In posting this, I realized that, for some unidentifiable reason, FF does not have Wrecker, Hunter, Crosshair or Tech as characters . . . But it does have Gorba the Hutt . . . Huh.

This story is going to work differently than 'Separatist Web' - for that story, I had at least some idea of how the plot was going to progress. This time, I know only who the villains are, what they want, and what Quinlan Vos' initial mission is.

I thought I should give you all fair warning. :)


A Jedi starfighter cruised through the atmosphere, two kilometers above the gleaming blue ecumenopolis of Nar Shaddaa. Inside the ship, Quinlan Vos leaned an elbow against the transparisteel and kicked his feet up to rest on the control panel as he gazed through the side window.

Somewhere, in that glowing city that stretched across the entire planet, was the mysterious crime lord known only as 'The Prince'.

Quinlan snorted and brushed his long hair out of his face. 'The Prince' was an incredibly stupid name. Especially for someone who had never been seen. . .

To be accurate, the Prince had never been seen by anyone who then lived to talk about it. One Nikto had gotten off a dying transmission that gave Grakkus the Hutt information about the Prince's whereabouts and his race. Thus Quinlan's current trip to the crime center of the galaxy.

Just about the only thing Quinlan had been told was that the Prince sold everything, from drugs to slaves to outlawed weaponry; and that, last year, he'd made a bigger profit than Grakkus the Hutt.

Naturally, the Jedi had only been able to discover this because the Hutts wished to get rid of their biggest competitor.

If it had only been a matter of one crime lord versus another, Quinlan Vos would have thumbed his nose at Jabba – literally – and left the Council room with a clear conscience.

But it never was as simple as that, sadly. Jabba had told the Jedi Council that the Prince was expanding his business. Now, he bought and sold not only from slavers, drug-dealers, and smugglers. . . He was also selling to the Separatists.

"Like the Hutts are not selling to them?" muttered Quinlan, slouching in his seat and frowning. "Slime-ridden grubs."

But even Grakkus, rumored to be a collector of Jedi artifacts, wouldn't trade in Sith artifacts – or so the Hutt Cartel said. If they were to be believed, and Quinlan was pretty sure they weren't, the Prince was more dangerous than all of the Hutt crimelords combined. The Prince was putting together teams of the galaxy's best bounty hunters, and sending these teams to track down Sith artifacts . . . which would then be sold to Count Dooku.

How Grakkus the Hutt had found that out was anyone's guess. Personally, Quinlan thought that Grakkus and Jabba – along with the rest of the Hutt Cartel – were lying. What better way to get their chief competitor out of the way than to get the Jedi interested in investigating?

Too bad the Hutts haven't done anything to make the Jedi want to investigate them yet, he mused. Ah, well, nothing he could do about it right now. He leaned back, clasped his hands clasped loosely behind his head, and used his heel to punch the main comm button. "Hey, airspace control. Any landing platforms free?"

There was a startled silence before a female voice said, "Please state your name and your destination."

"Destination, Hutta Town, Grakkus the Hutt's palace," Quinlan replied. "Grakkus is expecting me."

"Your name, please," the woman repeated.

Quinlan Vos smirked. "What if I decide to lie?"

This time, the pause was much longer.

But, as fun as it was, Quinlan really had no intention of tangling with the authorities this early in the investigation. He wasn't in the mood. And Hutts could be real jerks when they were unhappy, so . . . Sitting upright, he keyed in the code Jabba had given him and transmitted it.

"Jedi Investigator, identity confirmed," said the woman a moment later, sounding relieved. "You are cleared for Platform Nine."

After landing on the wide, round platform, Quinlan locked down the ship systems, pulled on a pair of thin, black, fingerless gloves, and hopped out. He headed to the back compartment to pull out the supplies he'd need for the mission.

As Quinlan unlocked the compartment, he glanced up at the yellowed sky. Nar Shaddaa's planet, Nal Hutta, was not visible from this side of the moon, which was just fine with Quinlan. He hated Nal Hutta. It was full of dragonsnakes and anoobas and hundreds of criminals who would love to put a blaster bolt in a careless Jedi's back. Also, there were millions of insects – mostly tiny, midget-like ones, but there were also bugs with jaws big enough to take a serious chunk out of one's skin.

And as if all this weren't bad enough, the Hutts' home planet was mostly swampy and hot, with a thick fog that clung to every surface available. Whenever it did bother to rain, the water that fell from the yellowed clouds had a greasy feel to it.

To summarize, Nal Hutta suited the Hutts perfectly. Quinlan wrinkled his nose at the thought and slung a narrow pouch of rations and stims onto his belt.

Nar Shaddaa wasn't a big improvement over Nal Hutta by any means – there were thousands of criminals, rather than hundreds – but at least the climate stayed relatively cool, and there was no slippery fog to walk through.

