Season 1: Episode 4.3 - Lower City

Episode 4.3 - The Lower City

Stardate: 41165.2

Earth Standard Date: March 01, 2364.

Galactic Date: 20th Day of the Second Month, 3956 BBY

Location: Taris, Upper City

Tyson approached the elevator to the Lower City with Alysia and Vicky following close behind. The Sith guard standing watch outside the elevator raised a hand, halting their progress. "The elevator to the Lower City is off limits," he declared, suspicion heavy in his voice. "Only official Sith patrols and authorized personnel allowed." His eyes raked over them disdainfully. "You three clearly aren't Sith. So unless you've got papers proving otherwise, move along."

The guard's demand, 'move along', transported Tyson's mind back to his first viewing of Star Wars, when Obi-Wan Kenobi used the Jedi Mind Trick to compel a stormtrooper. The perk that granted Tyson access to the Force had given him rudimentary knowledge of various abilities, including the Mind Trick.

Drawing a slow, calming breath, Tyson reached for the Force flowing through him. Meeting the guard's gaze steadily, he projected an aura of calm authority. With a subtle wave of his hand, he suggested, "We have the proper authorization." His voice rippled with persuasive power, not commanding, but implanting the thought gently into the guard's mind.

The guard's stance softened, suspicion fading as Tyson's suggestion took root. "You have the proper authorization," he echoed placidly. No dramatic change occurred, only quiet acceptance of Tyson's words as fact.

With a nod, the guard stepped aside, granting them entry to the elevator. 

The lift descended into the depths of Taris's Lower City. Alysia turned to Tyson, a look of approval warming her elegant features as she regarded the young man. "Your ability to adapt and utilize the Force is commendable," she began, her melodic voice imbued with the sincerity of genuine praise. "You demonstrated not only skill but restraint back there."

Her endorsement resonated within Tyson, affirming his growing connection to the Force. Yet this acknowledgment came with an admonishment, "However, it's crucial to remain vigilant against the temptation to use the Force for personal gain. The line between influence and control can blur easily, and what begins as a tool for avoiding conflict can become a means to impose one's will upon others."

Her cautionary words invoked the principles that guided the Jedi Order, principles that valued peace, understanding, and the sanctity of free will over the selfish whims of any individual. "The Force is a part of all living things, and to use it to bend others to our desires, no matter how benign our intentions might seem, risks aligning ourselves closer to the seductive will of the Dark Side." Alysia placed a gentle yet firm hand on Tyson's shoulder, underscoring the gravity of her warning through the simple gesture. "Your journey with the Force is just beginning, and your potential is vast. But with that potential comes responsibility." Her piercing eyes held his with a stern maternal gaze. "The Jedi eschew attachments and material possessions to avoid abusing the Force for personal ends."

The elevator slid open with a soft hiss, the doors parting to reveal a tense scene within the Lower City corridor. Tyson, Vicky, and Alysia found themselves thrust into the midst of a territorial standoff between two rival gangs, the air crackling with anticipation of violence soon to come.

At the center of the confrontation stood a tall, reptilian Trandoshan, scales glistening under the dim lights. His voice was laced with contempt as he declared, "Beks are nothing but Bantha fodder. The Vulkars are the strongest!" The Trandoshan's words were meant to provoke, fueling the fire that had been steadily growing between the two factions.

In response, a Rodian with mottled green skin retorted with equal venom in his voice, "We'll teach you who's strongest!" Years of rivalry and hatred could be heard in his words. Around them, other gang members brandished humming vibroswords.

The arguing was shattered when the Trandoshan, driven by anger and bravado, suddenly pulled a crackling dagger from his belt. This was no ordinary blade; visible blue arcs of electricity encircled the weapon's edge. With a cry that was part challenge, part battle roar, the Trandoshan lunged forward and plunged the electrified dagger into the Rodian's chest.

The act proved to be the spark that lit the powder keg. The tense standoff exploded into an open melee. The clash of vibroswords rang out, echoing down the Lower City corridors as gang members collided. Tyson, Vicky, and Alysia could only watch as the chaotic brawl unfolded.

