.
Gharzog watched him for a few more minutes, letting him order a second mug of whatever it was, before he made his move towards the bar, tugging off his rebreather as he fell into a grouchy sort of role and sat down next to him.
The unhappy looking sergeant gave him a rough appraising look, to which Gharzog returned the same, squinting his eyes and taking on a disgusted look. With a simultaneous huffing grunt, they both turned back towards the counter.
"I'll have a bottle of what he's having." Gharzog huffed out, dropping his Hutta accent with some effort and jerking a thumb towards his companion.
The bartender plopped a bottle down onto the counter, to which Gharzog paid for, mumbling under his breath:
"Damned prices always going up. Pah."
He spared a moment to read the label quickly, before popping off the top of the bottle. Kaas Brandy. So, a traditionalist, was it? He tried to visualize himself as the sergeant. Living his whole life as a grizzled NCO, unappreciated, bowing to the whims of the Sith, all these new upstarts, seeing the Empire bow to Zakuul, and worst of all; aliens and outsiders being allowed to enlist, sullying the reputation of the entire army. Think grumpy. Think dissatisfied.
But at the same time... Drinking to remove the sorrows and sights of war... And because no better place to spend the credits. Had to think about it that way. Put himself in his boots.
"No-one enjoys the old classics anymore. Recognized a kindred spirit with your good taste." Gharzog grumbled out.
The sergeant eyed him for a time, before he mumbled off something about Hutta scum.
"No way to treat a fellow comrade." He groused back, also in a low mumbling voice.
The sergeant perked up a bit at that, to which Gharzog asked with the proffering of the bottle:
"Share a drink with you?"
He got a nod in return, so he topped up the other man's mug before filling himself a mug as well.
"Used to be with the 235th Light Infantry. Back before the bosses kriffed everything up." He complained in a scratchy voice, sipping at the Kaas Brandy. It took a good deal of effort to hold it in and swallow. Disgusting bilge.
"Tell me about it." His unwitting victim agreed, drinking deeply from his mug.
"Between the aliens and Zakuul? Bah. Might as well be like the Republic's rabble." Gharzog growled, topping up the fellow's mug for a second time.
"Wouldn't you know... It was those disgusting freaks with their slimy appendages that lost us the war with Zakuul. Ruining the honour of the Imperial Military. Bah. All because of that backstabber Malgus." The sergeant added, before spitting derisively to the side.
"Then there's the recruitment of them! By the Empress, we had this one officer that recruited a criminal. A criminal! Ended up as a higher rank than the rest of us, too!" He grumbled on, pounding a fist against the counter.
After taking a deep drink from his mug, the sergeant pounded it down on the counter before barking out:
"Aye! We got this one scatterbrain in our beloved division! Some swanky criminal businessman or some other happy go lucky bastard in our command! Given a captain's rank and everything!"
"Yeah? What's this kriffing bloke's name?" Gharzog returned, getting himself worked up to sound offended and arrogant.
"Ke'rii Ogasawara! Some bloody captain in the Navy! Got one of those ugly as hell Mantis ships in the hangar too! Least he did, before his little scavenging Jawa scum flew off with it!" The sergeant groused.
"Yeah? who was the idiot that sponsored him in?" Gharzog asked, projecting a sense of anger.
The sergeant seemed to soften a minute, uh-oh, he'd made a mis-step.
"That'd be Moff Heerman. Good man, good officer, that one. Not like the type to let one of those criminals in."
But then he added in a much more furious voice:
"But he came in from Sith Intelligence is what I hear! Thrusted on us like the Republic spy he is!"
"Republic spy!? He's a Republic Spy!?" Gharzog asked, indignant.
He also slopped in more of the brandy into his mug.
After a few deep swallows of the drink, he exploded out:
"That's the rumour! Hearing talk that the kriffer used to be with the Republic SIS! If he switches sides that easy, who's saying he ain't going to turn on us?"
"I'm going to go right now and give them a piece of my mind!"  Gharzog huffed, standing and starting towards the cantina door, leaving the bottle filled with that awful, awful drink behind.
"Good luck to you!" The sergeant called out as he left.
He left the conversation happy, that sergeant left the conversation happy, and nobody the wiser as to just what he'd done.
The man'd been a wealth of information.
He'd learned that Ke'rii was with the Navy section of IWSC, that he might have had dealings with Sith Intelligence, and that judging by the sergeant's defense of Moff Heerman, who Gharzog had heard was the head of this overall unit, that perhaps Ke'rii and him didn't get along.
Plus there was that little tack on about him use to being SIS. Could it be true, or faulty rumours? Possible; he'd need to check out that side of things. But more importantly, two vital tidbits to the sergeant's ramblings. One, he'd mentioned the ship. A D5 Mantis. The bounty alert had mentioned that, but it paid to confirm it. Weren't very many of those around, he could start tracking that thing down. Maybe ask around some of Nar Shaddaa's spaceports. A character like Ke'rii Ogasawara was bound to have stopped in Nar Shaddaa at some point.
The other tidbit, something about a Jawa. A little Jawa minion. Jawas outside of Tatooine? Not common.
The bounty alert had mentioned the Zareca String, over by Rishi. Start asking around there for a Jawa, and maybe he could find him.
As Gharzog stepped out onto the street and affixed his rebreather, he walked with a much surer step than he went in.
The chase was on, and he now had leads to follow.
Exephos; a haunted war-ravaged veteran.
Shad'ra; an indecisive ex-mandalorian.
Gharzog; a happy-go-lucky gun for hire.

