Log:The Music of Ko Hentota

On the outskirts of the Night Market, down in the lower levels of Nar Shaddaa where the light from the surface never penetrates, beneath a flickering string of neon lights and patchy tent coverings, a small band fumbles through a painfully out-of-tune performance. A Twi'lek drummer taps sluggishly at a battered set of snares, while the Rodian lead struggles with a stringed instrument that screeches with each off-key note. Their efforts at busking for credits draw a modest, semi-disinterested crowd, most of whom seem more entertained by the awkwardness than the music itself.

The vendors closest to the impromptu performance are clearly less than thrilled. Every time the band screeches into another sour note, a wave of irritated glares washes over them. One of the food stall operators, a burly Besalisk with four hairy arms, growls under his breath and yells, "Hey! You call that music?! Cut it out before I cut your instruments in half!" His shout reverberates through the market, but the band ignores him, too caught up in their own cacophony to take heed.

Around the market stalls, the frustration grows. A Nautolan vendor selling knock-off blasters snaps at a potential customer who, in turn, snaps right back. Others are starting to fidget and grumble, with arguments bubbling up over seemingly nothing. Tension weaves its way through the marketplace, each misplayed note like a needle prick to already fraying nerves.

Amid the assault on the senses from not just the musical number but the smells... the "meat" that's cooking, the mold that's definitely growing places, the possibly dead... animal? (We hope it's an animal?) somewhere nearby, Lira'una moves smoothly through the crowd, her petite frame swallowed by the oversized cloak that drapes over her shoulders. The hood is pulled low over her smooth, lavender forehead, casting her delicate features into soft relief, obscuring her sapphire eyes in the dim light. Her presence blends seamlessly with the ebb and flow of the chaotic marketplace, her movements practiced and fluid, a dancer's grace infused with purpose.

By her side, her multi-colored BB droid, Echo, rolls along, emitting a series of soft, concerned beeps as they weave through the crowded space. The flashing lights of the market cast rippling reflections across Echo's white-blue-green panels, drawing occasional curious glances from passersby. The girl offers the droid a reassuring smile from within her cloak, her voice low and calm. "It's fine, Echo. Just keep close."

The dissonant music grates, but Lira pays it little mind, her attention more focused on the uneasy tension simmering through the crowd. For those used to the market, it's easy to feels in the air -- like a taut string waiting to snap. It's normally vaguely organized chaos with little skirmishes quelled as quickly as they began, most everyone here either armed to the teeth or minding heir own business. Today, though, vendors shout over the racket, and temper fraying as the 'musical' notes clash with the buzzing energy of the market.

Mandl must've been mixing explosives, although wherever their fortified shed is one hopes it's not in a civilian block! Their reputation has always been to shield the innocent, not exploit them. Draped in heavy padded fabric whose colors run and fade from exposure to powerful reagents, the bomb-squad Bith dances with their steps through the massing crowd! They turn a walk into a tango, a tango into a Charleston, and so on! With all deliberate dexterity, they pop-and-lock through the throng...

At a nearby noodle stand, Sumi is situated upon a stool slurping down the last remnants of salty noodles and spiced meat. She speaks with her mouth full, pointing the sticks she used to usher out the noodles moments before, "You know, this noise would pass for music if they had something naked to dance with it.." The laughter that followed was just an amalgamation of hearty chortles from the others sitting nearby. It wasn't that they agreed with her, but Sumi knew that the denizens of this sinful moon always preferred something naked to take their minds off all the awful. Now seemed no different.

Yxuara's hand squeezes the bottle of rock oil as he works on removing the squeaks from a complete set of red bar chairs. Aside from his other talents, the squib is adept in removing squeaks from things--burn scars from seats, chroming metal legs--his ears twitch as he listens until the offending sound subsides. Putting the oil bottle down he turns and hops up onto one of the chairs, sticking his feet out and spinning it to face the crowd. The squib-ship /Gand Pannier/ has a semi-established stall here--and his competency extends to co-managing it with two other crew members, the trio making a hard sell on just how premium their products are, inexpensive adapters, power converters, the set of chairs of course, packs of temporary rain gear, bedding supplies that are cheap and a little more prestigious than closed-cell foam pads, a slew of lighting supplies.

"A flash deal on oil--" his piping voice says over the din of the music, ears folded back as he quickly puts up a sign. "We have plenty to quiet the most obnoxious sound." A fourth squib returning with skewers of mystery distracts the bunch as they settle down for 'popped nerf' on a stick.

"Man... this is what I've been talkin' about, you know? It's like... nobody like... the music today is so fake, man... you know? This here though? This shit right here... it's like... uh... you know what I mean, man? They're TRYIN', man..."

With bloodshot eyes half closes, a creepy little four-armed space monkey is up near the band, rocking back and forth from one leg to the other while he rolls two of his balled up fists in a circle around each other. With the other hand, he's in the middle of rolling up a stick of some extremely dank, purplish-colored Ardennian Shroob, with the practiced ease of a Veteran Shroob Roller.