With the fall of their Rodian comrade, the Beks found themselves suddenly outnumbered. The Vulkars pressed their advantage mercilessly, raining blows upon the surrounded Beks with their vibroswords. Though the remaining Beks fought with desperate fury, they were no match for the coordinated ferocity of their hated rivals. One by one the Beks were cut down, their vain attempts at defense collapsing beneath the onslaught. As the last Bek fell with a gurgling cry, an eerie silence descended upon the blood-slicked corridor.

Then the Trandoshan turned his cold reptilian gaze upon the trio of Tyson, Alysia, and Vicky. The Trandoshan's slit-pupil eyes narrowed as he contemplated his next move, his clawed hand tightening on the grip of the still-dripping vibrosword.

When he finally spoke, his words shattered the tense silence in a way Tyson and Alysia hadn't anticipated. Pointing greedily at Vicky with one scaled finger, the Trandoshan said, "I've never seen such a sexy droid. Give her to me, and I'll let you go. You'll get to keep your girl and your life."

If the fight wasn't enough, the demand underscored the lawlessness of Taris's Lower City. It also sparked a protective instinct in Tyson. He considered Alysia's earlier warning about possessiveness. Vicky was his, though he tried not to treat her as property, but as a companion. Tyson searched for a way to defuse the situation without violence, but giving up Vicky wasn't an option. He also carefully considered his words, not wanting to trigger any concern from Alysia that he was being overly possessive.

"Vicky isn't property to be bartered," Tyson stated firmly, willing his voice to carry a calm authority. "She's an individual, and she's with us. We're not looking for trouble, but we won't be intimidated into giving up one of our own to satisfy you, Vulkar."

Behind Tyson, Alysia remained silent but ready, her understanding of the galaxy's darker corners telling her this delicate situation could escalate quickly if mishandled. She tensed, prepared for the fight ahead, though she lacked a weapon. Still, she was far from defenseless.

The Trandoshan hissed in frustration, taken aback by Tyson's unexpected defiance. For a moment the reptilian creature seemed unsure how to respond due to Tyson's overconfidence. Seizing the hesitation, Tyson continued evenly, "We're just passing through, looking for information. We mean no disrespect to you or the Vulkars, but we stand by our companion. Perhaps there's another way we can come to an understanding without resorting to violence."

The Trandoshan's slitted eyes narrowed dangerously at Tyson's diplomatic words, perceiving the human's effort at de-escalation as a sign of weakness. In the Lower City power was often measured by one's willingness to kill. Sensing an opportunity to assert dominance, the reptilian creature let loose a menacing hiss and drew his electrified vibroblade from its sheath, the weapon crackling with deadly energy.

Tyson's instincts screamed danger. The Trandoshan charged forward with murderous intent. But Tyson was far from defenseless. Leaning on Master with Your Hands, he drew his blaster pistol in a blur of motion. He fired off a quick shot, catching the charging Trandoshan squarely in the chest before he was within stabbing range. The Trandoshan collapsed mid-stride, his attack neutralized. Seeing their comrade fall, one of the other Vulkars roared in rage and rushed to engage, only to meet the same swift fate from Tyson's blasters. The remaining alien, realizing his vulnerability, desperately lunged at Tyson. But he was already in motion, spinning away and firing with lethal accuracy. The final Vulkar hit the ground hard, the echoes of blaster fire fading into the ambient sounds of the Lower City.

In the aftermath, an uneasy stillness descended on the scene, broken only by the crackle of electricity still arcing along the fallen Trandoshan's vibroblade. Tyson lowered his smoking blaster, glancing around warily in case any other threats emerged. Alysia stood poised beside him, ready to support her companion despite being unarmed. Her Jedi abilities would have aided Tyson if needed, though his skills had proven sufficient to end the confrontation decisively. Vicky hovered near them, unharmed.

The entire encounter had lasted mere seconds, the immediacy of the threat leaving little room for alternatives beyond self-defense. Though Tyson regretted the necessity of lethal force, his actions had likely prevented further violence. If this was how things would be going, the group was beginning to recognize that in the lawless Lower City, strength and decisiveness might be the only currency that mattered.

In the aftermath of the confrontation, the silence that enveloped the alleyway was broken by Vicky's voice, her tone carrying an unmistakable note of gratitude. "Master, I thank you for defending me," she said, her advanced AI processing the events with a complexity that mirrored human emotion. Despite her synthetic nature, there was a warmth in her acknowledgment, a recognition of Tyson's quick actions not just as a matter of his own survival but as an act of protecting her.