Offline Kremon

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Re: The Hunter
« Reply #2 on: 06/16/17, 10:48:11 AM »
I'm getting back into writing about Gharzog these days, it's been a pleasure to write about the intricacies found in the underworld of Hutt territory. All the little contacts, clues, and business mixed with crime. The setting's also fun to think about, sort of a Southeast Asian city crossed with Tokyo, with a pinch of high-tech corporate compounds thrown in.

But without further ado...

The Hunter; Part 3

Gharzog strode through the Nar Shaddaa spaceport, the sixth of the night actually. He was beginning to grow tired of starships, power droids, fuel lines, and the ever present smell of grease that seemed to pervade everywhere. He'd gone poking around, looking to see if anyone had heard of the Shengli landing on Nar Shaddaa in the past. He'd gotten a whole host of answers with everything from shrugs, people telling him that they were too busy, and smugglers concocting up unbelievable stories of how they'd sparred with the D5 Mantis in an epic duel of ships.
There had been some credits beneath all the grime though.
There'd been this one old dockmaster that recalled seeing the Shengli show up around Nar Shaddaa at one point, and described Ke'rii reasonably well. There'd been another managing droid that had logged the ship's presence, duracrete evidence that the ship had been there.
But it still wasn't much to go on. From what he could find out, it didn't seem like Ke'rii had one hangar he went to, or if it was, then people weren't talking - Or just didn't remember.
Millions of craft of all shapes and sizes dropped in on Nar Shaddaa in a month, and while D5 Mantises were rare, they weren't rare enough that one or two wouldn't show up often enough. This direction of investigation clearly wasn't working.
But he didn't have a ship to go prowling around in deep space backtracking for the ship. Plus every two-credit gun for hire and his crew would be in that area trying to find the ship. While some expert of ships could perhaps piece together where it'd gone, that wasn't him. So he needed to come at this from a different angle.
Perhaps what he ought to do was to go to the Oasis Lounge and start poking around. Of course, that was listed on the bounty alert so hunters had probably gone through all that too.
No, his best lead was of Ke'rii Ogasawara's connection to the Imperials, it was an advantage that few others had probably pieced together, or that little Jawa minion. There weren't any Jawa names on the list, so the other guns probably didn't know to look for one.
Those were the two things he needed to start taking advantage of. But how?
He chewed the matter over as he walked along the spaceport corridor towards one of the managing underbosses here. He'd heard about him snooping around and probably wanted to bargain out a piece of the cut. Maybe Gharzog would shoot him, or maybe he'd enlist his help. Depended on his mood.
Could he perhaps start asking around the Jawa clans for a list of names of the Jawas that Ke'rii kept around? Possible, though he'd need to buy or rent a protocol droid. It'd also take time, because if he did get that list, then he'd have to slowly check off each name and find out who was left. Then what? A name might help him here on Nar Shaddaa but all those pesky scrappers looked the same in their brown robes, so people wouldn't know the difference between one or the other. Dead end.
The only other option was to start investigating through the Imperial Military but he didn't like the sounds of that. Asking a drunk sergeant for information was one thing, but going through Imperial channels with inquiries and questions was not only bound to be extremely dangerous, but expensive, and noisy.
Gharzog kicked an old bottle to the side as he walked, frustrated.
This was probably why the man had a mark of eight million credits. He was slippery and mysterious.
But he refused to give in.
Could he hold the guy's daughter hostage? No... Bad idea. That moved away from professionalism and more into dirty dealings. Not that he minded dirty tricks, but doing them so publicly like that burned a lot of bridges and closed a lot of doors. Plus it was the kind of thing the aforementioned two-credit bounty hunters had already thought of and there had to be a reason why it hadn't worked.
No, he needed something less direct and more subtle. What about killing him-... No, that's right. No killing, he had to be alive.