The Trandoshan that Ezlo was talking to looks away awkwardly, and then turns around without leaving, putting some distance between himself and the chatty little ape. The ape barely seems to notice though, as he's in the final stages of shroob rolling, and has to temporarily divert some of his mental energies away from dancing so that he doesn't futz up the stick. As a multi-colored BB droid passes him, Ezlo takes a look, unlit shroob stick dangling from his lower lip.

"Hey man... nice... uh... vintage thing you got there... very uh... it's real spherical, man..."

Bar'duur

A horned man with chromeium-plated armor appears, moving down the alleyway from the main way, pretty usual stuff really. His helmet is clipped at his side and he's scanning his surroudnings as he goes. Then he hears some sort of.. music, and winces a bit, looking around, he seems to notice everything awful about this place all at once, it's like the music has unlocked all the negatives of his surroundings. His face scrunches up mildly, and he reaches for his helmet, securing it to his head, as though for some level of protection, at least.

"Can it quiet THAT sound?" grunts a chubby, angry Rodian that's stepped up to Yxuara's stall, shoving a stubby green finger in the direction of the band. "If so I'll buy a case! TWO cases!... Bah. I need a J-727 power modulator for a WTK-85A. I tried the shop in Gearhead, but they're out. Can you help me or not?"

Short, curt, and to the point.. much like many of the other interactions happening around the Night Market, today.

"Nothing's getting naked around THAT," one of the women not far from Sumi comments. She's missing a few teeth, dirt caked around the bottom of her ears and a wipe of something that we hope is grease over one eye. "Hell, I wouldn't even get naked around that! You gotta play MUSIC if you want GROUPIES!" she shouts towards the band, snorting.

The petite, black-cloaked form moving through the masses has paused, though, at the sight of Mandl dancing.. to THIS music, no less! It managed to stop Lira in her tracks, her arms folding in front of her, the sleeves swallowing her lavender arms as she just watches in quiet amusement.

It's probably the compliment on Echo's vintage that draws Lira's gaze towards Ezlo, blue eyes gazing out from within the shadow of her hood. She slows to offer a smile that he could barely make out if he made an effort.

"Thanks," comes the girl's voice -- a young soprano that pegs her quickly as a 'teenager' of some race. Her lekku are still tucked within that cloak. Either way, she is definitely not, in fact, a 'man.' "I'm fond of him."

Nearby, the vendor selling knock-off blasters -- a Nautolan with fraying patience -- snaps at a customer. The exchange quickly escalates, voices rising above the already discordant din, and Echo lets out a soft whir of concern beside her.

"Easy," she murmurs to the droid. A hurried shopper roughly shoulders past her, making the girl stumble back a step.

The argument between the vendor and customer reaches a boiling point. A shove, followed by a yelp, sends a crate of cheap blasters tumbling to the ground with a loud crash.

Mandl, unable to hear through the significant padding of their suit(!), disregards the interruption however grave a mistake that may be? They dance, continually, perhaps hoping to lighten hearts and moods rather than to leap straight to violence as so many on Nar Shaddaa are apt to. No weapon is drawn, no danger assessed. There is only the power of rhythm! To stun! To kill!

Mandl, unable to hear through the significant padding of their suit(!), disregards the interruption however grave a mistake that may be? They dance, continually, perhaps hoping to lighten hearts and moods rather than to leap straight to violence as so many on Nar Shaddaa are apt to. No weapon is drawn, no danger assessed. There is only the power of rhythm! To stun! To kill!

Violence is a Mandalorian way of life. To be rife with conflict, unease, and threats was just another day ending in Y (or the Star Wars equivalent.) When the lady with missing teeth answered Sumi's comment, it surprised a laugh out of Sumi and a few others followed. Sumi supposed she could agree to that, plus, with them being in this district of all districts, well, who wanted to be naked in the Night Market?

"Well, maybe there will be a fight we can watch at least. Blaster fire sounds better than /this/!"

"Two cases oil.." Yxuara's eyes brighten up and the skewer of meat drifts away from his mouth and onto the counter as he sets it aside to give the Rodian his second-best smile (slightly greasy). Hopping off the seat he reaches beneath the counter to come back up with a brushed metal part. "J-727AAZ" he says, "With the connectors included--" His claws do a quick tapping on the counter. "If you wait a moment, SCSC Sniv will clean this up--find you a box, you bet. Be ready in time for whatever you do with the oil."

He gnashes and picks up the skewer, bites off a bit from the end, and offers, "3,500 credits for the lot. Perhaps you have time to examine these chairs?"

Closing his eyes tightly shut, while he fumbles around in his pockets for a lighter, Ezlo resumes his attempt at dancing. The dancing he attempts should really have air quotes around it, but then he's never claimed to have any professional training. Or maybe he has claimed that, on some other planet at some other time. We don't know everything he's done the past forty years. Regardless though, he's clearly trying to give the group a chance, and it's likely that the drugs help him hear the notes that they're trying to play, rather than the ones that they actually are.