Tyson let out a long, slow breath, the adrenaline of combat draining from his system. He glanced over at Vicky and nodded, acknowledging her thanks. Though she was an android, her voice held a convincing warmth and sincerity. Tyson supposed she was designed to emulate human emotions and social interactions. "We look out for each other," he responded simply.

Alysia kept her silence, observing the exchange between Tyson and Vicky with a keen eye. Though his response to Vicky's gratitude had been simple, Alysia detected subtle undercurrents beneath Tyson's words. She noticed the protectiveness he radiated, yes, but also something more, a hint of possessiveness that whispered of deeper connections and unconscious bonds. This possessiveness did not spring from any dark well of control or malice within Tyson, Alysia knew. Rather, it seemed born of an earnest need to shelter those under his care from harm. It spoke of a growing sense of duty and responsibility toward Vicky and Alysia, reflecting the bonds beginning to form between them through the trials they had weathered together. Tyson was still fresh to the Force, Alysia mused, still learning to balance its gifts and its burdens. Now was not the time to lecture him about possessiveness, not when her past words about such things still echoed in Tyson's mind. This was a lesson he would need to absorb in his own time when the stress of their situation had passed. For now, Alysia held her peace, trusting Tyson to find his way. There would be time enough later to guide him, if needed, down the proper path.

Tyson surveyed the hallway, ensuring no other threats lurked nearby, or had been drawn to the sounds of combat. The corpses of the thugs sprawled lifelessly across the grimy alleyway, but for now, at least, they appeared to be safe.

Kneeling beside the first body, Tyson rifled through the pockets of the dead men. He claimed the meager spoils; a handful of credits that amounted to a pittance. Next, Tyson's gaze settled on the vibroblades scattered around, some still held in the Vulkars' lifeless grips. He pried a sword from the first corpse's stiffening fingers, examining the well-worn hilt and nicked blade. The weapon had clearly seen extensive use.

Turning, Tyson presented the vibrosword to Alysia with an apologetic look. "It's not a lightsaber, but it's something you can wield proficiently," he offered, knowing no common blade could replace the elegant weapon she was reticent to draw. Alysia accepted the proffered sword, testing its heft and balance. Though far cruder than her lightsaber, she knew even this simple blade could be deadly. She nodded gratefully.

Tyson retrieved the second vibroblade. He held it above his head, the blade sliding toward his back. He marveled as the Grey Goo Suit created a sheath for the vibrosword to slip into.

Lastly was the electrified dagger from the lead Vulker. He turned to the medical droid waiting nearby, "If anyone tries to harm you or force you to go with them against your will, you have this to defend yourself," he instructed Vicky gravely, pressing the dagger into her hand. "I know you're not programmed to fight, but it's pretty simple." His mouth quirked in a weak attempt at humor. "The pointy end goes into the bad guy."

"I understand, master. Thank you, again," Vicky intoned.

The corridors of Taris's Lower City were like a maze to those unfamiliar with their twists and turns. Tyson's group navigated them with the guidance of his HUD. Up ahead, the corridor opened into a wider thoroughfare, one that Tyson knew would take them directly to their destination. As they emerged from the narrow passage, the burly Trandoshan standing guard outside the cantina entrance turned his reptilian gaze upon them. His clawed hand rested casually on the heavy blaster pistol at his hip, "Leave your troubles out here, no fighting inside," he stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

Tyson and his companions nodded in understanding. The Trandoshan stared for a moment longer, then replied with a slow blink of acknowledgment. Stepping through the cantina's entrance, Tyson noted the air was steeped with scents of exotic spices and alien liquors. Patrons of various species filled the space. Sections catered to different tastes; some were filled with tables, and others offered solitude suitable for discreet meetings. News feeds and holovids from across the galaxy played above the bar. In one corner a stage hosted Twi'lek dancers, their sensuous movements drawing the attention of the mostly male audience.

