Star Wars: Destiny's Choice

Chapter 2

(Own artwork above)

Two Years Later...

"Remember, Valree, in and out," said Seripas through the earcom. "We need him alive and hurry up; the rain is going to ruin my armor."

Valree rolled her eyes. "You didn't have to work with me." She calmly walked inside the club. Her teal skin seemed to shimmer under the club lights, exuding strength and confidence. Clad in a provocative yet modest ensemble—a striking purple top paired with sleek black pants and boots.

Walking just a few feet inside when she was stopped by someone. "Hey, what's a pretty Balosar like you doing in a club like this?" The Zabrak's voice slurred, a typical greeting from a lonely soul drowning in a sea of misery. His breath reeked of booze, a scent so overpowering it could knock out a bantha at twenty paces.

"Not interested," Valree tried to walk past him giving a little shove to try to move him out of the way. Then a sudden grip on her wrist.

"We're not done talking," the Zabrak growled, his grip tightening on Valree's wrist as he attempted to draw her closer to his body. His anger fueled by a mixture of frustration and alcohol. Determined to assert his dominance in the dingy confines of the club.

As tension thickened in the air, Valree's hand moved with the precision of a seasoned warrior. With a swift, almost mesmerizing motion, she produced a gleaming dagger from its concealed sheath. She brought the sharp edge of the blade to rest against the Zabrak's neck, the cold steel sending shivers down his spine.

"One of us is losing a hand tonight," Valree's voice cut through the one-sided standoff. Her teeth clenched together, amplifying the intensity of her threat as she stared unflinchingly into the Zabrak's eyes, daring him to challenge her resolve. In that moment, the pulsating energy of the club seemed to fade into the background, leaving only Valree and her adversary locked in a deadly dance of wills.

"Hey! No violence!" yelled the bartender. "Either take it outside or leave."

With a dismissive flick of her wrist, the Zabrak released Valree, his eyes widening in alarm as he recoiled from the lethal glint of the dagger. Valree's movements were calculated as she smoothly returned the weapon to its sheath, her demeanor betraying none of the adrenaline coursing through her veins. The two went opposite directions steering clear of one another from thereafter.

Walking purposefully towards the bar, Valree signaled to the bartender with a single raised finger, her gaze sweeping across the dimly lit room with the poise of a seasoned predator. As she lifted the glass to her lips, the amber liquid within reflected the flickering lights of the club.

Amidst the throng of patrons, her eyes locked onto a solitary figure occupying the shadowy depths of a corner booth. There, seated with an aura of quiet confidence, was none other than the Mandalorian clone himself, a young Boba Fett. In Mandalorian armor, predominantly green with bold red accents, every dent and scratch told tales of battles won and bounties claimed. His helmet concealed his face, leaving nothing visible—a silent warning to those who crossed his path.

"We're taking in a kid?" Valree stared in disbelief.

"Don't let him fool you," Seripas assured.

Valree set her drink down and crept closer, but as she did, she saw another figure in the dimly lit bar, sitting in a neighboring booth from Boba Fett. In the pulsating lights of a crowded club, a man clads in red and grey Mandalorian armor. His black hair cropped short, and his cloudy eyes held a fierce intensity despite their partial impairment, which was all hidden under his helmet.

"Seripas, we might have competition," Valree whispered through her earpiece.

"Get to him first!" Seripas demanded.