"Oh... be-skoobidy-beep-bah! Buh dooby-dee pah!"

Ezlo finally gets the lighter in hand, and gives the young Twi'lek a salute with one of his hands while lighting his shroob stick with the other. A deep inhale follows, and the sweet smell of Dank Ardennian Shroob fills the immediate space around him. He holds it in, and when he exhales the purplish smoke is so thick that it immediately sinks toward the ground and builds up a cloud around his feet.

"I used to have one of those droids. Ended up taking its guts out and turning it into a hookah. Man.... the draw on that thing... tighter than a Herglic's blowhole, you know what I'm sayin'? I was like... DAMN! The futz was that?"

Ezlo reacts predictably, but a little bit more slowly than everyone else. He startles easily, just belatedly. Ardennian shroob affects one's perception of time, after all.

And the band was just starting to get their groove on... what a bummer.

The crash of the blaster crate hitting the ground reverberates through the Night Market, momentarily silencing the discordant music. But before the quiet can settle, chaos erupts.

A nearby vendor, a grizzled Devaronian selling bootleg holoprojectors, is hit squarely in the leg by one of the fallen crates. "Watch it!" he snarls, shoving the Nautolan customer aside with a broad sweep of his arm. The customer, already on edge, retaliates with a sharp push, sending the Devaronian stumbling backward into a table piled high with counterfeit electronics. The goods clatter to the ground, drawing the attention of others nearby.

Echo beep-boop-dwoooooops nervously at the mention of 'taking its guts out,' his domed head and singular optical sensor rotating around to look up at Lira's hooded face. Instead of saying anything, one purple hand escapes from the baggy sleeve of her cloak to wave dismissively at the droid, as if she were trying to swat the idea away like flies.

"I... don't," Lira answers with a little shake of her head. Of course, that much was probably obvious by the way she took a small step away from that purplish smoke. If there's a 'cool' or 'in' crowd where it comes to 'Shroob' in these parts, Lira's not in it. "But I'm happy if it worked out for you."

A burly human, one of the unfortunate bystanders caught in the fallout of the growing fray, grumbles loudly as a case of blaster components gets knocked over onto his foot. "You idiots!" he growls, stepping forward to grab the Nautolan by the collar. "Can't you watch where you're going?"

The crowd, ever-shifting and unpredictable, reacts to the escalating tension. A Twi'lek woman, her arms laden with stolen jewelry, is jostled by the fray and drops several glittering trinkets. She shrieks in frustration, bending down to scoop them up before being kicked in the side by the flailing Devaronian. Now, she's in the fight too, lunging at the Devaronian with a ferocity that catches the attention of two onlookers who cheer them on.

And soon as the fight breaks out, of course, Yxuara's pudgy Rodian customer? Well, he does what most of the seedy clientele would do in this part of the moon... he snatches for the part while the majority of the crowd is turning to see what the fuss is about. He doesn't even seem to care if Yxuara turns away or not. He's intent on making off with it without paying. But at least he isn't trying to steal the chairs, right?!

Mandl switches to breakdancing,* spinning deftly in place to avoid thrown fists and whirling on planted hands between 'people in combat' and 'people stealing,' hoping to avoid the both! Whatever strategy or solution they may have in store, clearly they're stalling for time-- in immaculate and memorable style, but still!

Sumi stays off to the side, passing her empty carton into the trash, not that it helped the surroundings, but she was doing her part! She took up her helmet, but did not don it, yet. She was waiting for everything to turn into a full blown pit of violence before deciding on what next to do. "Let's go," She called out. "Someone hit the musicians! They started all this drek!" She couldn't contain her laugh.

"<Curse you!>" Yxuara's eyes widen and his skewer slams into the counter point first, intent on nailing the Rodian's sleeve to the counter--his aim is true, somewhat to his surprise--and if there was no sleeve that must hurt quite a bit!

SCSC Sniv points a grappler at the Rodian and Yxuara carefully slides the J-727AAZ back below the counter top. "Negotiations have taken an unfortunate turn--" he says, "Price has risen to 3,560 credits...you owe me lunch." The other two squib are carefully using their salvaging grapplers to drag the cracked open cases and the spilled goods under the curtain of their own booth.

"Great fungus of Bungus III! This ain't the vibe, man..."

Backing up a bit, as he's dangerously close the the rapidly-escalating violence, Ezlo hangs on to his shroob stick lest it become lost in all the chaos. After all, Ardennian shroob isn't an especially popular drug on the Smuggler's Moon, and he doesn't like flying. Which means that the pilot's jacket he's wearing is really just evidence that he's a poser.

His lazy, drawling sort of voice isn't especially commanding under normal circumstances, but in the middle of an all hands scrap, he might as well keep his suggestion to himself. Yet, pacifist at heart, he offers it nonetheless, to a crowd that will ultimately ignore it even if they hear it.

"This is harsh, man. Can't we all just... like... get spaced and feel each other up?"