Tyson led his companions deeper into the cantina. His attention was drawn to a tense encounter unfolding in one of the dimly lit corners. A trio of brash thugs, emboldened by their greater numbers, approached a solitary figure seated alone at a shadowed table, his most distinguishing feature was a pair of odd-tinted goggles he wore. He exuded an air of quiet menace lost on his would-be aggressors.

The leader of the thugs, a sneering Rodian with pea-green skin taunted, "Well, well, if it isn't the infamous bounty hunter Calo Nord, gracing us with his presence," he jeered, voice dripping with contempt.

The goggled man identified as Calo Nord responded with a single word, uttered tonelessly, "One."

Confusion and bravado colored the Rodian's response as he exchanged uncertain glances with his cronies. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, a flicker of doubt passing through his bulbous eyes. Emboldened by the safety of numbers, one of his companions added insolently, "Are you threatening us?"

"Two," Nord replied calmly, continuing his cryptic countdown. The significance of the count was lost on the oblivious thugs.

Sneering, the Rodian drew himself up as his confidence returned. "You think the three of us can't take one bounty hunter? There's more of us than you." His words mixed cocky defiance with disbelief that this lone figure could pose a true threat.

"Three," said Nord tonelessly, the finality in his voice the last warning the thugs would receive.

When the Rodian and his companions failed to heed the countdown's implicit threat, pressing forward with bravado fueled by ignorance, they sealed their fate. "We're Vulkars, the toughest gang on Taris," the Rodian blustered. "You can't take us al--"

His words were cut short by the sudden flash of Nord's blaster. The cantina, already filled with whispers and veiled threats, momentarily erupted with the sharp crack of blaster fire. Nord gunned down the mouthy Rodian and his overconfident thugs with mechanical precision and detachment. Just as quickly as it began, the encounter was over, the bodies of the foolish Vulkars left cooling on the grimy cantina floor.

The encounter, over almost as quickly as it began, left a palpable tension in its wake. Patrons of the cantina, momentarily distracted by the violence, soon returned to their drinks and conversations, proof of the desensitization to violence that permeated the Lower City.

Tyson, witnessing the swift and lethal resolution, was reminded of the brutal realities of their environment. Calo Nord was a bounty hunter not to be trifled with.

The incident with Calo Nord underscored the importance of caution and awareness. In a place where life was cheap and conflicts were settled with violence, understanding the players and their capabilities was crucial. Nord's actions, while extreme, were generally ignored, proving such actions were a normal part of life in Taris's Lower City.

Tyson continued into another section of the cantina, giving Calo Nord a wide berth after a quiet word of caution from Alysia. "We should probably avoid that man." Heeding Alysia's advice, Tyson deliberately circumvented the table where Calo Nord sat. As they moved cautiously through the crowded cantina, Tyson couldn't help but reflect on the day's troubling events, particularly the aggressive disposition of every Rodian they had encountered. In each confrontation, a brash Rodian had been the instigator.

Tyson silently mused, "Rodians seemed to be dicks," attempting to inject some levity into the tension surrounding their small group.

Their wary exploration of the cantina brought them to a scene that, at first glance, seemed all too familiar to Tyson. It pinged at his meta-knowledge as he saw a young blue-skinned Twi'lek female, her head-tails twitching in irritation, being accosted by yet another pushy Rodian.

The Rodian's condescending tone was unmistakable as he sneered, "Hey little girl, this isn't a place for little girls. Why don't you run along and do little girl things." His words were intended to intimidate and belittle the young Twi'lek.

The Twi'lek's defiant response was swift and sharp, making it clear she was no stranger to handling unwanted advances. "Why don't you mind your own business," she retorted, her voice steady and unafraid.

The Rodian's crude reply veered into the realm of the deeply unsettling. Leaning in close, his antennae twitching with ill intent, he leered at the young Twi'lek, "Maybe little girls are my business." His implications were clear, revealing the kind of depraved behavior that festered unchecked in the dark underbelly of the Lower City.

But Mission was not without her own protectors. "If you've got a problem with me, you've got a problem with Big Z," she declared, her head-tails swaying in defiance. This prelude heralded the entrance of an imposing figure. The hulking form of a Wookiee emerged from the crowd and strode to Mission's side, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. "If you mess with Mission, you mess with Zaalbar," the Wookiee growled in Shyriiwook, baring his fangs.

