A deathstick was ignited in the dark. A man sat in the dark with the deathstick in his mouth. He could taste it. He could feel the chemicals rushing through his system, easing the blaster-bolt wound in the middle of his back.
          The burn ran deep. He would not live without medical help. But he’d been trained for this sort of thing. He could patch himself up in less than three minutes and be ready for action if he could.
          He couldn’t now because of the man who had shot him in the back.
          The dying man acknowledged his presence; the attacker watching on the platform just above the containers. A small trail of explosive residue led towards the containers containing Tibana gas. Igniting another deathstick, he threw it onto the residue, and watched as flame spat up and raced along the floor.
          Hell if I’m gonna die, this goon is too.
          He watched with bated breath, the deathstick and Tibana gas fumes filling his lungs.
          A few more meters, and we all die . . . don’t do anything, don’t . . .
          But the man above the platform stopped the flame as it sped toward the gas canisters, having the arrogance to piss on the flame to stop its advance: an insult to the injured man.
          Osik, thought the dying man. He couldn’t help but grin: his attempt to blow the canisters and them up was a last-ditch effort anyway: a poor one at that.
          The shadowy figure closed the front of its groin armor and began to descend down steps toward the dying man.
          The dying man looked up at his attacker. At the same time, his attacker lit its own deathstick with a gold igniter and lit its face for the dying man to see.
          No. That’s impossible . . . he was . . .
          At that point, the dying man couldn’t help but laugh. A dry, humorless chuckle that escaped from his throat. He laughed because of his attacker’s identity. It was a face that the dying man knew all too well. His attackers face was burned firmly in his memory.
          The attacker spoke, “How you doing, Keaton?”
          The dying man, Keaton, looked up, “I can’t feel my legs. Keyser.”
          The attacker, Keyser, took a Verpine Shatter Gun out from a holster at his right side.
          Keyser turned the igniter off, “Ready?”
          Keaton took a look at the Verpine Shatter Gun, knowing full well what happened next. Keaton had done it himself many times.
          “What time is it?”
          Keyser lifted his left arm and looked at a gold chrono, “Twenty-four hundred-thirty.”
          With that Keyser exchanged the gun from right to left hand, aimed at Keaton, and shot Keaton twice in the head without remorse; a full second between each shot.
          Keyser turned, donning the helmet that had been hanging from his utility belt. As he did this, he dropped his deathstick back onto the trail of explosive residue, making for the exit hatch at a leisurely pace. By the time Keyser had walked off the carrier ship, the ship had already exploded in the forward compartment and now flame was traveling down corridors towards the engine room. Keyser was already out of the building and into a speeder loaded with ninety-one million credits, flying off into the night of Nar Shadaa. Behind him in the distance, he could hear the klaxons and sirens of the Nar Shadaa Security Force rapidly approaching the docking bay: but they wouldn’t catch him.