Notably though, one of his many hands seems to be reaching for something in his jacket. Odds are, it isn't another shroob stick...

The Rodian screams as Yxuara's skewer goes cleanly through the back of his hand, pinning it to the table. Anger rises in his face, and without waiting to negotiate, he's already grabbing for the blaster pistol slung in the holster on his waist, the sound of metal clearing leather faintly audible above the din of the market.

With the initial scuffle already pulling in a half-dozen more, the brawl spreads like a storm through the tightly packed Night Market. The burly human, still gripping the Nautolan's collar, throws a wild punch that misses its mark and instead lands on an innocent Zeltron passerby. The Zeltron, taken completely by surprise, reels back and crashes into a nearby stall of exotic spices, sending clouds of brightly colored powders into the air.

"Are you out of your mind?!" the Zeltron shouts, eyes wide and already watering from the sharp scent of the spilled spices. He swings back, not even aiming at the human, but connecting with the Twi'lek woman who had already been tangled in the fight. She shrieks in rage, clawing at the Zeltron as both of them tumble into another vendor's booth selling knock-off droid parts, scattering gears and tools everywhere.

The band, once more plowing through their off-key performance, seems oblivious to the riot taking shape. One of the musicians, a Mon Calamari, notices the growing chaos and takes a cautious step back, but the drummer -- an overly enthusiastic Gamorrean -- doubles down on his sloppy beats, grinning as if feeding off the escalating energy.

As the fight widens, more stalls are overturned, the contents spilling into the crowded market. A Corellian fruit vendor throws his hands up in frustration as his produce is trampled, grabbing a piece of durasteel pipe to defend his remaining stock. With a loud yell, he charges at a Rodian who's just been knocked into his booth, swinging wildly and further fueling the pandemonium.

Vendors and customers alike are now either trying to escape the mayhem or diving headfirst into the fray. Shouts, crashes, and the the sudden, sharp *CHKOW-CHKOW-CHKOW* of blaster fire fills the air as the Night Market plunges into full-blown chaos.

Was it Sumi's shout or just happenstance that sent three angry market-goers INTO the band? One of them kicked over the drum set, forcing the drummer to his feet, while another shoved another of the band-members completely off of the stage, sending him sprawling onto his back.

Still standing near Ezlo, Lira's shoulders rise and then seem to deflate under that dark cloak. The anger of the mob was spreading quickly, and she wasn't here for the violence.. and whatever she was here for, it wasn't going to be possible, now.

"If that's your goal, you may want to find another venue. Come on, Echo. We'll try another time," Lira says to Ezlo, turning her back to the bulk of the fighting and ducking her head some, obviously trying to put distance between herself and the expanding brawl.

Something stops her, though. She comes up short and turns her head towards one of the larger thoroughfares.

Faintly, amid all the chaos, the whine of swoop engines can be heard growing rapidly closer.. not one or two. Maybe six audible to the keenest of hearing.

There are no 'police' down this far -- nothing except for gangs to patrol their territory, either to keep the peace or take advantage of chaos, depending on their affiliation.

Mandl had been prepared to reach for a grenade, but sensing oncoming swoop-engines in their jawbone and watching civilians 'rise to their own defense,' Dr. B'rot neatly whips their cane around to reveal a prod beneath the ornamentally-carved lump of coal that functions as a "gemstone top." Let's get petrochemical.

Sumi has enough time to place her helmet on when not one, but two, barstools shatter against her left side; the same side she had not paid much mind. Mando-iron armor took the brunt of the attack ensuring nothing but kinetic energy bruised the skin beneath. When she turned on the culprits, she found five pairs of eyes looking into her mirror like 'T' visor and they realized who was hit.

In place of anger though, Sumi laughed out loud and produced a Sonn-blas Z6 stun baton. It unfolded telescopically, snapping out serrated edges that composed the mace-like end. The baton handle was vertical, perpendicular to the actual shaft of the weapon, and required that she spin it to generate the initial charge of electric energy the crackled off its serrated edges.

In a dry tone, thanks to the emitter of her helmet, she declared, <"Now the fun begins!">

SMASH.. one unfortunate denizen is sent scaling backward with a sudden burst of kinetic and electric energy. They disappear in the shifting sea of the crowd just as a second and third are done the same way. Sumi's laughter is giddy, the heavily armored female trudging into the fight with glee as the remaining two try to get away from her and scream for help!

Second Engineer Salvager Cook Snivillee-Reraffleros's grapper is at the ready! It goes 'Twweeee!' as the squib powers it and aims at the Rodian's holster when he twists to pull out his gun, the personal tractor-beam pulling the weapon from the holster earlier than the Rodian expected and flying it across the counter.

Yxuara's hackles rise up and the trader looks around at the three others in the booth with a spot of worry. "<That could have been close!>" He looks back at the Rodian shopper and the corners of his mouth lift smugly, "Did you have something else to offer us in trade?"

