Hosnian Prime.
The recently elected capital of the New Republic – once a shining beacon of hope after years of darkness and war, now falling victim to indecision and corruption. The divide between those who believed in planets' individual authority and those who believed in a stronger central galactic government was growing larger by the day and had been almost since the Republic's foundation. The last three years had kicked that downward progression into hyperdrive, with increased terrorist attacks, assassinations and talk of electing a First Senator to overrule decision making.
And political corruption bred the need to cover up secrets and scandal. The protection of fragile images becoming priceless. As such, more and more Senators required delicate matters to be 'taken care of' in tasteful terms and were willing to turn to the criminal underworld and pay a high price for the very best bounty hunters and assassins.
It was a high-risk field only the best could hope to compete and survive in. Subtlety and stealth were of the utmost importance – it was not a job for thrill seekers or glory chasers. It needed to be quick, clean, no civilian casualties.
Blitz only needed one shot.
Senator Xiono once again had asked for 'him' and only 'him'.
Blitz was not in the business of asking the 'why', only the 'who' and 'how much'; a fact that sat very well with all their clientele.
They perched atop the cityscape like a hawk, rifle in hand. Gloved fingers fiddled with the configurations. The sky was a brilliant orange behind them, though they had no desire to enjoy the view. The dying light was absorbed by their armour – somewhat mismatched pieces all painted to the same dull grey. To the sun, they were a ghost, to the shadows, a friend.
Under their mask, their breathing was shallow – dangerously composed. Their eyes narrowed behind the visor as they raised the rifle, staring down to scope at the target. Their finger hovered over the trigger, waiting, calculating.
With a squeeze, the bolt was released, accompanied by a high-pitched screech. Blazing, blue and hot, it took mere seconds to find its final resting place in the target's broad chest. Immediately, he crumpled to the ground to be swarmed by bystanders.
Blitz made a calm retreat, slinging the rifle over their shoulder and swinging themself down from the roof to the empty street below. Like Coruscant, the lower levels of the cityscape planet were a hive of unsavoury activity. New Republic law enforcement never thought, or perhaps dared, to go that deep into the city. Or perhaps they lived in wilful ignorance of its existence at all, never daring to think the corruption could be under their noses.
Head down, they returned to a secluded, run-down hanger, and to the place they called home. The only constant in their complicated life. Their ship – The Storm – acquired from a scrap yard on Batuu. The XS stock light freighter, while outdated, served its purpose well, for business and for pleasure – two sides that were not uncommon to cross if they so needed.
Entering the cockpit, the bounty hunter tossed themself into the pilot's chair, dropping the rifle across the ever-empty co-pilot's seat. Turning to the control console, they flicked the communications system to life, sending out a transmission to their employer.
Their helmet's vocoder scrambled their voice when they spoke, giving it a deep, grating quality. "It's done. Confirmation will be on the holonet within the hour."
They waited for the response, chewing the inside of their cheek. It came soon enough.
"Good. Your payment is on route."
"You know where to find me."
The comm clicked off, and Blitz leaned back in their seat with a sigh.
Another day, another job fulfilled, another life taken. It was not the ideal way to live, but it made more than enough credits to survive alone in the galaxy.
They only had one rule when accepting assignments: never take them from the First Order. They had approached them many times on the edge of the known and unknown of the galaxy, offering a contract, and had been turned down each time by a shot to the chest.
Though very little was known of this First Order, their Imperial origins were apparent. And while Blitz operated in the grey, they were closer to the light than the dark, and had no desire to feed into an evil of old. That, and the rumours of a dark apprentice in their ranks kept Blitz at a ten-system distance of any of their outposts and operations.
But whispers were carrying like wildfire through the underworld, some even reaching the Republic, but they would not dare entertain them.
Blitz strode back to the hanger entrance to await the arrival of the messenger. They never met their clients directly to avoid suspicion, and maintain a strict balance of power on their end. They did not care if a senator's image was stained, only that they walked away paid and unidentified – though the latter was more important than the former in the long run. There were always other assignments.
After ten minutes of waiting, Senator Xiono's assistant rounded the corner, black case in hand.
Blitz held their hand out wordlessly.
The assistant understood, nervously handing over the credits. "The Senator sends his thanks."
Blitz ignored the sentiment – sentiment did not pay for fuel. "He knows how to contact me should he need it."
And with that, the unlikely parties parted ways as quickly as they had crossed.
