Star Wars: Bounty Hunter Chronicles

*Star Wars Theme playing*

38 BBY, the Outland Transit Station, once a neutral haven, had descended into darkness. The ruthless yet charismatic Vander Kallis, a high-ranking Black Sun enforcer, had taken control, turning the station into a den of smuggling, gambling, and brutal pit fights. The syndicate’s grip was absolute, yet beneath the neon lights and grimy corridors, a resistance was forming. Whispers of rebellion spread through the slums, where life was barely sustainable. When Kallis placed a bounty on a supposed resistance member, Jango Fett was contracted to bring in the target. The pay was high, the risk low. A routine job. But the deeper he dug, the more he realized,this wasn’t just another bounty. It was a web of intrigue, deception, and moral dilemmas.

*Music fading*

“Is that supposed to be a blaster?” Kwasta held up the rusted contraption, squinting at it as though it might explode in his face. “This thing looks like you fished it out of the garbage. Smells like it too. Unbelievable, Gaspar! What kind of junk are you trying to pass off on me this time?”

Gaspar, a young man with scruffy black hair and a permanent air of desperation, waved his hands frantically. “It works! I tested it myself on Norwell, that pompous bastard, uh, I mean…” He trailed off, wilting under Kwasta’s unimpressed glare.

“Two hundred credits.”, Gaspar blurted, his voice barely above a squeak.

“No.” The rejection was immediate and crushing. Kwasta crossed his stubby arms over his round belly, letting the silence drag just long enough for Gaspar’s shoulders to slump. “Listen, kid. Do you see anything on my table that looks remotely like… that? This is a respectable shop.”

The Toydarian merchant fluttered lazily down the row of weapons on display, his small wings beating the air with deliberate slowness. He gestured toward his wares. “These are high-quality blasters, the best you’ll find on the station. No mass-market junk like the DH-17 or the ELG-3A here. I deal in solid mid-range weapons, the BlasTech DL-44, great stopping power, a little slower on the fire rate. Maybe a Bryar pistol, nice charge-up shot. And if you’re looking for something premium, I’ve got the E-11 blaster rifle or the T-6 Thunderer. Heavy hitters. Quality work.” Gaspar stared longingly at the blasters, then back at his sorry excuse for a weapon. “Yeah, I see your point,” he muttered.

“Glad you’re catching on,” Kwasta sighed, dropping the trash blaster onto the red cloth of his display table. “Take that thing back to whatever junk heap you dug it out of. And kid, buy yourself a meal. You look like you haven’t eaten anything but disappointment.”

Gaspar’s face lit up at the sight of a small cred-stick next to the blaster. He pocketed it quickly, a grateful grin spreading across his face. His blue eyes gleamed beneath his dirty strands of hair, something that warmed Kwasta’s heart every time. The boy was useless at almost everything, but Kwasta liked him. He sensed that beneath all the layers of grime and emotional baggage, there was something worth saving. But life didn’t let you choose.

Life on the Outland Transit Station was far from easy. The Black Sun controlled everything, from the black market, gladiator fights, and gambling to restaurants, arms trading, and even the permits dictating who could enter the station in the first place. Their rule was anything but merciful. Many of the station’s inhabitants suffered under the increasingly dire living conditions, which were at their worst in the slums. The air quality was so abysmal that a large portion of the population relied on respirators, sold at outrageous prices by the Black Sun. Rumors were swirling, whispers that change was on the horizon.

“Thank you, Kwasta! I’ll give it back to you tomorrow. Or next week. Definitely next week!” Gaspar chuckled nervously and darted away as fast as he could, like a thief fleeing the scene of a crime. “A bantha’s more likely to do a backflip.”, Kwasta muttered under his breath, chuckling and coughing at the same time. Then he noticed someone else approaching his stall. This new customer looked like serious business.

“Greetings, esteemed sir!”, Kwasta wheezed as he flapped his wings and rubbed his small hands together. “Looking for a fine blaster, perhaps? Only the best here, top quality and prices that’ll knock you off your feet. Just kidding, of course, but the deals are truly excellent.”