Faced with the prospect of tangling with an angry Wookiee, the Rodian's bravado evaporated. "I didn't want trouble with a Wookie," he sputtered, backing away from the pair. The underlying threat of Zaalbar's physical intervention was enough to dissolve his swaggering arrogance, sending him slinking away into the crowd.

Tyson watched the exchange unfold with a mixture of relief and respect. The young Twi'lek, Mission, had held her ground with commendable courage in the face of the Rodian's intimidation. And the fierce loyalty displayed by Zaalbar spoke volumes about their relationship. Tyson thought he recognized the pair as companion characters from Knights of the Old Republic. He approached them with measured steps, maintaining an open and friendly demeanor. He aimed to convey his genuine need for information without alarming Mission or her imposing Wookiee companion, Zaalbar.

"Hey, Mission, got a minute for some questions?" Tyson pitched his voice casually, carefully modulating his tone to engage the young Twi'lek without imposing. The bustling cantina surrounding them continued its symphony of alien languages and clinking glasses, lending a semblance of privacy to their exchange amidst the crowd. Drawing on his knowledge of Mission's character from the game, Tyson paid her a sincere compliment. "I've heard all about how streetwise you are, and I could use some help getting information." he hoped flattery, made a good opener.

Mission's response was immediate, her youthful features lighting up with pride at recognition of her skills. Yet she was no naive child, easily swayed by compliments alone. Playing coy, she eyed Tyson with a look that belied her years, discerning and calculating. "I might know some stuff, but it's gonna cost you," she replied finally, her tone a blend of teasing and pragmatic business sense.

Tyson did not hesitate. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out half of the credits he had looted earlier from the corpses of the dead thugs. It was a gamble, but one he felt worth taking. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the credits toward Mission, who deftly caught them. Her eyes lit up with surprise and newfound respect at Tyson's straightforward approach.

"What kind of information are you looking for?" Mission asked, her tone shifting to one of business. The credits resting in her palm were proof of Tyson's seriousness.

Tyson cut right to the chase. "Tell me about the escape pods," he said urgently, his voice brooking no ambiguity. The importance of his request was evident in the intensity of his gaze.

Sensing the gravity behind the question, Mission leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. The noise of the crowded cantina receded into the background as she launched into her tale, recounting the aftermath of the pods' chaotic descent, "They landed all over," she began, her words painting a picture of the confusion and jockeying for advantage that had ensued in the wake of the crashes. "But the Vulkars," she continued, a hint of disdain coloring her voice at the mention of the gang, "captured a Republic officer."

Tyson listened intently, focused wholly on Mission's account. Her revelation struck a chord, confirming his fears even as it ignited a faint spark of recognition. "Word on the street is her name's Bastila," Mission disclosed, "They're putting her up as the prize for the upcoming Swoop Race."

As Mission finished her tale, the information landed like a physical blow. Once again Tyson was starkly reminded of how events had unfolded before. Bastila was being held captive by the Vulkars gang, who aimed to put her up as the prize in the Swoop Race. Tyson would need to win that race if he wanted to retrieve Bastila.

Tyson shared his concerns with Alysia and Vicky, "I'm not a pilot and I'm not certain I could win a swoop race," he admitted. His Perks would be of no direct help This is (Not?) Rocket Science would only help him in piloting spaceships, not a swoop. His Augment processing ability and reflexes might be all he needed to win the race, along with some nudges of guidance from the Force.

"We're not part of a gang, and we don't have a swoop of our own," Alysia said bluntly. "I don't see an easy way for us to get into that race, let alone win it."

Tyson furrowed his brow as he considered Alysia's pragmatic analysis of the situation. She highlighted the stark reality that obtaining access to the swoop race would require more than just skill; their lack of connections to Taris's criminal underworld was a formidable obstacle. Tyson's band was composed of outsiders with no means of acquiring the specialized vehicles used in the competition. Alysia was right. They lacked the basic tools needed to even participate.

Mission spoke up, her familiarity with Taris's underworld offering a glimmer of hope. "The Hidden Beks are hurting from fighting the Vulkars and dodging Sith patrols," she explained. "They'll probably take you in if you offer to help."