As he gets caught up in the violence despite his inclinations, Ezlo finds himself being swung at by a person who, as far as he knows, is a complete stranger with no obvious motivation. This is why nobody likes humans, not even other humans.

But never fear, for though he is a drug-addled pacifist, Ezlo is not exactly defenseless. He might not keep up with his cardio like he should, but he's still an agile multi-armed space monkey with a... what is that?

The previously-mentioned item tucked away inside his jacket is produced, and snapped into activation with a flick of the wrist. Glowing brightly, the stun baton is put to good effect as Ezlo lightly taps it against the nearest fool in the fool pile. He then proceeds to miss another fool, but makes up for it by simply smacking him all the harder with the baton, right in the balls. The balls are a legitimate target when someone is as short as Ezlo.

Clenching his shroob stick tightly in his teeth, the weird little alien tries to back away from the chaos, fending away attacks with a stun baton.

And reaching in his pocket for... what is that, exactly?

Yxuara's Rodian grapples wildly for the blaster that gets sucked out of the holster before he can get a grip on it, his big eyes going even wider as he starts to curse in his native tongue. The fight is no longer worth the part. He's lost his blaster. His hand is bleading. He grabs the skewer with his free hand and pulls it free, throwing it to the ground. "I'll remember this!!" he shouts as he runs off into the chaos.

The sound of roaring swoop engines grows louder, a low, menacing hum that cuts through the chaotic din of the market. Heads turn, some in confusion, others in dread, as six sleek swoop bikes tear into the Night Market. The riders wear mismatched armor, faces obscured by visors and helmets, but their posture and swagger announce their intent even before they dismount. This isn't just a patrol -- it's an opportunity.

At the front of the pack is their leader, a towering Devaronian with deep red skin and curled horns that gleam in the dim light. His jacket, adorned with patches from fallen rivals, flares out behind him as he swings off his bike. A heavy blaster pistol hangs from his hip, hand resting casually on the grip. He grins, fangs bared, eyes scanning the chaos like a predator sizing up its prey. This is his domain, and the market is now ripe for the picking.

Beside him, his lieutenant -- a slim, sharp-featured Twi'lek with dark green skin and cold, calculating eyes -- strides forward with purpose. She too is armed, her sleek pistol holstered at her side, its polished surface reflecting the flickering lights of the market. Unlike the others, she doesn't bother with swagger. Her movements are efficient, almost methodical, as she gestures for the others to fan out. The gang wastes no time, blending into the crowd with practiced ease, hands on their weapons, looking for marks to exploit amidst the frenzy.

The Devaronian leader, still grinning like a Hutt at a bargaining table, shouts over the noise. "Alright, boys and girls, pick the stalls clean and let's make sure no one gets too comfortable." His voice is thick with amusement, like this is just another day of business.

As the swoop engines die down and the gang dismounts, the mood in the Night Market takes a darker turn. The Devaronian leader's grin widens as his gang spreads out, some moving through the stalls, others targeting individual vendors, all armed with blaster pistols that glint menacingly in the flickering light. The brawl falters for a moment, a ripple of unease washing through the crowd as people begin to realize what's happening.

One of the gang members, a broad-shouldered human with a cruel sneer, spots a frightened vendor scrambling to gather up a crate of scattered goods. With deliberate cruelty, the gang member strides over and, without warning, stomps down hard on the vendor's back, driving him to the ground. The vendor yelps in pain, his face smashing into the dirt.

"Stay down, old man," the gang member growls, pointing a blaster at the back of his head.

"Don't," Lira'una finally speaks up.

The young Twi'lek had smoothly sidestepped a member of the crowd trying to take a swing at her from behind and waved vaguely at BB-BB, sending him out and away from the fray. Instead of sticking around to fight, her petite, cloaked figure had changed its course as if drawn by some invisible current, until she was standing a mere pace away from the sneering man that drives his boot into the vendor's spine.

Slender, lavender hands rise out of the sleeve of her robes, reaching up to the edges of her hood to push it back away from her face. One of those hands holds a wooden stick with three bands around it, maybe half a meter long. With her hood pushed back behind her, though, she's just as young as she sounds, her lavender lekku stirring inside that robe.

"Leave him. He's done nothing to you. Please. Take your people and go."

Mandl waits, cane held 'ready,' posture that of a being who's had to defend themselves from thugs and slavers alike. They provide translation, helpful in the moment rather than throwing some declaratory fist. "keta jee. dopa pankpa droi copah ulwan. oot-main, mruishani apenkee jee-jee jee-jee bo." [Language: Huttese]

The two fleeing Sumi were not successful in evading her wrath (glee?). One was struck down after sustaining a shock directly to the tail-bone. Sent end over end, they disappear beneath the sea of shifting feet, likely trampled to death (or wishing they were).

The second turned to see what happened only to be struck in the chest and sent down to the ground with a definitive crack. Dust swelled out from beneath their body, clouding up briefly from the impact paired with kinetic and electric energy that had jettisoned him there. In the brief second all this happened, he saw Sumi, then darkness. Not dead, but out cold.