Quinlan shuddered. He was pretty sure that fog wasn't supposed to be solid. Water shouldn't, strictly speaking, remember the last person or thing that had touched it. He'd been careless, recently, and traveled through a bog on Nal Hutta without covering his arms or face. The fog that had touched him while he tracked his target had felt like tendrils of alien thought, malicious and half-formed. Only later on in the mission, well after he'd left the dark swamp, had he found out that scores of Hutts had been in that bog the day before, plotting the murders of several of their clan. Nice family structure those clans have . . .

Quinlan clasped his belt over his tunic, slid a small hold-out blaster into a holster at the small of his back, and stared out over the landing platform.

The duracrete was marred by hundreds of cracks. It looked as though scores of heavy ships landed on it daily – that, or no one had bothered to have it repaved in the past twenty years. Judging by the ramshackle appearance of the buildings surrounding the landing field, and the worn paint on the duracrete, Quinlan assumed the latter.

Speaking of worn paint. . . He glanced at his starfighter, and at the scorch marks covering its once flawless paint job. His last mission had not been kind to the poor ship.

With a shrug, he turned away. Maybe after this mission he could bribe one of the unsuspecting younglings at the Temple into helping him. They always got nervous when he pulled out the black and red paint. "The colors of the Sith?!" a surprised padawan had once whispered to her crechemate.

Aayla Secura, who had been herding the group of padawans to their lightsaber forms practice, had glanced at the ship, but given no reaction.

Quinlan smirked. He'd long ago lost the ability to surprise his former Padawan, but whatever. There were plenty of other Jedi to surprise and even shock, particularly the more traditional ones. Ki-Adi Mundi's white eyebrows had shot up his considerable forehead when he saw the brilliant red and black streaks, and Mace Windu had narrowed his eyes slightly, remaining silent with obvious difficulty.

Some of the Jedi Masters, on the other hand, refused to be shocked. Kit Fisto had merely blinked his large eyes, smiled, and said, "It makes you rather a target, does it not?"

As for Luminara Unduli, she had simply ignored the ship. She probably knew that Quinlan wanted her opinion on it, and therefore pretended to have no opinion.

Plo Koon's reaction was better. He'd actually stopped to stroke his mask and look thoughtful. And Anakin Skywalker had stopped mid-dash to say, "Huh. Cool paint scheme." That had been fun. So had Obi-Wan's critically raised eyebrow and cool gaze, which he'd aimed at both Quinlan and Anakin. But the most hilarious reaction of all had been Yoda's. The grandmaster, who had been tottering past on his way to meet with Bail Organa, had given the nose of the starfighter a sharp rap with his gimer stick as he walked by, muttering, "Hmph. Younglings."

Good times.

Quinlan smirked and resolved to add a design of red and black flames along his starfighter's wings next time he painted it. But for now, he had a job to do. It was time to put a serious crimp in the Prince's day.

Assuming the Prince existed, of course.

With a casual shrug, Quinlan set off toward the edge of the landing platform, drawing the hood of his short cape over his eyes.

No one stopped him. On this planet, the inhabitants paid attention to no one but themselves – unless they were being followed or threatened in some way, and then the usual method was to kill the person annoying you.

'Ignore and be ignored' was the generally accepted rule for survival on Nar Shaddaa.

Each district of the moon was ruled by a different gangster or crimelord or smuggler king. Hutta Town was ruled by Grakkus, so the primary rule of surviving here was 'Ignore and be ignored while staying on Grakkus' good side'.

Quinlan paused at the edge of the field, shading his eyes in attempt to see inside the speeder rental booth as he considered whether or not Grakkus even had a good side.

The booth was dark, lit only by the screen of a datapad that was playing some heavy-isotope band or other. The main singer was truly terrible. Quinlan looked over at the owner of the booth, a heavy-set Gran, and gave him a terse nod. The Gran stared back, blinking three eyes slowly.

"Best you've got," said Quinlan, hefting a small pouch of credits. "And don't give me anything that's been in a high-speed chase anytime during the last month."

On most crime planets, those particular speeders had a good chance of being entered in the database of the scattered police-bots that occasionally roamed the airlanes and streets. The damaged and malfunctioning bots were dangerously unpredictable. They had no assigned routes to police and no law to enforce, so their processors defaulted to the last regulations they'd been programmed to impose – and they enforced those regulations dangerously. Some police-bots, which had originally come from pacifist planets, had been known to kill random passersby for carrying weapons. Kind of a problem, considering that just about everyone on crime planets carried weapons . . .

The Gran, who seemed to be having trouble making up his mind, finally pointed to a bright orange speeder. "Three hundred credits for that one."