Otherwise he might have been able to bribe an Imperial soldier to putting a bomb under his desk or something, that sergeant had made it clear that he wasn't that well-liked. But with being alive, he needed him someplace else.
What'd really be great is if he could somehow draw him to Nar Shaddaa or Nal Hutta. In Hutt territory, he was at his most comfortable. He knew how things worked, spoke the language, had a reputation, and so on. It'd be an easy matter to keep an eye on him through the thousands of informants around, but that all came down to getting him here somehow. Could he, Gharzog, somehow create a way to get Ke'rii kicked out of the Imperial military? Maybe... He knew a few guys that moved credits around, making things look pretty illicit and dirty. Perhaps he could make it look like the man was selling Imperial equipment. That might get him court-martialed.
But it'd also get him arrested, and then he'd be put into an impenetrable Imperial prison fortress. Kriff. That wouldn't work.
He'd need to think on this some more, but until then, he'd arrived at the underboss's office, a tiny little thing crammed up next to the pumps that kept fresh air, or Nar Shaddaa's version of fresh air, flowing into the spaceport.
He knocked on the door, to which a voice boomed inside: "Enter!"
With that, he palmed the access panel and ducked inside the small room. Sitting behind a desk and smoking a cigarra was a broad-shouldered Weequay, with three braids going down his back, signifying his three years away from his homeworld.
He was fit too, a stark comparison to most of the bosses around. But that mostly came with his job. He'd manage this spaceport for whichever Hutt owned it at the time. That meant keeping the space jockeys, tourists, thugs, dealers, gunrunners, and smugglers in line. It was a tough job on the best of days, and all-out cartel warfare on the worst.
"Binny." Gharzog greeted, tipping his hat to the man.
"Gharzog. Come in." Binny returned, gracious but clearly cautious; one of his hands was remaining firmly on a blaster pistol holster.
Gharzog walked inside but otherwise didn't sit. This meeting was going one of two ways, and he'd rather be ready for both.
"I hear your asking questions around the place... Questions about Ke'rii Ogasawara and his ship." Binny said, getting right down to business.
"I might be 'meself." Gharzog admitted noncommittally.
"Well, if you 'are' or not... I've got a deal to offer you." Came the Weequay's reply.
"Let's hear it." He returned, casually resting one of his hands on his belt, ready to slip down to his blaster and draw if needed.
"I know these ports and their occupants better than anyone. I get you information, and watch for him if he lands anywhere here on Nar Shaddaa or Nal Hutta... But if you catch him, I get five percent." Binny explained in his rough-hewn voice.
Gharzog considered for a moment. It was a fairly good deal, since it'd give him good information. Then again, five percent didn't sound like much, but five percent of eight million was four hundred thousand credits. Enough for Binny here to retire back to his homeworld, and also a claim of reputation to playing a role in bagging the mysterious Ke'rii.
If he made eight million credits, would he really need five percent of it? Probably not. Would Binny betray him though? It was a risk, but it was one that he believed he was willing to take.
"Ye got 'yerself a deal, Binny." Gharzog returned, with a sharp nod.
But no shaking of hands. No, no-one shook hands on Nar Shaddaa, too many times had that little bit of etiquette been used to stab people or shoot them in the gut with the other hand.
"Alright. Good luck then, Gharzog. I'll be in touch." Binny returned, clearly pleased.
Gharzog gave another short nod before turning and leaving. It'd been a pretty good deal, and he was glad he didn't have to shoot the Weequay, he was a good sort.
But now he had a good solid source of information.
If Ke'rii Ogasawara came anywhere near Nar Shaddaa... Gharzog would know.
Exephos; a haunted war-ravaged veteran.
Shad'ra; an indecisive ex-mandalorian.
Gharzog; a happy-go-lucky gun for hire.

Offline Kremon

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Re: The Hunter
« Reply #3 on: 06/17/17, 10:35:17 AM »
I'm really enjoying writing this storyline, and of course a big shout out to @Mei for making it possible and for her very enjoyable posts to read through. In this one, I was also able to give Gharzog a weapon I've been considering giving him for quite a while.

PS: This one's a little shorter this time because of time constraints and general excitement in continuing to move a plot forwards so I can keep up with Mei's writings.

But enough of me talking...