Sumi had no awareness of the overall situation. She was just enjoying the conflict for what it was.

The squib sales tent is rapidly turning into a sort of fortress as bins of trash have been piled on two sides from the local refuse collection and smashed crates drug over from the ongoing brawl. Nothing new, a pack of squibs surrounded by garbage is just Atunda, you know?

The little blue and green furred creatures are digging in, walling off the third side with their own merchandise--sparing the red chairs of course--and well, the fourth side still remains open for business with the lights shining brightly: Yxuara spiritedly haggling with a Rodian, held captive by a skewer on one hand and the fact that his gun has been confiscated on the other.

"The J-727AAZ," Yxuara voice pipes up, counting off on his claws, "two cases of oil--one skewer of meat--" He looks up with dismay as the Rodian makes his escape. "You bet he does! We don't need his type of customer."

At the arrival of the swoop gang every squib looks up at the sky, the crew slinging their grapplers onto their back while SESC Sniv turns off most of the tent lights. Everyone pulls out greasy rags and starts polishing industriously. The raiders will be greeted with grease, should they forget to Not Touch Anything!

"You know, there's a lot to be said for minding your own business... I always say, man."

Remaining fairly calm, possibly aided by the shroob smoke, Ezlo doesn't look like he particularly wants to engage with a gang of swoopers, particularly not a group that looks legitimately fearsome. But then, just as it looks as if he's about to turn tail and run away, he has a familiar sensation. From inside his guts, the sensation of... hunger. Not that he's skipping a bunch of meals, by any means, but still, it's a reminder that his funds are low, and that the way he makes new funds is by...

... cashing bounties.

"Aww man... I bet one of these guys gots a bounty..." The Ardennian practically whispers to himself. And the sudden opportunity is too tempting. For though this isn't an especially friendly place to try and bring in a wanted sentient, that's just the sort of opportunity his uncle is always trying to get him to take.

And so, despite his inclinations toward pacifism, the little blue alien remains, sliding a handled grenade into one of his free hands.

Summoning up his courage, and clearing his throat, the space ape flicks the switch on the grenade, and then pipes up as loud as he can make himself, while trying to project some confidence.

"Hey, uh... I'm like... not okay with your behavior, man."

Tossing the grenade toward a group of the swoopers, Ezlo himself can't believe what he's doing. There's a look of shock on his face as the grenade hits, spewing Frosty Goodness everywhere.

"Shit. I should have said, 'Chill out.'"

It's too late now.

The broad-shouldered human freezes for a moment, his sneer faltering as Lira's voice, followed shortly by Mandl's, cuts through the tension. His gaze flicks from the trembling vendor beneath his boot to the small Twi'lek who's dared to speak up and then her Bith counterpart. A low chuckle escapes his lips.

"Take my people and go?" he repeats mockingly, glancing over his shoulder at the Devaronian leader for confirmation. The towering Swoop Leader, still grinning, arches an eyebrow, clearly entertained by the scene unfolding before him.

"What's this now?" The Devaronian's voice is thick with amusement, his sharp fangs flashing in the dim light. "You think you're some kind of hero, girl?" He's stalking closer, but his eyes never leave Lira, keen and calculating. "You and your _pet_?" He must mean Mandl.

The human gang member, emboldened by his leader's laughter, presses his boot harder into the vendor's back, eliciting a groan of pain. "You heard the boss, sweetheart. Heroics don't -- "

Before he can get the words out, there's a sudden thunk followed by a sharp hiss.

A cryo-grenade lands just behind the swoop bikes, and before the gang can react, it detonates. FSSHHH! A wave of freezing vapor explodes outward, instantly encasing three of the gang members in a thick layer of frost, weapons still in hand but useless in their icy prisons.

The Devaronian leader's amusement is gone in an instant, replaced with a deep scowl as his blaster pistol comes up and he swings it around in Enzlo's direction. He doesn't have a clear target -- not at first, but he's looking for the likely culprit. The Lieutenant is doing the same.

Just as the Gang Member's grip tightens on his pistol, prepared to take his sudden fear and frustration out on the vendor, Lira's free hand flips open, palm up, and he's thrown to the ground just as his blaster discharges in the duracrete beside the man's head.

Mandl's wicked cross-body strikes to stun with their *thrumming* cane are deflected neatly, whether by armor or contempt who's to say definitively? They may curse in one of a half-dozen languages, no doubt choosing something so obscure the inability to parse it counts as an additional insult! Boscka!

The polishing stops for a moment as the four squibs all glance up at the marketplace center, the drifting chill around the marketplace leaving the air feeling somewhat more comfortable in spite of the cryogenic chemical feel. A quiet muttering goes around the counter as they start passing back and forth guesses on what the raider's speeders would be worth, sold in pieces or as a total. The shot into the concrete causes them all to duck back inside again, before popping out in order of bravery once more.