Quinlan walked over to the speeder and stared down at it. "This thing hasn't been started in months. And it's missing a fuel cylinder." He looked over the row of chained vehicles for a long moment, observing their engines. Nope, nope, no, definitely not, and . . . there. An old, dingy-white speeder with a pale '30' painted across one side. The engine had been recently cleaned, and should at least get him to the level he needed without falling apart.

He hoped.

"I'll take number thirty."

The Gran shrugged again.

Quinlan raised an eyebrow. "Yes? No?"

Another shrug.

This Gran led an exciting existence, that was for sure.

After a moment, Quinlan went back to the booth. "A hundred credits for number thirty. I'll want it for one day."

The Gran blinked slowly. "You pay for two days upfront."

"Fine. A hundred credits for number thirty. I'll want it for two days."

The triple gaze of the Gran fastened suspiciously on him. "Two days, two hundred credits."

"Two days at fifty credits each. Or I'll find another booth."

Buying anything on crime planets without bargaining was extremely foolish. It let others know you had money to spare. And, even if nothing else was cheap here, life was.

Finally, the Gran let out a long, dramatic huff. "Two days at sixty credits each."

Quinlan pretended to consider for a moment before giving a short nod. The Gran pressed a button, and the security chain on number thirty fell away. Quinlan counted out a hundred and twenty credits – in small chips – and tossed them to the booth owner, then jogged over to the speeder.

He spent a few moments checking it out, then swung a leg over the saddle and kicked the engine to life. It roared, and he leaned forward, twisting the handles. The speeder leaped straight off the landing platform and into the disorderly air traffic that flew in all directions. True to crime planet form, there were no traffic rules on Nar Shaddaa. No defined airlanes, no safety regulations on vehicles . . . no speed limits.

Quinlan Vos grinned, swerved around a large airbus, and accelerated, heading straight for the center of town and Grakkus' palace.

The palace, which towered above the surrounding buildings and airlanes, was shaped like a four-sided pyramid with a flat top instead of a peak. Narrow towers rose partway up its sides, and the entire building was a dull shade of tan.

As he approached, Quinlan slowed his vehicle, observing the palace and its surroundings carefully. He shouldn't be in real danger, since both the Hutt Clan and the Jedi Council knew that he was supposed to meet with Grakkus. The Hutts seemed to trust the Jedi as much as the Jedi trusted them – which was to say, not at all – but if there was one thing the Hutts were good at, it was preserving their own skins. Even Grakkus, fascinated as he apparently was with Jedi artifacts, would never risk killing, robbing, or imprisoning a Jedi . . . At least, not when he would be the obvious culprit. No one wanted the Hutts and the Jedi after him at the same time.

Quinlan slowed the speeder to a crawl, angling it toward the flat, empty roof of the palace. Having a quick getaway ready was vital. Grakkus might not be an immediate threat, but he wasn't the only dangerous being here. As soon as the Prince found out that a Jedi Investigator had come to the moon, he'd take steps to get rid of him. And even if the Prince didn't exist – well, Nar Shaddaa was so dangerous that no Jedi had been sent here in centuries.

Quinlan landed his speeder at the edge of the roof and swerved so that it faced outwards. "Hey, yeah," he muttered, hopping off and brushing his gloves off. "That's kinda neat. I'm the first Jedi here in centuries."

He noticed a single-person lift in the center of the wide roof and headed toward it, keeping a careful eye on his surroundings. After all, it wouldn't do to fail through carelessness. Yoda had only allowed him to come here because he was the best criminal investigator the Order had.

Well . . . that, and because Quinlan Vos had sauntered into the Council Room, while the Council was still talking to the Hutt Cartel, and volunteered for the mission, loudly and obnoxiously.

Hey. Temple life could be really dull.

Jabba had accepted before Yoda could decline. The Hutts had cut the connection, and then there'd been a brief staring match between the grandmaster and a decidedly unrepentant Quinlan. He'd won in the end, though - mostly because the Jedi didn't want to risk angering the Hutts, since said creepy aliens were letting the Republic use their hyperspace lanes and all . . .

Quinlan Vos stared at the lift for a moment before pressing the activator.

As it disappeared into the floor with a quiet hum, he folded his arms and reflected that politics really could be useful at times.

A few moments later, the lift returned, carrying a female Twi'lek in a simple white dress. She had lavender skin and beautiful purple eyes, and her lekku were bound with intricate bands of gold. Which . . . was all very nice, but why on earth would a serving girl be up here? Quinlan looked from side to side. No one was sneaking up on him. The girl wasn't meant to be a distraction, then.

"So," he said, gesturing to her. "I'm here to see Grakkus. And you are. . .?"

She bowed to him, hands clasped at her chest. "The most wise Grakkus awaits you in his throne room."

"Right." Quinlan twisted his mouth to one side. "I mean, I'd argue the 'most wise' part, but okay."

