5681 Essetek Corridor Level 350, Port Town
Three days ago.
"Spast."
The thing about bespoke shoes is that when you wear them, you're mindful of where you step. It's not totally about the money, although ruining anything so lovingly custom-made costs upwards of a grand. The real pain is the involved process in getting another pair hand-made, and sitting through the fitting again. So you develop a sense of situational awareness that helps you to avoid things like urine on the sidewalk, a spot of filth you don't even want to identify by the bins, and...
...the special melange of blood and brains that comes from someone being deprived of both by a blaster slug to the head.
"That him?"
I didn't know the dead man, but he had been useful to me. A name in a book somewhere. A useful book. My bit of Trandoshan muscle approached the corpse, lifting up the man's half-ruined head by the hair to reveal the man's face, contorted in the unnatural expression of death.
"Rregh skrehgh ghaak."
So it was our guy. At least we got to ID him. The Empire might control Bespin with whatever iron fist they pleased, but the response time of an iron fist down in Port Town was slow. I lit a stim, offsetting the smell of fresh death as I looked up at a holocam. I pointed it out.
"Eye in the sky."
Gaalskar, the Trando enforcer, followed my gesture up, and nodded.
"Let's let the Empire clean up the roadkill. Pay someone off for the footage. Find the piece of shit who did this before they do."
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