Happenstance is all that brought Sumi close. Happenstance was what struck the gang leader in the left arm with a combination of kinetic and electric energy the likes of which had jettisoned every person it touched. Sumi had no concept of what was transpiring beyond the fight, so after trying to hit the Leader a few more times, she moved on to the next fight, leaping off an elevated platform to end up in another crowd. <"Got room for another?! Haha!">

Never bring blasters to a grenade fight. That's on page 384 of the Junior Bounty Hunter's Handbook. Not that Ezlo has ever read that, or any other book for that matter, because he lives on a moon where there are much more interesting diversions. Fortunately for Ezlo, he probably doesn't look like the most likely person to be chucking grenades around in a public market. In fact, he mostly looks like a pretty chill sort of individual. And... that's accurate.

But a space monkey's gotta eat, and Ezlo prefers grass-fed bantha.

Trusting his instincts, he tosses another Cryo Grenade at the next biggest threat, the one who is presumably the right hand sentient. But throwing this time will definitely give away both his identity and his position, and leave him all manner of exposed. He'll just have to trust that a bunch of people that he doesn't know will have his back.

It's only after he throws the grenade and connects with the lieutenant that he realizes that he DOES know at least one other person in the crowd. That Sumi really gets around the Smuggler's Moon. What are the sheer odds? Must be the will of the Force.

"I told you fools! I TOLD YOU! Drop the piece, or you're going to find out what one of these feels like ON THE INSIDE!"

The gang member Lira had flung to the ground stumbles to his feet, blinking in confusion, like he had no comprehension of _why_ the world had suddenly gone sideways on its axis. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, his blaster shaking as he raises it in the direction of the vendor, who is scrambling away through the chaos. His finger tightens on the trigger, but before he can fire, the wooden stick in Lira's hand crackles to life. With a sharp twist, it breaks into three separate pieces, each crackling with energy.

In a fluid motion, Lira flips the staff, and the energy couplings whip across the man's chest with a resounding CRACK. He gasps, his eyes rolling back as the force of the blow sends him staggering backward. He crumples to the ground, unconscious, the blaster falling from his grip.

The Swoop Leader, still searching for the source of the cryo grenade, barely has time to react as Sumi Kora, Mandl, and Lira all move in on him. He's fast, a seasoned fighter, dodging most of the blows with a grace that belies his size. His grin returns briefly as he evades strike after strike, but Sumi's stun baton finds its mark, connecting with his arm in a burst of electric energy.

His muscles seize, and with a grunt, the Swoop Leader drops to the ground, unconscious.

Ezlo's hurled cryo grenade lands squarely at the Lieutenant's feet, and she's almost able to get out of the way before the freezing vapor quickly envelops her legs, climbing up over her waist. Trapped in the ice, her arms struggle to move, but through sheer determination, she manages to lift her blaster. With a roar of rage, she pulls the trigger.

The shot goes wide, striking Yxuara's hastily built fort, sending debris scattering in all directions.

Mandl's confidence buoyed by their momentary successes, they swiftly jam their stun-prod into the awaiting torso of the next-in-line. Perhaps the Lieutenant clings to consciousness long enough to hear Ezlo ask: 'So, I was thinkin' if you ain't got any plans tonight... maybe...' before blacking out?

Mandl's confidence buoyed by their momentary successes, they swiftly jam their stun-prod into the awaiting torso of the next-in-line. Perhaps the Lieutenant clings to consciousness long enough to hear Ezlo ask: 'So, I was thinkin' if you ain't got any plans tonight... maybe...' before blacking out?

Amallia Madine

It's another day in Nar Shaddaa. There's the smell of... noodles? Synthetic meat? Blaster burns? Spice? Well, it's a melange, really, and one that Amallia Madine tends to blend quite nicely with the taste of ale on her tongue. The pilot is exiting some dingy den with her hair looking slightly askance and green eyes a little glassy when she sets upon the night market. And there is the distinct sense of... /action/ in the air. Difficult to describe, and ineffable in nature, but not unlike the smell of static in the air after potential energy turns kinetic in a thunderstorm. Her eyes turn towards a group of unconscious and frozen people, and she gives her cheek a little rub with the lip of her bottle, before taking one last swig to drain it completely. She tosses it... somewhere. It doesn't really matter here. No litter laws in Ko Henta. It's... LAWLESS. But she does stifle a burp with the back of her hand while peering at the three upright frozen people, idly fingering at the holster on her right hip. She has no skin in this, to be clear. She's just a little drunk and moderately bored. She flips the toggle of her blaster back and forth between kill and stun, if only for that satisfying, tactile... -click-

-click- -click- "Troublemakers, if I ever saw them," she confides to some bystander, who looks at her funny and tiptoes away. Mollie is saying this primarily for her own benefit, of course. 'Cause she's thinkin' 'bout shootin' 'em.

The squib tent fort erupts in a frenzy of activity as the pile of crates surrounding one side is blasted, scattering wooden splinters throughout. "<We claim damages!>" pipes up one of the voices from within, the squibs talking about preparing a delegation. There is no time like the present--Yxuara and another squib hopping over the high counter and slipping up the side alleys to approach the disabled speeder's bikes, their grapplers at the ready.

