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Entry: 19

The limp figure in a white coat lay sprawled like a cat in the sun on a pile of cushions. He had not moved for a few hours, his breathing was shallow, no one bothered him here, they only checked in the morning who was alive and who had faded away. Then they took your things and tossed your body in some alley. Not a Mandalorian funeral, but it was the best some of the addicts could hope for. The room was quiet, no music, only hushed conversation and the airy sound of lungs and nostrils as they sucked in their vile delights. The Watcher stirred and rolled to his back, he blinked to clear the blur before he sat up and looked about. His head hammered and his hands were cold, but they rubbed together in vain to gain the warmth they wanted.

He was soon drawn to a grey skinned dancer, shaking rocking and dancing without msuic on the lap of some human with a face full of tattoos and scars. Something clicked in the Agent’s head and he pushed forward through the smoke, first on his hands and knees then to his feet. He took the dancing girl by the shoulders and spun her about. “Juke?” He asked softly, the Rattataki was pretty enough for a Spice den dancer.

She shoved him away, snarling an answer he didn’t want. “Space off waster,” The orange haired man tried to speak again, hands pawing out for her. It sounded like she was talking through a pillow.

“No, no, hey wait, it’s…” He was abruptly cut off by her voice breaking the quiet.

“Grub! Get Orange out of here.” He felt his clothes tighten around his back as the biggest alien he had ever seen grabbed him by the front of the coat and carted him out. Without ceremony or parting word he was flung into the alley, the durasteel door slamming with final verdict. He laid cheek down in the grime, eyes closing as he sighed. Maybe that’s why he liked Nar Shaddaa, everyone was pretty much on the same level. Only one distinct thing separated you from him, it wasn’t something you were born with, to the Force. Simple credits, it was king, and sometimes even the lowliest hustlers and smallest pushers made it to the top.

He smiled at these thoughts, but was abruptly pulled from his spacing by the loud raucous laughter of dirt. He found himself sitting early enough to look at the group, a big blue Twi’lek male, two plain, filthy looking humans and a tiny Rodian. Some piss for brains street gang, ex-slaves by the looks, they all had this big thick line around their necks that was ‘broken’ on the side. Black Collars, if he remembered right. The blue one spotted him first, barking out in rough Huttese.

“‘Ey Spicer, lookin’ down on your luck, meh?” This elicited a laugh that sounded like they had to laugh at his jokes. At least he knew who the leader was. The Watcher pushed himself to his feet while the Rodian produced a pitiful looking blaster, and a human let a vibroknife hum to life.

“No trouble, no trouble…” The Watcher said flipping to Huttese without though, stumbling forward, they all laughed at him, he allowed the unarmed human to shove him into the wall, he was defenseless. He managed to move back to face the group from the front.

“How about we just take ya’ stu—” The blue goon was cut off when the addict lunged forward, grabbing the wrist of the blaster brandishing Rodian, his knee crashed upward between the small green gangsters legs three times, making him squeal out a pitiful sound. His fingers relaxed the blaster and the Watcher pried it free. His free hand grabbed the front of the victims coat and flung him into the Twi’lek, sending them both stumbling back. The gun was raised up and a shot hissed out, melting and destroying the face of the knife wielder. That one flew back and landed with a thud, his knife purring in the air before it hit the ground.

But he forgot about the other human. Shit. He blacked out for a moment, only to wake up with feet stomping him, he curled up and protected his head and kidneys. He weathered their curses and strikes, grunting in silence. But he waited patiently, eventually they stopped, the Twi’lek remembering the still humming vibroknife. The human who had struck him backed up grinning manically while the boss lurked forward with the weapon.

“You die now.” It wasn’t much of a villainous line, but it got the point across. The Imperial managed to scrambled to a sit against the wall, cowering away from the attacker. A yellow fanged smile and a lung was all that was given by the Twi’lek, but the Agent contorted his body and latched onto the arm, pulling it under his arm pit. The surprised look by the attacker and an instinctual pull backward helped the out numbered assailant to his feet. His head snapped forward and crashed into the face of the knife-holder. He cried out in an effeminate way and dropped the knife into the waiting hand of the Spicer. The human had been rushing forward, the knife turned on him first slashing his throat easily. Blood lubricated his hand as he dropped his heel against the side of the Twi’lek’s knee with a pop. He continued to whimper and cry as he crumbled like a blue bag of rocks. He didn’t give a line, or say a word, he shoved the knife through his orbital to shut him up.

All was not quiet, the Rodian had been laying there in pain, gagging and writhing on the ground like a little antennae worm. The Watcher stood over him, then he slammed his boot onto his skull, his hand went against the wall for support. His boot crashed down again, and again. It pistoned up and down violently, creating a bloody pulp of green and read until there was a final crack and his boot sunk all the way through. His hand slipped from the wall and he sat down amongst the corpses.

His hands felt at his coat, only to find his pack of ciggara’s crushed and mangled. He sighed and felt about the bodies for a moment until a cheap pack produced itself. He only took one and tossed the carton back on the chest with the man who had no face. He smoked in silence, the area reeking of blood and piss now. His hand pulled out his holocommuncator, he keyed up Juke’s frequency and his hand hovered over the send button. He just put it back in his pocket.

It was his thirty-first birthday. He liked to celebrate alone.