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__________________________________________________________________​</div><br/>The blue, terrestrial glow of Cariot'lo ballooned before<i>Kyramund I</i>when it dropped from hyperspace. The planet, its moon, the surrounding constellations: all stretched to their accustomed proportions as time-space wrapped around the bounty hunter's ship, seeking and balancing in fluid equilibrium. Star traffic surrounded the planet, giving every indication that the bustling, culture-rich planet held the reputation as being the central hub of economic vitality that the Galaxy spoke of in praise. The bounty hunter stood -- helmet under his arm -- and stared out of the transparisteel viewport, gazing at the sleek, vertical fingers of Trans-Galactic style architecture. His hazel eyes narrowed in thought and similitude -- such places were seldom different. Coruscant, Nal Shaddaa, Metellos; all plated their surfaces with steel and markers of civilization that reached for the stratosphere, giving depth to the fell foundations of scurrilous underworlds that harbored every inch of scum and villainy the planet could offer.<br/><br/>"I hate these kind of places," the Defel growled. Speaking with the dismissive resignation of one intolerant of pretension, the pilot -- his body a void in the ultra-violet spectrum, mass rendered abyssal black -- veered the small space craft onto the approach vector sent by their hosts. "Contact ... Landing Pad 12 in sight," Kharek said, the hint of a snarl present. The Mandalorian watched Kharek's motions with silent approval, quietly marveling at his deft skill in maneuvering the craft in descent. "Ahh ... you've got a welcoming committee waiting for you," Kharek chimed. The man turned his head, spotting the several armed guards standing upon the landing platform.<i>For all the good it would do them.</i>The ship's points alone could decimate an entire battalion of Republic Marines, and<b>he </b>was far more dangerous than any of<i>Kyramund I</i>'s armaments.<br/><br/>The Mandalorian fitted his helmet, content to let the paltry security force believe that they earned what meager salary this particular syndicate managed to dole out. The starcraft nestled in the exact center of the open platform. The gangway ramp hissed, billowing pneumatic excess in plumbs of white as the Mandalorian disembarked the craft with a gait smooth and controlled.  He carried a modified TL-50 Heavy Repeater -- the<i>veshok </i>wood gunstock slashed and marred from the trials of warfare -- cradled in his arms, themselves bristling with gadgetry and weapons. More guards escorted a tall man wearing pale, cream-colored vestment-style robes with a black skufia-like hat adorning his head. "Gregun Rath?" the attendant asked, boldly.<br/><br/>The Mandalorian advanced toward an incoming dignitary, decelerating to a causal pause. "Obviously." His tone that resonated conflict. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"<br/><br/>"Shall we tend to your ship?" the attendant continued uncertain.<br/><br/>"No," Gregun replied. "Do not touch. Do not enter." The visor of bounty hunter's helmet reflected the hull of<i>Kyramund I</i>, knowing the Defel was cleaning his weapons. "My security security system is rather ... unforgiving."<br/><div style="text-align: center"><br/>
__________________________________________________________________<br/>​</div>A cadre of finely-dressed, muscled Aurouns sat arrayed along the curvature of a crescent-shaped table. They regarded the Mandalorian with glares that were cold and callous; unfazed, Gregun released a polite sigh and adjusted the hold on his blaster rifle. The game the thugs played was as hollow as it was oblivious to the reality that Gregun -- alone -- could obliterate the entire syndicate in little more than a half hour. Standing tall, Gregun looked out across the table, his helmet scanning and recording the faces of everyone present. Taking passive glimpses of people and their locations provide useful to bounty hunters, whose job it was to locate those who wished to be un-found. That was the purpose of this visit -- a contract to find a missing slave. The circumstances must have been sentimental in nature, since it would have been easier and cheaper to simply buy a slave, rather than paying Gregun a royal sum worth three such slaves. The prospect that these men thought their silent belligerence could intimidate the battle-hardened warrior was nothing less that laughable. The Mandalorian had half a mind to incinerate every man before him in a fit of hardened murder -- their array around the crescent in perfect arced range of his wrist-mounted flame-thrower; Gregun repressed the yearning temptation from his overtly, tactical mind.