Chapter Text
The rain on Nar Shaddaa was not water; it was an emulsion of toxic industrial runoff, mineral condensate, and spent plasma vapour. It spattered against the triple-reinforced ferroglass of the orbital station’s viewport with the sound of a thousand tiny hammers, running in rainbow streaks down the observation deck and disappearing into the dark abyss below. If the pervading murkiness ever lifted, one would peer into that abyss and see the endless, tiered canyons of the Smuggler’s Moon.
In the cantina, deep within the station’s rusted core, the synthetic gloom was a constant, oppressive presence. The air was a heavy, intoxicating blend of spice fumes, scorched wiring, and the metallic tang of dried blood that perpetually clung to the lower atmosphere of the Hutt space. The usual denizens—rodian gamblers, hulking trandoshans nursing contraband drinks, and assorted mercenaries with too much chrome and too few scruples—created a dense tapestry of noise, aggression, and transactional greed. It was not a place one would want to spend too much time for fear of attracting notice, you wanted to fly under the radar as much as you could.
Booth seven, sequestered behind a thick curtain of shimmering privacy mesh, the noise was, thankfully, dampened to a low, rhythmic throb. The occupants of the booth were clearly seeking an additional level of secrecy, further to that which the general hubbub of cantina noise provided. One of the occupants blended in with the surroundings, as if they were made of the Moon itself. They belonged there. The other occupant presented the same way, however a closer examination would reveal a slight rigidity, and a watchful, alert manner - despite appearing entirely relaxed - that spoke of past military service and a mistrust of their surroundings, marking them as entirely out of place in the cantina’s organic filth.
This was the vigilante, Spartan.
John Diggle - Spartan - sat at the small, circular metal table of booth seven. He was a monumental figure, even seated. Face obscured by a mask, his dark clothing swathed across his body, hiding some body armour - although his usual vigilante garb of beskar was left behind on the ship, as it would attract far too much attention in a place like this. His whole presence was unyielding: a silent, immovable force. He was a professional, an operator whose reputation travelled farther and faster than any hyperdrive jump. He was a Vigilante. And yet here, for this meeting on Nar Shaddaa, he was passing as a regular smuggler.
Across the table sat his contact: a figure known only as the Broker. He was the one who fully belonged here. Despite being dressed in an unassuming and simple, charcoal-grey synthetic robe, with the hood pulled low enough his face was perpetually cast in shadow, you would not mistake the authority he exuded. He carried no visible weapons, wore no rank insignia, and portrayed an aura of studied anonymity. Yet, the unmistakable weight to his posture, the quiet authority of a man who moved pieces on a board far larger than the galaxy knew existed, showed that he was in charge of this meeting.
A faint, blue light emanated from a small, cylindrical device the Broker had placed on the table. It projected no holographic image, but merely maintained a humming shield of absolute encryption around the booth.
“The bounty is confirmed, Vigilante,” the Broker’s voice was a synthesised whisper, the kind of electronically smoothed tone designed to strip away regional accents, emotional timbre, and any chance of voice recognition. It was less a voice and more a statement of fact, delivered by a high-grade security system.
“The terms were specific. We need the details of the contract. The reason for the premium,” Diggle’s vocal modulator shifted slightly, almost conveying the reluctance he felt about this job.
The Broker steepled his fingers, the movement slow and deliberate. "The reward is three million standard credits, deposited upon verified transfer. It is sufficient, I believe, to purchase a modest moon or retire quite comfortably on Corellia. You would be set for the rest of your life."
“The reward is generous, and speaks for itself,” Diggle conceded, his voice a low, steady rumble of suspicion. “The secrecy does not. That kind of payout usually comes attached to a target that is dangerous, not merely rich. The type of bounty that pulls a lot of heat. We require risk assessment. Who is this target, and why are they worth the price of a small Star Destroyer?”
The Broker remained motionless for a long moment, allowing the question to hang in the chemically tainted air.
"They are known by many names," the Broker finally began, his voice a dry rasp of static. "The 'Digital Ghost.' 'The Oracle of the Outer Rim.' But among the most paranoid and superstitious—those who deal in secrets and believe in whispers—they are known only as the 'Ghost Fox Goddess.' I have no other detail, and only a partial chain code."
He raised a thin, mechanical hand and tapped the air above the table. The blue field intensified, and now a dizzying, complex structure appeared: a holographic web of interconnected galactic systems. Financial exchanges flickered green and gold; military communication grids throbbed red; political voting records pulsed blue. It was a terrifyingly comprehensive map of the New Republic’s chaotic infrastructure.
"Three weeks ago," the Broker continued, his voice dropping slightly, "the Ghost Fox Goddess penetrated a security system that even the Hutts considered unbreachable. Not through brute force, but through pure, conceptual intellect. They accessed top secret data, the client wants it returned as part of the job."
Diggle's posture stiffened. "A data run?! What type of information did this target steal for that level of payout? What aren’t you telling me?"