The stranger remained silent, his presence radiating an intensity that unnerved Kwasta. With his polished silver armor and visor reflecting the dim lighting of the market, he looked like a warrior from an old story, a knight of legend. ''I’m looking for information. A friend of mine.” the man said, his voice smooth but firm. He pulled a small scrap of paper from his belt and handed it to Kwasta. “Do you know him?”

Kwasta’s eyes darted to the paper. The image showed a man in his mid-thirties with short, black hair and a goatee. The merchant’s wings drooped slightly. He did know the man, but hesitation crept over him. This was trouble. He could feel it. “You don’t look like someone searching for a friend..” Kwasta observed after giving Jango a thorough look. His armor dripped with weapons and hidden gadgets.

“And you look like a Toydarian who’s about to be two thousand credits richer as soon as I walk away,” Jango said. He pulled out a cred-stick, extending it toward Kwasta but keeping a firm grip. The merchant’s hesitation lingered. “When you take this..” the stranger continued, his voice low, “You’ll tell me what I need to know, and afterwards, you’ll forget we spoke. Understand?” Kwasta swallowed hard. His small fingers twitched as he reached for the cred-stick, but the man’s grip remained firm.

“You’re not gonna… kill him, are you?” Kwasta asked weakly, his voice trembling. Jango’s response was a counter-question. “If I said no, would you believe me?”

The merchant gulped. The situation unsettled him completely. He felt like he was trapped in a bubble with Jango, the sounds and voices of passersby seeming distant. But now that he had the cred-stick in hand, there was no turning back. “Will you do it?” Kwasta pressed for an answer. Jango tilted his head slightly, as if weighing whether there was any advantage in revealing even the smallest detail about his affairs.

“No.”,he finally said, crossing his arms over his chest, a gesture that meant he wasn’t going to elaborate further.

The merchant nodded. “Alright, then I’ll tell you what I know. It’s not like you couldn’t get this information from some other scoundrel, huh?” he chuckled nervously. He slipped the cred-stick into a small pouch on his belt and continued.

“That’s Jek Siranis. You hear a lot of good things about him. Supposedly, he’s been handing out food rations to the Slummies, but if you ask me, he’s got just as much dirt on him as anyone else around here. He mostly hangs out at the Headknock, a cozy dive bar, as long as you’re not too picky. I swing by there sometimes after the shops close. There’s always something going on, like that Pazaak tournament the other night.”

Kwasta leaned conspiratorially over the counter, his eyes narrowing. “Want a tip? Never play against a Weequay. They’ll lay down a perfect twenty faster than a souped-up YT-1300 escaping a Republic customs patrol.” He coughed and laughed at the same time. “Thanks. Where do I find the Headknock?” Jango got straight to the point, just as fast as a Weequay at Pazaak.

“Oh, the bar, yeah. It’s here in the Trade District. Just follow the street until you pass out from the smell of Nerf meat. There’s a crossroads. Look for a big blue sign that says Leska’s Tannery, then take the alley right next to it. Keep walking, and once you step out of the alley, Headknock will be on the other side of the street, slightly to your right.”

Jango gave the faintest nod and turned away from Kwasta’s stand. “Please, stranger, keep me out of this, yeah? I don’t want any trouble.” The bounty hunter stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and replied, “I’ll forget you faster than you can lose at cards.”

Jango strode swiftly through the market street. The sheer number of different species bustling about would have been a marvel to most newcomers, but to him, it was just background noise. He wasn’t the kind to casually browse from stall to stall, unlike the group of Weequay to his left, a species from the planet Sriluur with leathery skin ranging from gray to brown and serious, unreadable expressions. They worshiped their sun god Quay, were hardened fighters, and tended to be bald or sport long, thick braids. As nomads hailing from a harsh desert world, they were likely on the hunt for protective talismans, durable leather clothing, or exotic hunting trophies from other species. Jango spared them exactly one and a half seconds of attention before moving on.

He was surrounded by a chaotic mix of voices, foreign scents, and unfamiliar faces. Some walked alongside him, like the two affectionate Twi’leks whose lekku, two tentacle-like appendages on their heads, gently intertwined. A few meters to his right, two Devaronians bared their sharp teeth while gripping each other’s horns and growling. Jango simply raised an eyebrow, unsure whether this was a sign of friendship or a prelude to a brawl. Less friendly, a Trandoshan fabric merchant was speaking to a hooded customer who casually snatched an elegant red dress and skillfully disappeared into the crowd while the merchant stumbled over his own crates.