The bounty hunter returned the credit case to their ship to be stashed away securely, pocketing a few before heading back into the streets in search of the nearest cantina that would serve their sort. Another way they dealt with the moral ambiguity of their violent actions – Corellian whiskey.
Just because they were far from welcome on the planet itself did not mean they were exempt from enjoying its signature alcohol.
Night was dropping on the undercity as they made their way through the busying streets. They kept their head down, raising the hood of their tattered brown cloak over their helmet. Their shoulder would knock into people occasionally, but they never looked back to apologise despite the rather loud mutters. It was not like they would cross paths again – Hosnian Prime was a large planet in an even larger galaxy. It was of no consequence.
Blitz faltered in their path; the realisation they were being followed dawning on them. They could feel it, with senses that were both a blessing to their survival and a cursed reminder of the past. They considered their options, doing a quick scan for a way out and finding none, leaving only one alternative.
They turned down the next turning they came across, finding it to be a dead end. The walls were high around them, with no access to a higher ground or escape route. And their opponent had entered behind them.
No way up. No way back. No way out.
It was going to be interesting.
Turning, they were met with three unsavoury looking individuals, entirely blocking the mouth of the alleyway. The leader was a broad human male, accompanied by another, slighter and masked individual, and a Squamatan male who was baring his sharp teeth. All three were armed and dressed for combat – Blitz recognized the leader from the Bounty Hunter's Guild known as House Lunatum, an organisation they had left on less than clean terms.
The leader stepped forward, voice dripping with poison when he spoke. "So, this is the infamous Blitz."
"The one and only," Blitz replied, matching his venom. "And if you know who I am, then you should know to rethink your current position."
"Oh no," he chuckled darkly. "We don't just know who you are. We know who. You. Are."
They froze, hearing the knowing taunt in his voice. They knew exactly what he meant. Their blood ran cold, and their face paled beneath the mask. Brown eyes burned with an icy anger as they willed their body to move and fight the removal of the helmet, and the unwrapping of the cloth that acted as a last line of protection.
"Nova Solo."
She grimaced at the name, feeling a touch of shame as her identity became exposed to the air. Her hair, cut close to her head so that it did not even fall over her eyes, stood on end.
She was exposed.
And she snapped.
In their arrogant triumph, they had forgotten to disarm her.
She struck first, snatching her knife from its holster and slashing it through the leader's wrist as he tauntingly reached for her face. He let out a cry, followed by a second, more strangled sound when the knife was plunged deep into his neck. There it was left while Nova grabbed his shirt, using his body as a shield.
Crouching, she grumbled out a breath, letting her shield's companions open fire on his heavy body. Pulling her own blaster, she paused, gathering the strength to launch him into the wall, taking the split-second distraction it caused the unidentified and the Squamatan to fire off two shots.
Their bodies crumpled to the street in quick succession.
With a heavy sigh, she returned her blaster to her hip, before turning back to the leader, gurgling in the corner. Her right hand gripped his hair to pull him upright, and her left wrapped around her weapon, freeing the blade from his neck.
He fell back into the wall, turning away from her to choke on his own blood and be left to die.
But that was not how she ran her operations.
Grabbing him again, she slammed the knife's hilt into his temple, hearing the crack before letting him fall again. She considered the weapon for a second, then flipped it into the back of his thick neck, severing the last attachment to life with a dark look in her eyes.
She liked to think the way she killed was merciful – clean and quick, only painful for a second. She supposed it helped her sleep better.
Glaring down at the body, she felt a sick satisfaction slithering into her heart. This one had deserved it.
She retrieved the knife, unmoved by the splatter of red it painted across her armour. Her hands, boots and chest took the worst painting. She would not notice until later that some had stained her cheek without so much as a flinch in response.
"Nova Solo died at her uncle's temple," she told the corpse coldly.
Weapons retrieved, she replaced the helmet over her head, not bothering to rewrap her face – she could do it later.
Blitz stepped over the bodies and back into the street, continuing on their path with well-trained ice and indifference.
A figure watched them leave, safely concealed on the rooftop above. The display had left him shaken as he forced himself to stomach it with a shaky sigh. It was far from what he had expected to see from the person he now knew for certain to be below the helmet. Nothing like the stories he had been told.
The pilot forced his hands to steady and retrieved his commlink, clicking it on.
"General," he said grimly. "It's her."