A team of four was looking for something, probing sensors at the trash piles that crept up along the sides of the dilapidated tenement’s walls. Another set had gone inside to investigate further, but the ones on the outside were close to reaching their prize: a hidden repulsorlift station, once a part of a section mass transit system that connected to a series of trains and people-movers underground. It was now a quick and easy way to get to Terry’s territory in the underground. He had planned on escaping through the station, but the clones in his way were proving quite the issue. Hidden a block away under his veil, Terry pondered the options.

	The clones drew closer to the lift station, when Terry noticed the shape of a hitherto unremarkable abandoned speeder. Colored bright yellow and bearing the markings of the Lower Coruscant City maintenance department, it carried a large flatbed where rusted crates had obviously been pilfered and left to sit among the elements. It lay, abandoned and unused for many years, in a similar pile of debris and detritus. It also gave Terry an idea.

	The clones were directly in front of the station now, but could also be seen from where the speeder was parked. It was a straight line from the parking spot to them: Terry confirmed this as he crouched in the shadows and slowly walked to the vehicle, careful to avoid wrappers or paper or anything else that could make a crunch or a snap to give away his position. He knew he only had one shot at this. Terry reached the door of the yellow speeder and peered inside to the cockpit, its windows having long since been broken by hooligans. The control panel dimly glowed, indicating at least some functionality. With an eye on the clones, Terry found himself a plasteel block that lay shattered on the ground and weighed it in his hand. It would do.

	With a swift sleight of hand, he punched the start-up button in the cockpit. The speeder suddenly roared to life, groaning and straining as its ageing parts spun back to life. The clones leapt towards the source of the noise, yelling and raising their weapons. At the same time, Terry tossed the brick inside towards the pedal and it found purchase. The speeder whined as it accelerated to full power, the crates rattling and falling off the back as their rotted straps broke under the sudden force. It happened in seconds: the clones began firing, expertly aiming their shots for the speeder’s cabin. Unfortunately for them, there was no driver to kill in the cockpit.

	Three clones knelt almost shoulder to shoulder, firing their blasters before they realized what was happening. One yelped at the others to take cover, but the speeder was too fast. All three of them impacted on the hood of the cockpit, with one being viciously impaled by the pointed tip of a repulsor pod. Another rolled under the speeder, his armor singed and burned as he was caught by the hot antigravity wash of the speeder’s propulsion system. The third was flipped across the top, a ragdoll in the air as he cartwheeled down the alley. Terry followed the speeder at a brisk walk and waited for the clone to hit the ground with a thud. His helmet’s facepiece had been broken and cracked, with a trickle of blood coming out towards his cheek.

	The clone reached for a weapon but found none: his blaster was several meters away. Terry didn’t wait for him to develop a secondary plan before he delivered a blaster shot duly to the back of the clone’s head. A fourth clone sprinted into the alley, having dropped his sensor package to unholster a pistol on his hip. Terry shot him too, in the chest and the face, watching the clone drop to the ground. The other two were obviously out of commission and the speeder had crashed into the wall and was now on fire. Terry moved quickly to the station before any backup could be called. Before he descended down the stairs, he withdrew a grenade from his pocket. It was set to proximity explosive mode, and he tossed it into one of the many piles of trash next to the entrance. A surprise for the tracking party.

	The dirty lift still worked, maintained by the various people who came in and out of the undercity. One of them with a particular sense of humor had replaced the elevator music speaker with a consistent loop of cantina jazz. Terry found himself tapping his foot to the beat as he dropped into the depths of the undercity. A rare moment of respite allowed him to think: [i]The Repub- no, it’s the Empire now. Shit. They’ve all gone crazy.[/i]

	Through the grime-smeared window he could see he was finally ending the journey. This lift dropped him straight into the cantina district underneath the Temple. An irony he much appreciated when he came here to relax in anonymity. He had a safehouse here too, one that he had taken after he shot a dealer in a territory dispute over whose gang owned a notoriously profitable deathstick dealing corner. Terry had fished the man’s apartment keys right off the charred body after two of his colleagues had done a speeder drive-by of a café where he liked to hang out. [i]Whatever[/i], he continued to think: [i]They’re still trying to kill me, so I’ll still try to kill them.[/i]

	The alley he landed in was long since blacked-out and nobody had bothered to fix the lights. What Terry noticed first was the familiar smell of the underworld: an industrial, stale smell that reminded him of a starship. That, combined with the artificial lights hung on scaffolding below the “real” city above, made him feel like he was back on a Techno Union freighter again. It was oddly comforting. Terry made for a blue-and-red-lighted bar that he knew to be one of the hubs for his informants and connections. While he had heard the announcements above, he still needed someone to get him the bigger picture.

Edit: I guess [@The Wyrm] [@Sep] [@Odin] too...