The Hunter; Part Four

Perhaps the staff of Dancer's Palace or Ke'rii thought he was joking when he said that he would spend the night there to keep an eye on his bounty, but he certainly wasn't. He was staying there for as long as was needed until Ke'rii either slipped up and revealed another angle to come at him from, or if he stepped outside the Palace's protective boundaries.
It was slightly frustrating that he had been in touching distance of him, even with Ke'rii being visibly unarmed yet being able to do nothing at all to take him down. But then again, he considered himself lucky that he'd found him in the first place. What were the odds that the man would quite literally stroll right into his home advantage? Very, very small. It was so lucky that if he gambled, he'd have gone out to the big casino event right then to place some bets because it was clear that he was extraordinarily fortunate.
But with that aside, he needed to start focusing on maximizing the effectiveness of his surveillance on Ke'rii. What he would have liked to have done was set up some motion sensors, maybe a camera, and then keep an eye on him that way from anywhere in the Palace. But because of the security measures here, he didn't really trust anything electronic. It was entirely likely that some scrambler interfered with cams and infared grids, so he'd need to rely on something a bit more archaic.
He ordered a bottle of the cheapest beer he could get from one of the serving droids, before promptly dumping the contents into one of the nearby plant arrangements. He felt a little sorry for the floral arrangement, it was a really, really bad bilge they put in that kind of drink. But it was the glass bottle he was interested in; he dropped a few small credit chit denominations inside with a rattle before pulling out a spool of fibercord from a coat pocket.
With both these in hand, he strung a line tightly across the doorway at ankle level, before winding it up towards a light fixture. From that, he suspended the bottle of credit chits.
A nudge on the wire would knock it out of place, and the bottle would come crashing down with a loud noise. Extremely simple, but that was the ingenuity of it. It didn't require electronics, fancy gadgets, or anything. Just a thin wire and something that made noise. Good old fashioned low-tech beat high-tech nine times out of ten, easy.
So with that basic trap set out, he made his way over to a couch and sat down there before pulling out his holocommunicator. While he was here, he might as well have that new tool of his dropped off.
He dialed in the connection, and waited for a moment, before the familiar cybernetic portly figure of Darmab appeared.
"Ey, Darmab? I'm at Dancer's Palace now, but I can't leave 'ere currently. 'Ye reckon 'ye could drop off that item we talked 'bout?..."

Two hours later, Darmab arrived, not long before Dancer's Palace was due to close for the night before it opened again in the morning. He was a short little Mirialan chap, with a funny cybernetic cannon leg, and interchangeable hands on one arm. Despite his odd looks and intense paranoia, he was one of the best weapon makers on Nar Shaddaa and Nal Hutta if you know how to get in contact with him. Gharzog never really asked questions about where he'd gotten the experience from, but he had a sneaking suspicion that there was some military background in his past. Perhaps it was better he didn't know.
"Gharzog, laddie. Keeping out of trouble?" Darmab asked, thumping over to him before standing a distance off.
"As can be expected 'round 'bout these parts." Gharzog returned with a chuckle, before motioning towards a brown package held beneath the weaponsmith's left arm.
"Is that it there?" He inquired.
"That it is. That it is. Built to your specifications." Darmab replied setting the package on the couch beside him before opening it up, revealing a coiled up electrowhip. He'd learnt how to use one a long while back from a retired slaver, and ever since, he'd been itching to get his hands on a good quality one.
"It's got your different power options, as requested. Non-lethal, knock-out strength, and crispy." Darmab explained as Gharzog picked it up and let it trail out of his hand.
"A nice grip 'ye get on it." He complimented as he whipped it across the room with a crack to get a good feel of it.
"Bantha-hide grip, for a good sturdy slip-free surface... Plus I know you like your leathers. The whip itself is made of durasteel fibers nice and tightly woven so you get a strong but flexible strand." Darmab explained, clearly pleased with himself.
"Thank 'ye, Darmab. I'll make sure to deposit the rest of the credits in 'yer account." Gharzog returned, coiling up the whip again before hanging it on his belt behind him so that his duster would hide it from view.
The weapon maker nodded, before turning and thumping out on his cannon leg, leaving Gharzog alone once more in the lobby. This weapon would be very useful in dealing with Ke'rii if he decided to try his luck in getting past him. It'd give him some less than lethal alternatives other than his darts and fists.
After checking on his tripwire again to make sure it hadn't been disturbed and would still create noise upon someone exiting, he strode out of the Palace and onto it's dock where he settled in for the night with his coat pulled tightly around him and his hat tucked down low.
He'd get this bounty.
It was only a matter of time.
Exephos; a haunted war-ravaged veteran.
Shad'ra; an indecisive ex-mandalorian.
Gharzog; a happy-go-lucky gun for hire.