Alex's first day on Nar Shaddaa began unexpectedly. He woke up to the sound of a door opening—the first client had entered the workshop. Through the thin walls, he could hear muffled voices, the sound of tools, and the characteristic hum of activated droids.
"Garrek! I have a problem with my navigation droid," a voice said, hoarse, with a Duros accent.
Alex quickly dressed and came out of the back room. Out of old habit, he decided to help his uncle. The client turned out to be a typical smuggler—a worn leather jacket, stained with something that could have been blood, a blaster on his belt in a tattered holster, tired eyes of someone who had seen too much. There were yellow stains on his hands—a sure sign that he had dealt with spice.
"This is my nephew, Alex Korran," Garrek introduced, without looking up from repairing an astromech droid. "He helps me with complex cases."
The Duros nodded, looking Alex over appraisingly.
"Captain Zek. My R4 started glitching after the last jump. It goes into hibernation mode without warning. I almost crashed into an asteroid near Kessel."
Alex approached the droid and placed his hand on its chassis. The metal was warm. He immediately felt the problem—an overload in the central processing crystal and corrosion in the contacts of one of the power nodes. Plus, there were clear signs of homemade modifications that violated standard safety protocols.
"When was the last time it was serviced?" he asked, opening the diagnostic panel.
"About three years ago," Zek shrugged. "What, do they break?"
"They break, especially if used in non-standard modes," Alex pointed to the blackened contacts. "Plus, you have corrosion from humidity here. Do you operate in systems with high water vapor content?"
Zek looked at him in surprise.
"How do you know? Yes, I've been flying to Manaan for the last six months."
"It's evident from the nature of the damage," Alex took out his tools. "An hour of work, five hundred credits for materials, two hundred for labor."
"Expensive," Zek winced.
"But it will work like new. And I give a six-month warranty."
While Alex worked on the droid, other clients came into the workshop. He watched them, studying the local ecosystem. Each visitor told their story through details—scars, weapons, demeanor, accent.
Most were smugglers—pilots of battered freighters who transported cargo. But there were others—mercenaries with combat droids whose machines bore traces of recent battles, the owner of a brothel with a damaged "special" droid, even a few slave traders with guard droids whose optical sensors flashed with the red lights of combat programs.
"Your nephew knows his stuff," Zek said when his R4 was working perfectly, emitting a satisfied chirp. "I haven't seen this piece of junk working this well in a long time."
"He studied in a good place," Garrek replied, accepting payment.
When the Duros left, Alex approached his uncle.
"Garrek, I wanted to talk to you."
"About what?"
"I'd like to work here a bit. Not for the money," Alex chose his words carefully. "I just want to look around, see your clients. Understand how everything works here."
Garrek put down his tools and looked at his nephew intently.
"That's a good idea. Many of my clients can become yours too when you open your own business."
He lowered his voice.
"But remember—no extra questions are asked here. You see a droid with bloodstains—you fix it and keep quiet. You see modifications for slave trading—pretend you don't understand their purpose."
"Understood."
"And one more thing," Garrek placed a hand on Alex's shoulder. "Some clients... are special. They have connections in the highest circles. Representatives of senators, planetary administrators, corporate bosses. They come here for what they can't get in civilized worlds."
After lunch, they went to the "Stardust" cantina. Alex wanted to better understand the local social structure, and Garrek decided to introduce him to the right people.
The cantina was typical for Nar Shaddaa—dim, smoky, with music that drowned out conversations. At the tables sat representatives of a dozen races, discussing business in their own languages. Figures in hoods hid in the corners, and mercenaries openly displayed their weapons at the bar.
"See that Twi'lek in the corner?" Garrek said quietly, nodding at a lanky blue-skinned man methodically sipping some glowing drink. "He's an information broker. Knows everything that happens in the sector. If you ever need to know something about a client—go to him."
"And those Rodians at the bar?"
"Mercenaries. They work for whoever pays more. Right now, they seem to be guarding cargo for someone from the Hutts. See how they keep their hands near their weapons? They're expecting trouble."