"These are the facts as I have them," the Broker stated, his voice hardening. "This is the Guild Way; we don’t ask those questions. The client has stated the terms for the job - and the need for secrecy is of the highest order."
The holographic map of data systems suddenly contracted, leaving only a single, dark, throbbing cluster in the centre. The partial chain code of the target.
"The Ghost Fox Goddess stole from the client. Maybe they didn't realise what they have until it was too late, or they wouldn't have tried to trade it for passage off a backwater rock like Tatooine, thus giving us their location."
Diggle processed this information with the cold, meticulous logic of a veteran soldier. "So, the objective is to secure the data."
"The objective is simple: secure the data and the target and deliver them both to the client," the Broker stated firmly. "The data on its own may also be accepted for a lower fee, providing it is accompanied by proof of target termination."
He paused, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a near-inaudible hiss. "They have designated this target a high priority - the client may have reached out to other parties in order to retrieve them. If you are taking this job, and want the reward, you move fast."
Diggle shifted, a barely perceptible movement that conveyed his rising distrust. "You need to elaborate. Why the names? Why the secrecy if the threat is purely informational?"
"The client desires privacy. They are high profile and the information stolen is proprietary," the Broker whispered, finally uttering the words that separated this contract from all others. "This information could be sold on and used as a technological weapon."
Diggle frowned behind his mask "So the client is a Corporation?"
"No questions, Vigilante. The client is powerful, and is offering out a fair bounty for this target. Either take the job or leave it for someone else."
The holographic image of the chain code vanished, signalling the Broker’s frustration with the constant questions that were the antithesis of how Guild business was done.
The Broker’s voice took on a new, urgent command. "If you take this job, you treat it as a delicate, high-value asset. Retrieve the target, secure the data, deliver both to the client. The client—working in the interests of stability—is willing to pay a high premium for safe delivery. I am offering you this job, as my most successful bounty hunters."
Diggle felt the weight of the mission settle onto his shoulders, it felt heavier than his beskar. This was no ordinary capture. Something still seemed off in the lack of information being given. The high premium on the target suggested higher stakes. The type of elevated stakes that suggested risk and potential for casualties on a scale he hadn't faced since the fall of the Empire.
"Flattery will get you nowhere." Diggle stated flatly. “You have already admitted this job has been offered out elsewhere. It’s a race.”
"Semantics," the Broker dismissed. "You are being paid a bounty to deliver a commodity. In that sense this is no different to any other job."
Diggle looked at the Broker, the shadowed parts of his face not obscured by his hood illuminated in the blue glow, showed a grim determined visage. Then, he looked at his hand, resting on the hilt of his blaster. He thought of his bounty hunting partner, waiting patiently for a debrief of this meeting back onboard their ship. The premium on this job was an attractive prospect, after a seemingly endless run of chasing down minor criminals who had skipped bail for paltry amounts of pay.
"Fine. We will secure the target," Diggle confirmed, his voice now entirely devoid of question, replaced by cold professionalism. "But the delivery point must be secure. We will not be delivering a ticking clock to the wrong hands."
"When you have the target, contact me and I will provide you with the final coordinates," the Broker promised. "Be fast, Vigilante. Others know the target is on Tatooine, they will bring destruction with them in their pursuit."
The hologram vanished. The blue light faded, and the privacy mesh dissolved, instantly restoring the overwhelming cacophony of the Nar Shaddaa cantina. The Broker slipped away into the mass of patrons gathered at the bar. Diggle sat for a long minute, letting the ambient noise wash over him, reviewing the impossible nature of the contract.
He activated his encrypted comms channel. "Oliver. Thoughts?"
Digg’s bounty hunting partner, Oliver Queen was waiting back on their docked ship - even disguised it was too risky for him to venture fully onto the Smuggler's Moon. He had been listening in to the deal via their comms, and his voice, carrying the familiar intensity of a coiled spring, responded instantly. "I still don’t like. What information is worth that amount of credits. What's the payload? The Ghost Fox Goddess? Something is not right here."
"It seems more complicated, Oliver," Diggle replied, pushing himself to his feet. The soles of his boots scraped softly against the floor. "The bounty is confirmed. Three million credits. But we're not just collecting a criminal. We're guarding information too. And let’s be honest, the others that are hunting this target might not have as many scruples as we do regarding the supposed power this information has."
"You think they would sell it on?" Oliver asked, his voice sharpening instantly.
"Possibly. The Broker mentioned a technological weapon, which is something neither of us can shoot our way out of. We need to move. Now."
The mission was a go. They weren't just hunters anymore. They were in a race to secure a secret that could start a war, and the secret was in the palm of a technologically gifted, dangerously unstable hand.
Diggle walked out of the booth and into the chaos of the Smuggler's Moon, the weight of this new job settling over him like a shroud of beskar. He knew, with an awful certainty, that this would be the most dangerous—and perhaps the most defining—contract of their lives.