She cast him a quick, frightened look and pressed the lift control again, sending it back down the shaft. When it returned, empty this time, Quinlan hopped on and descended into the depths of Grakkus' palace.


The throne room was large, gilded, and barely lit. Quinlan walked down the center of the room, keeping his head motionless as he cast darting glances all around. Several figures lurked in the shadowed perimeter, keeping pace with him as he approached Grakkus.

The Hutt lounged across a raised dais, looking almost like Jabba in the faint light that trickled in through the tiny, high-set windows. Almost like Jabba, because Grakkus was bigger than the Tatooine crimelord. Bigger, and much stronger-looking.

Quinlan came to a stop a few meters away, glad that even the strongest Hutts were not known for their speed. "Grakkus."

The immense form twisted toward him. There was a rapid clinking of metal, and the Hutt got to its feet.

Hutts didn't have feet.

Quinlan stepped back, staring, barely resisting the impulse to reach for his lightsaber. Grakkus the Hutt had twelve powerful cybernetic legs. Instead of looking like a slime-ridden grub, he looked like a slime-ridden centipede. Wow.

"Jedi Investigator." Grakkus spoke Basic like Ziro, in a booming voice like Jabba's.

Well, might as well go through the motions. "Greetings. I am Quinlan Vos, here at the request of the Hutt Cartel to speak with you about –"

"The Prince." Grakkus moved forward, legs thunking against the stone floor. "I heard that you, Vos, volunteered to locate the Prince. And that you are working alone. That is foolish, even for a Jedi."

"Yeah, I suppose." Quinlan brushed unconcernedly at a loose strand of hair that kept falling in his eyes. "Any information you can give me? Jabba seemed to think you could help me out."

Grakkus moved forward with a lurch and leaned forward until his wide, flabby face was only a few inches from Quinlan's. "I have no wish to help you out, Jedi."

Well, fair was fair. Quinlan didn't want to help the Hutts out either. He raised an eyebrow and examined his fingernails. "Right . . . So, what, I head back and tell Jabba sorry, but I can't investigate after all?"

Grakkus clicked his way back to the wide dais and settled his bulk carefully. "You are reckless and a fool."

Quinlan suppressed a mental yawn.

Grakkus seemed to pause for a moment, his round, yellow eyes narrowing. "The Cartel has determined that the Prince is a serious threat to our profits."

"Uh-huh."

"I will ensure that you get any information we obtain."

That . . . was less helpful than he'd expected, even from Grakkus. Quinlan decided to try acting a bit more subservient. "Maybe you could start by telling me what you already know about him? Where he operates? What species he is? Anything?"

Grakkus looked bored, as though this were not at all worth his while. Quinlan had never before seen a Hutt looking bored. It was a new experience, which quickly grew old, and then he got bored.

Quinlan cleared his throat and gave up on pretending to be docile. "I was sent here to investigate, Grakkus, not to wait around while you decide whether or not to give me the information I need."

Grakkus stood again – yep, it was just as disturbing the second time around – and folded muscular arms. "The Prince is a Serennian."

A Serennian. How interesting. Perhaps the Prince had known Dooku, back on Serenno. It would make sense. The probability of the Sith lord making a deal with a random criminal was not particularly good – unless the Prince had collected some artifacts before managing to contact Dooku and offering them for sale . . .

Grakkus took a clinking step forward. "His stronghold is located on the opposite side of Nar Shaddaa. You have no chance of getting in."

That's right, make sure you don't encourage me. Aloud, Quinlan said, "I'll at least do some recon."

The Hutt seemed to have decided that Quinlan was a hopeless case, because he gave one heavy arm a careless wave. "I'll have the coordinates sent to you."

Quinlan bowed. "Thank you."

"And Jedi . . . I have bounty hunters who will help you, when the time comes."

Quinlan almost snorted, but caught himself in time, instead giving a casual and not particularly respectful bow. Turning on his heel, he strode jauntily off and entered the lift.

Grakkus would certainly send expensive bounty hunters to assist in raiding the Prince – of that, Quinlan had no doubt. But they wouldn't be there to help bring the Prince to justice. They'd be there to loot the stronghold and bring even more riches to a Hutt who'd already gained an insane amount of wealth through his crimes.

Quinlan reached the roof and mounted his speeder. "Yeah, no thanks," he muttered, swooping forward into the traffic.

His datapad beeped as it received the file from Jabba's men.

Then it beeped again as the security program identified and deleted a tracking protocol that had come in with the datafile.

Quinlan rolled his eyes and dodged an oncoming air truck. Tracking protocols. As if even the least-skilled investigators wouldn't have installed safeguards.

Casting a last glance at the palace, he headed upward. Now that Grakkus had given him what he needed, Quinlan shouldn't need to communicate with him again. The Hutt would never know when Quinlan intended to move in against the Prince.

Neither would the Prince.