<br/><br/>"I understand you got a job for me?" Gregun asked, his Mandalorian accent thick. Twas better to break the proverbial ice than suffer the purported dominance of these organized animals.<br/><br/>A bald man sporting iridescent blue tattoos around his throat reached into his pocket, producing an hand-held holo-device. He slid the object across the table; Gregun dropped his hand and caught it. The activation button clicked easily, and a shimmering blue hologram sprung to life. The image of beautiful woman reflected off of Gregun's helmet, and the bounty hunter took in her every detail. The holo-image cycled through glimpses of profiles and angles of motioned cinema, her face turning, looking seductive, lips parting in pleasure. Unimpressed, Gregun waited for Kharek's transmission, for he also apprehended the white-haired human that shimmered holo-blue.<br/><br/><<That's not a standard profile,>> Kharek growled from Gregun's earplug. <<The quality is farked and jarred ... they've cobbled together her images from a patchwork of security recordings. She looks like an Auroun.>><br/><br/>"Who is she?" Gregun asked sternly, matter-of-factly.<br/><br/>"Her name is Reyr," the bald man said. "She's a Cariot'lo Auroun slave to someone very powerful in our syndicate. And, she needs to be found quickly, quietly, with no questions asked."<br/><br/>Gregun returned his gaze to the temptress. The woman's features curved in an anatomical perfection that the bounty hunter had seldom seen.<i>A exquisite slave</i>, Gregun thought. Was some higher-up really unable to find another gorgeous humanoid with a cunt? The illogical nature of the circumstances flagged Gregun's mind, and that dissonance conflicted with the anonymity that his new clients sought. No questions asked, they had mandated. There was an unusual degree of mystery and enforced secrecy surrounding this job. "Is she dangerous?" Gregun asked.<br/><br/>"No." Gregun slowly regarded a new voice, one that spoke clear and direct, but without pretension. The man wore a draping, maroon-colored cloak and the hood obscured his facial features to the naked eye; luckily Gregun's visor missed nothing. "She is not dangerous. Bring her in alive, though beware of her tongue ... she's a shrewd liar and manipulator. It's how she ..." the man said, pausing, "escaped in the first place."<br/><br/>"Any idea where she is now?" Gregun asked.<br/><br/>"If we did, we wouldn't have called you ... now would we?!" It was the bald man, once again. The man's outlandish bellicosity began to wear thin on the Mandalorian, who didn't take kindly to attitude. Client or not, words were weapons against the soul, which was why Gregun -- or any in Clan Rath -- rarely spoke at length, unless the matter deserved merit. "Careful," Gregun said with deadly intensity, "or, I'll half my price to slice open your guts on the landing platform." The bald man shot Gregun a hateful glare and made a motion to stand -- one dismissed by the cloaked figure.<br/><br/>"That's enough, Rettick," the smooth voice chimed. The hooded man motioned his pointed hands to Gregun. "How much information do you require to proceed?" he asked.<br/><br/>Gregun turned to the cloaked me and spoke. "Finding a mark depends on time and opportunity. People's memories can be short, even shorter is they are blasted before I get to them first. Finding her could take a week or a year, and that's solely dependent on starting off at the right place to pick up the trail."<br/><br/>The cloaked man considered in silence before speaking. "Reyr left our establishment four days prior. While capable of fleeing anywhere, she's not likely to have left Cariot'lo. I'd imagine that she's lurking in the depths of the underworld."<br/><br/>"Any contacts she might visit?"<br/><br/>"None," the cloaked man answered.<br/><br/>"Dead or alive?" Gregun asked.<br/><br/>"Alive. And, I should add that when you find her, she is to be transported to the slave auction world of Gabredor III. The holo-disk in your hand contains a nano-encryption link, and you will notify us when you have secured her and when she will be up for auction."<br/><br/><div style="text-align: left">"It's easier if I just return her here, isn't it?" The convoluted plan baffled the Mandalorian.<br/>
<br/>