Alex studied the faces, memorizing details. At KTI, he was taught to analyze systems. Here, the system was made of flesh, credits, and fear, but the principles were the same—find the key nodes, weak links, and points of leverage.
At a nearby table, two men in expensive clothes were quietly talking to a local drug dealer. Alex understood from their accents that they were Coruscanti. Close to the highest circles, judging by their manners and jewelry. One of them wore a ring with the Senate seal.
"We need high-quality spice," said one of them, a man in his fifties with well-groomed hands. "For special clients. Those who are used to the best."
"I understand," nodded the dealer, a dirty Zabrak with gold teeth. "Elite series, straight from Kessel. But the price is accordingly—ten thousand per kilogram."
"Money is no problem," the second Coruscanti waved his hand carelessly. "Quality is the main thing."
"And who are these clients, if it's not a secret?"
"Let's just say," the first official grinned, "they are people who make decisions about the fate of the galaxy. They need a release from the heavy burden of power."
Alex turned away, but continued to listen. Coruscanti were buying drugs for "special clients." Senators? Industrialists? The picture was beginning to form, and it was disgusting.
"Don't listen too closely," Garrek warned. "Curiosity costs a lot here."
A massive Weequay in an expensive suit approached their table. His face was adorned with ritual scars, and a vibroknife in an inlaid sheath hung from his belt.
"Garrek, old friend," his voice was deep and hoarse. "I heard you have an assistant."
"Alex, meet Kratos. He... arranges meetings for sentient beings with special needs."
The Weequay looked Alex over appraisingly and sat at their table uninvited.
"I have a client who needs special modifications for droids. He's willing to pay well."
"What kind of modifications?" Alex asked cautiously.
"Protocol droids with... enhanced capabilities. For the entertainment of very rich and very perverted clients."
Kratos grinned, revealing golden fangs.
"You understand what I mean?"
Alex understood. He grinned inwardly, but nodded.
"I understand. It's technically complex, but feasible."
"Excellent. I'll bring the droids and specifications tomorrow."
When the Weequay left, Garrek said quietly.
"This is one of the vilest aspects of this business. But the money is good, and the alternative is to be out of work."
"You weren't so cynical before," Alex observed.
Garrek was silent for a long time, twirling a glass of Jawa ale in his hands.
"You know, nephew, life here has taught me a few things: if they give you money—take it, and second, if they don't ask—don't help. I don't know why, but doing so is punished by fate. I tried to be good, honest, chose my orders. Helped those who were in trouble. The result? Early in life here, I was almost killed, only good acquaintances saved me."
He grinned bitterly.
"Now I just do my job and don't meddle in other people's business."
***
In the evening, Garrek offered to show Alex the city. They went down to the garage, where an elegant speeder was parked—a high-end "Socorro Luxury" model, its sleek body shimmering in the neon light. Inside, there was genuine leather and wood trim, and the control panel glowed with a soft blue light.
"Beautiful machine," Alex remarked, settling into the seat.
"A gift from a grateful client," Garrek replied, starting the engine. The speeder started almost silently, only a slight vibration indicating the powerful repulsor engine. "Hutt Gorga decided to thank me for a special job."
They drove onto the transport highway. The speeder smoothly gained speed, its stabilization system compensating for all the bumps. Alex felt the soft seats adapt to his body, and the climate control automatically adjusted the temperature.
"First, I'll show you how it can be different," Garrek said, steering the speeder upwards, towards the elite levels.
They ascended several hundred levels. Here, the architecture was drastically different—instead of rusty metal structures, elegant buildings of polished stone and transparent steel rose up. The neon signs were brighter and more refined, the air cleaner. Wide avenues were illuminated by soft artificial light, mimicking sunlight.
"Elite district," Garrek explained. "This is where those who can afford luxury live."
The speeder stopped at a luxurious residential complex. The building rose into the sky for a hundred floors, its facade adorned with gardens and waterfalls, the air purified. At the entrance, they were met by a smiling administrator droid in a spotlessly clean suit.
"Welcome to the 'Moonlight' residence, Master Garrek," it said politely. "Your apartment is ready for occupancy."