Tyson's eyes lit up as he grasped the potential of Mission's suggestion. Allying with the Beks. Their rivalry with the Vulkars could make them receptive to aiding Tyson's efforts. More importantly, joining the gang could provide access to swoop bikes, insider knowledge, and the coordination needed to infiltrate the high-stakes race. While the Beks operated outside the law, if throwing in with them increased the odds of saving Bastila, it might be worth considering.

Tyson kept his voice low, ensuring it was drowned out by the surrounding crowd. "Can you tell me about Davik?" he asked Mission. "His name keeps coming up in conversations around here. Is he a gang leader too?"

Mission's lekku twitched, a gesture Tyson had come to recognize as her weighing how much information to divulge. She glanced around the bustling cantina furtively before responding, "Yeah, Davik's the head honcho of the Exchange around here. But calling him just a gang leader? That's like saying a rancor is just a slightly upset pet. Davik's got his fingers in everything. Smuggling, extortion, you name it. And he's not someone you want to cross."

Alysia's face remained impassive, but Tyson noticed the slight tightening around her eyes that betrayed her concern. "And how does one typically deal with someone of Davik's... stature in this part of the galaxy?" she inquired.

Mission shrugged, her gaze drifting to a rowdy group of rough-looking individuals gathered by the bar. "Usually, you don't," she replied frankly. "You stay out of his way, pay your dues, and hope you never catch his attention."

Mission asked, "What are you going to do if you manage to rescue the Republic Officer? Since that seems to be your goal. You know the Sith have quarantined Taris, right? Noone comes or goes without their permission."

Tyson studied Mission's youthful features as he considered his response. He had not thought beyond rescuing Bastila, consumed as he was with finding the Jedi. Mission's query was an unwelcome reminder that the Sith blockade still hung over Taris like a shroud. He did have the Sith Interceptor, but the ship only held a single person, the pilot. Perhaps if he returned to the spaceport, he could use SP to improve or expand the ship if needed.

"We'll worry about that after we get her back," he finally replied, his voice tinged with resolve.

Mission's gaze turned inward, her brow furrowing in concentration as she processed Tyson could almost see the gears turning behind those striking blue eyes. Then an idea dawned, lighting her youthful face. "How's about we make a deal," she proposed, her tone shifting from inquisitive to shrewd negotiation. "I'll supply you with the information you need, and maybe even some support. And when it comes time for you to leave Taris, you bring me and Big Z with you?"

Tyson met Alysia's emerald eyes, finding silent approval in their depths. He turned back to Mission and said, "It's a deal." He extended his hand across the table. Mission grasped it enthusiastically, "But let's get one thing straight," Tyson added, "we do this my way."

Mission nodded, undaunted. "And don't worry about Big Z and me; we can handle ourselves. Plus, Big Z's got a score to settle with the Exchange, and I've got slicing skills that'll come in handy."

Mission leaned forward, her youthful features set with uncharacteristic gravity, though an irrepressible spark of excitement still danced in her eyes. "Look, around here, if you're not known, you're nobody. And nobody trusts a nobody. You gotta make some noise, get people talking about you," she advised.

Tyson let out a half-hearted chuckle, "I'm not exactly keen on running errands just to get a nod from the local toughs. I'm not in the mood to run tons of side quests."

"Side quests?" Mission echoed, her confusion breaking into a grin. "You sound like one of those holovid characters. But hey, if you want the express train to fame and glory on Taris, the dueling ring is your ticket. You win a few fights in front of a packed stadium, and bam! You're the talk of the town. It's the fastest way to get famous, assuming you can hold your own in a brawl."

The suggestion resonated with Tyson. He remembered the dueling ring vaguely from his playthrough of Knights of the Old Republic. Participating there was a direct route to raising his renown and might be the fastest way to approach their search for Bastila. "The dueling ring, huh? That could work. It's straightforward, at least. Get in, fight, get out with a bit of fame to our name."

Alysia interjected gently "We must be prudent, Tyson. The dueling ring will draw attention, but not all of it will be favorable."

Tyson nodded, acknowledging the wisdom in her warning. "Becoming such a public figure will light a beacon for every Sith on Taris, but we need an angle. And this feels like our best play. Besides, if all eyes are on me in the ring, they won't be on the rest of you," he concluded pointedly.