"We have our reasons," the cloaked man sneered, confident. "And, if dead is the only way, then ... be sure to return her body to us, though your fee will be cut in half."​</div><br/>"I'll find her," Gregun announced, in an easy tone. "Now, about my price." The question came hard, as a statement. "Discretion comes with the job, but you're asking for more?"<br/><br/>"Indeed," the cloaked man said. "Be sure to tie up any loose ends. We'll pay your 50,000 credits -- half now, half upon completion. You will be compensated for every loose end you tie down. 1,000 credits per kill, PROVIDED the acts do not attract more attention."<br/><br/>Gregun took a last look at the blue holo-woman before turning the device off and slipping it into his pocket.<br/><br/>"I'll find her," he said.<br/><div style="text-align: center"><br/>
__________________________________________________________________​</div><br/>For the hordes of dead Kult'han strewed about the hollow warehouse, very little blood leaked onto the floor to join the myriad other stains that had accumulated over the centuries. In place of draining veins, the scent of charred flesh permeated the thin, dank air. The few surviving the members of what was -- ostensibly -- a powerful and dominant street gang all huddled in the corner, having tossed their blasters aside in surrender. The mesh at Gregun's right elbow joint still smoldered from the stray blaster bolt that made contact, and the pain of that minor victory transformed the heated conversation and haggling to open warfare; it was then that Gregun ignited the primer torch on his wrist-mounted flame thrower. For all the screams that echoed about the hundreds of adjacent halls and canyon-like streets, no one came to the Kult-han's aid. No loyalty, no honor: these street vermin were the antithesis of the Mandalorian Way. Gregun would have disintegrated the three cowering humans, but he needed something from them.<br/><br/>"I'll ask one last time." The blue image of the Cariot'lo Auroun flitted to life above the holo-recorder. The survivors stared in catatonic fear. "There's a Cariot'lo corpse in the alley ... is that her?"<br/><br/>"No--" a soiled and filthy thug managed, only to be interrupted by the impatient bounty hunter.<br/><br/>"THEN, WHERE IS SHE?"<br/><br/>"I s-s-s-saw her w-walk out ... t-t-that way." The lone woman shook, petrified with fear that the words she spoke would be her last.<br/><br/>"WHEN?"<br/><br/>"L-L-Last night," she stammered. "Oh, please ... don't kill us."<br/><br/>"Do you have three thousand credits?" Gregun asked. A fell despair darkened the woman's eyes, the other two men speechless at their fate announced as Gregun drew his side arm.<br/><br/>"no ..." the woman whimpered, softly.<br/><br/>"My employer does." The safety clicked off and the weapon unloaded on the last witnesses until the energy cells ran empty.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">__________________________________________________________________​</div><br/>Spending the night in the bowels of Cariot'lo's filthy underbelly, though less than desirable, offered more hospitality than the typical places the Mandalorian chose to rest when in pursuit of quarry. The urban caverns afforded every advantage to Gregun, whose night-vision and infra-red capabilities could detect intruder or interlopers one-hundred meters out. There were no ferocious, alpha predators roaming the darkened cityscape -- in fact, he was likely the most dangerous being in the entire sector, especially after obliterating each and every member of the Kult'han. Surely, other gangs and denizens of the underdeep would find their lair and puzzle over who could have decimated such a viscous -- albeit, parochial -- street gang in a single engagement. Gregun's presence induced a pervasive fear that haunted the corridors like an urban specter, and the ordinary citizens skulked about their daily travels, looking over their shoulders in miserly discord.<br/><br/>Wandering often produced more results than shake-downs, though Gregun had his fill of interrogations. A plasma welder, a beggar, a vendor pushing noodles that resembled anemic grassworms: all pointed in the same direction; each was compensated for their enduring silence. In the end, it was the crying that drew Gregun to his quarry. Against the metal wall in a drab, dilapidated shack next to pile of industrial rubble. Swinging his assault weapon across his back, Gregun drew his firearm and took out his manacles. He paused, ready to step inside ... but, sensed a gentle probing he could not fathom. Gregun shook his head and burst into the room, his shoulder banging open the door.<br/><br/>"Don't move!" he barked his orders.