They passed through a lobby decorated with marble and live plants. The air smelled of flowers, not the usual mix of garbage and smoke. The elevator silently took them to the eighteen-hundredth floor.
Uncle's apartment was small but cozy. The panoramic windows offered a view of the upper levels of the city, where real gardens greened among the buildings. There was even a small pond with a fountain.
"It feels like I'm on Corellia," Alex exclaimed in surprise.
"That's exactly the point," Garrek nodded. "See the other residents?"
Alex looked out the window. Elegantly dressed people of various races strolled along the paths. Families with children, elderly couples, young people. Everything looked idyllic.
"But don't be fooled," his uncle continued. "The same criminals live here as on the lower levels. They just want to see an illusion of a normal world around their homes. That elegant Twi'lek is an organ dealer. That nice human family are slave traders. And their business destroys those who live below."
They returned to the speeder and began their descent. With each level, the picture changed. The buildings became more dilapidated, the air dirtier, the people more dangerous.
"Now I'll show you the real Nar Shaddaa," Garrek said, but the speeder didn't stop, only slowed down.
They drove past a luxurious building with a sign "Exclusive Pleasures." Through the glass doors, they could see a lobby decorated with marble and gold. Beautiful women of various races in revealing outfits entertained clients in expensive suits. But Alex noticed details that betrayed the true nature of the establishment—collars on the women's necks, guards with stun batons, surveillance cameras in every corner.
"Elite brothel," Garrek explained. "Look at that mustachioed man in blue, with the signet ring," Garrek nodded almost imperceptibly towards the man who was forcing a young Twi'lek girl to pour him wine, playfully tugging at the chain of her collar. "Recognize him?"
Alex looked closer. A well-groomed face, a neat beard, an expensive but conservative suit. And suddenly he recognized him—Senator Ax. His face was always on the holonet.
"Senator Ax? But he... he heads the committee for 'moral revival.' He shouts from every rooftop about traditional values, the sanctity of family, the purity of the moral image of an imperial citizen."
Garrek let out a hoarse laugh, the sound like the creak of a rusty door.
"Well, yes. 'Traditional values.' Here they are, right in front of you. The values of these bastards from the Senate," he said with icy bitterness accumulated over years. "The tradition of a rich bastard buying himself a teenage slave and doing whatever he wants with her."
"I'm showing you this for a reason, nephew. So you understand. All of this is bullshit. All their pathos, all their speeches, all their 'values.' All this superstructure of laws and committees is needed for only one thing: so they can calmly, without competition, engage in this."
He glanced at the senator, who was now pinching another girl, making her laugh an unnatural, subservient laugh.
"And we, ordinary people, have to believe their fairy tales and feel guilty."
They drove further, past casinos where Coruscanti industrialists played sabacc for stakes exceeding the annual budget of a small planet.
Past "private clubs" where things happened behind closed doors that even Nar Shaddaa preferred to hide. Muffled screams could be heard from one building. The guard at the entrance—a massive Gen'dai—indifferently watched passersby.
"What's happening there?" Alex couldn't help but ask.
"You don't want to know," Garrek replied grimly. "But I'll tell you—they pay for the opportunity to inflict pain. Real pain. And the victims are not there of their own free will."
They stopped near another establishment—a seemingly ordinary restaurant. But Alex noticed that all the patrons entered through the back door, and the windows were tinted.
"'Special Delicacies'," Garrek explained. "For clients with... exotic tastes. They serve dishes made from sentient beings. Sometimes alive."
Alex felt his stomach clench. He had heard of such places, but thought they were legends.
"This is impossible..."
"Quite possible, if you have enough money and connections. The main client is Hutt Gorga. He believes that the meat of sentient beings killed in fear and pain has a special taste."
"And no one stops this?"
"Who will stop it? The local police are under the Hutts. Republic..." Garrek caught himself and corrected himself—Imperial authorities pretend not to know. And the clients are too influential people."