Getting shot at is a traumatic experience for a pacifist, but it happens to Ezlo with surprising regularity. There's not a lot of money in staying at home, smoking shroob, and playing with one's bungos. There's really not even that much money in cashing bounties, especially with the extra risk involved. But then, the members of this band were just kind of minding their business, and they got their shit ruined. So... maybe it's not a matter of professions, so much as just that living on the Smuggler's Moon kind of sucks.

The shot goes wide, and before Ezlo can slip another grenade into one of his hands, he realizes that the fight is over. So he just kind of stands there for a minute, grenade in one hand, stun baton in another, and a shroob stick dangling from his weirdly-shaped lower lip.

Belatedly, he remembers that it's been a while since he's taken a puff.

"Let's see here... which of you scuttbags is worth some Wupiupi?"

Pulling out a datapad, and putting the grenade away, Ezlo looks through the database, scanning the faces of all the frozen and otherwise dealt-with miscreants. He's got legitimate claim to at least one of these bozos, but then bounty hunting is crummy profession, and everything is always up for negotiation.

"Pure Pazaak. Looks like you're worth... lake of piss! FIVE HUNDRED WUPIUPI!"

Mandl steps over with precision, his Power Cane in hand. One swift, decisive crack across the Swoop Lieutenant's helmet, and the Twi'lek falls limp to the ground, unconscious. The faint echoes of the market's chaos still ripple through the air, though now the commotion is beginning to die down. With the remaining gang members trapped in icy stasis from the cryo-grenade, the fight seems to be over, but only temporarily. The frozen forms of the swoop gang won't be contained for long; soon enough, the effects will fade, and they'll be free once again.

In the lull, Lira's staff retracts with a smooth twist, its segmented pieces sliding together with quiet efficiency. The half-meter "stick" soon vanishes within the folds of her heavy cloak, swallowed by the dark fabric as though it were never there. She kneels next to the gang member she incapacitated earlier, her lavender hands moving with a gentle, almost hesitant touch. There's no formal medical sweep -- just a quiet moment to check if he's still breathing. Satisfied, she moves on to the gang leader, repeating the process with the same quiet intent.

Echo, her BB-droid, rolls up beside her, emitting a soft series of inquisitive beeps. The market's neon lights flicker off his polished white-blue-green chassis, casting brief, colorful shadows on the ground.

"We've done... more than our share, Echo," Lira murmurs softly, her voice just loud enough for the droid to hear. "We should probably go." There's a hint of urgency there, as though she knows staying longer will invite more trouble -- and questions she's not ready to answer.

Before she leaves, Lira takes in the scene around her. Sumi, Mandl, Yxuara and the rest are bounding toward the speeders that are still half-encased in the remnants of the cryo-ban grenade's aftermath. Lira's eyes finally land on Amallia approaching.

Either of them could recognize the other in passing from Organa's Hope, if Amallia spent any time at the fleet, but it's just as likely that they've missed each other. In any case, wandering closer with her dark hood still pushed back, Lira offers a small, disarming and unthreatening smile. A curve of dark purple lips. Her lekku rest loosely around her neck, and her tone is calm, almost playful.

"I wouldn't normally condone it... but if you have an effective way of knocking them out, it might be wise before they... unfreeze, and realize what happened."

It appears that the weird little four-armed space monkey is actually ahead of things, for once in his life. For though the swoopers are currently frozen, and will probably suffer from extreme frostbite if they don't receive any medical attention, they could also possibly present a threat. And the binders that Ezlo has back on his ship are probably not adequate for keeping and actual prisoner restrained. They've got safety releases, after all.

"Five hundred Wupiupi. Man... that's really gonna save my nerts. Hey, hold still a second, buddy..."

WHACK!

Clubbing one of the bikers over the head with his stun baton like he's a baby seal, Ezlo has probably caused permanent brain injury. But that's not really a problem that Ezlo will have to deal with. He's only taking one of these clowns with him, after all.

Another looks like he's coming around, and is all manner of concerned as Ezlo starts walking up to him with a crackling stun baton in hand.

"Sorry bud... but you guys are dicks. And that's like... uncool, man."

WHACK!

Finally, the blue apelike alien finds the Most Valuable Bounty among them. One worth several hundred Wupiupi, enough to get that new hammock he's been eyeing. His ship could really use some furniture. Whacking this one over the head as well, he frees the miscreant from its ice encasement, and starts dragging it toward one of the swoops. With some effort, he picks the thug up, drapes it over the back of the swoop, and then... mounts it himself.

Adding insult to copious injury, the Ardennian starts up the thug's own bike, and gives a salute to the Twi'lek who helped him cash this particular bounty. Pulling back on the throttle, he speeds out toward the nearest constabulary station, knocking over all sorts of objects on the way, for he is a crap driver.