Jango continued, unimpressed. His fingers instinctively brushed over his holstered blasters, always ready to put a new hole in a crook. A horde of children from various species ran past him, hopping and laughing, their large, violet Rodian eyes staring in awe at his armor. Before long, the bounty hunter reached the place Kwasta had described, where the pungent smell of Nerf meat hung thick in the air. But Jango did not drop dead, he merely felt a bit nauseous. The sight of two Gamorreans, their tusks buried in grease-dripping meat chunks as they clapped each other approvingly on the shoulders, only worsened the suffering of his taste nerves.

Jango exhaled through his mouth and quickly scanned for the butcher’s sign before he suffered an untimely demise. He spotted it, mounted on the corner of a building about three meters high, before disappearing into the alley. Jango always felt comfortable in dark alleys, after all, he was usually the one lying in wait for unsuspecting prey. Besides, with his jetpack, he could easily escape if something went wrong. Emerging at the other end, he stopped to take in his surroundings.

This street was far less crowded than the market district. Here and there, the occasional pedestrian strolled through the newly found quiet. Compared to the previous chaos, this section seemed almost peaceful. A few small groups stood around barrel fires, drinking and chatting. As Kwasta had said, the bar was not far now. The Headknock, a dome of blue stone, stood alone in a fenced-off area near the street. A small, poorly maintained courtyard seemed to serve as a makeshift relaxation zone, an invitation to either sit around sober or stumble about drunk.

The only one choosing the first option was a girl with straight black hair. She sat on a battered bench, fiddling with a small box. Jango usually didn’t bother with conversations, people, or situations unless necessary. But as he passed the girl, she caught his attention for several reasons. First, girls shouldn’t be sitting alone in places like this. Second, she was interacting with a strange insect, its tiny arms stretched over the rim of the open box as it chirped cheerfully. The sight, paired with the girl’s subtle smile, triggered something in the bounty hunter, something he hadn’t felt in ages. A sense of childlike security. A memory tried to find its way to the surface. The memory of a girl he once knew.

Jango quickly pushed the thought aside but still stepped toward the girl. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” The girl’s head, and, to Jango’s surprise, the head of the blue bug as well, turned in his direction. The insect let out three loud chirps, its front legs moving up and down. “Archie says you shouldn’t be telling us what to do.” The girl spoke in a monotone, as if merely translating. And there he stood, Jango Fett, the bounty hunter who had killed six Jedi with his bare hands, being reprimanded by a bug. “Tell Archie he’s treading on thin ice.”

The girl, who couldn’t be older than ten, shifted into a cross-legged position and brushed a few dirt crumbs from her gray pants. Her black sweater featured two cartoonish creatures. One was covered in red fur, had a round body without arms, and two short legs. Its eyes were large and black. The other was taller, humanoid in shape, covered in blue fur, with two horns on its head and was giving Jango a thumbs-up. Above them, in ominous blood-red letters, were the words: Blurg & Blarp.

“Archie understands you just fine. Haven’t you noticed? You’re not a very good detective.”, the girl stated.

Archie chirped in agreement. Jango lowered his head slightly and adjusted his helmet. What in the Sith was he even doing here? “Listen, kid. Teach your pet some manners and don’t sit out here alone. It’s dangerous.” Archie chirped indignantly, fluttering its wings.

“Archie says he can take you on, no problem.”

Jango raised a finger, about to put the arrogant little creature in its place, but the words caught in his throat. He waved it off, turned around, and left the situation behind, one that had somehow taxed him more than shooting people ever did. At the same moment, a burly, bald man stepped out of the Headknock. “Emilia, everything alright?”, he called out to the girl, striding toward her quickly.

Jango barely acknowledged him. Probably the father. What had he been thinking, talking to the kid? He had more important things to do. As if the universe hadn’t already mocked him enough, his head slammed against the too-low doorframe as he entered the bar.

Even a bounty hunter like Jango Fett wasn’t immune to life’s little humiliations. As soon as he stepped inside, his momentary irritation faded. The hunter was back in his usual mode. The search for Jek Siranis was fully back on his radar.