The speeder continued its descent into the lower levels. Here, the picture changed drastically. Instead of elegant buildings—rusty metal structures covered in graffiti and soot. Instead of gardens—piles of garbage and puddles of unidentified liquid. The air became thick with smoke and chemical fumes.
Alex saw crowds of people on the streets—ragged, emaciated, with empty eyes. Many were clearly under the influence of drugs. A young human girl, no older than twenty, lay in a puddle of her own vomit. Her eyes were open, but empty. She might have been alive, she might have been dead. No one cared.
They drove past. A few blocks later, Alex saw other junkies. Some lay in the mud, staring into nothingness with dilated pupils—some on spice, some on ryl, some on something even more exotic. Others danced to music only they could hear, twitching in hallucinatory convulsions. Still others simply sat by the walls, motionlessly staring at the floor, as if trying to see in the dirty metal the answers to questions they had already forgotten.
Alex pondered, looking at this scene. What a waste, he thought. And it wasn't about the desires of these unfortunates—they made their choice, albeit under the influence of circumstances. It was about the system that so ineptly, so criminally wasted sentient life. Each of these junkies was once a child with dreams. Each had talents, abilities, potential. The system ground them into addicts, prostitutes, petty criminals, and victims.
And what have I done to change this? he asked himself. I'm exploring some ancient mysteries, as if there's any point. I'm digging into past technologies while the present rots around me. Have I helped even one of them? Even one?
He looked at the girl in the puddle and realized with crystal clarity: he didn't want to help her. He didn't want to save these junkies, didn't want to change the system. He wanted to burn it all to the ground.
They reached the most elite district of the upper levels, where the private residences of the rich stood. One of them stood out particularly—a huge palace with gardens, guarded by an entire army.
"Jabba the Junior's palace," Garrek said. "Old Jabba's nephew. He specializes in... special entertainment for the elite."
"What's happening there?" Alex asked, noticing a closed speeder arriving at the palace, from which a group of children of various races in shackles were being led out.
"Children are brought here," Garrek replied grimly.
"And then?"
His uncle grimaced as if he had swallowed something bitter.
"You don't want to know."
On the way home, they encountered a procession—several closed speeders escorted by security. One of the speeders stopped next to them, and an elegant man in an expensive suit with a briefcase got out.
"Master Garrek?" he asked politely. "I have an order for you."
"I'm listening."
"I need special droids. For a private collection. I want to arrange a little entertainment for... influential friends."
The representative did not name the client, but spoke with the confidence of a man accustomed to obedience.
"Of course. Everything will be ready by the appointed time," Garrek replied.
When the representative left, Alex couldn't help himself.
"Who was that?"
Garrek looked back, making sure no one could hear them, and leaned towards his nephew.
"When I repaired their droid last time, do you know whose it was?"
He lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Senator Tianau. Senator Tianau."
Alex knew the name. One of the most influential politicians, a fighter for peace and justice, the author of many laws on the protection of citizens' rights.
"But he..."
"In public—yes. In private life, he has other interests."
Garrek shrugged.
"However, not all are like that. Some politicians are conditionally normal. But all are involved in something."
"All?"
"Well..." Garrek corrected himself, "I think all, judging by their disgusting faces on the holonet. The system forces them. Only those with compromising material are admitted. You want to pass something through the Senate—pay. You want to get a contract—pay. You want to be left alone—pay. Even honest politicians are forced to play by these rules."
"Do you understand now how the system works?" Garrek asked as they approached the workshop.
Alex nodded, clenching his jaw.
"I understand. And it can be broken."
Garrek turned sharply.
"No. You won't break anything here. Because to 'fix' Nar Shaddaa, you'll have to fix the entire galaxy. Clean out every office on Coruscant, imprison every senator, burn every bank account."
He stepped closer, and his words fell like stones.
"Forget about salvation. You are not here to save. You are here to repair ships. Fix droids. Take money. And don't meddle. Anywhere. You can't save anyone here—neither that girl in the puddle, nor yourself, if you meddle. The only thing you can do is not become the next corpse in the gutter. That's it. Everything else is fairy tales for those who haven't yet understood where they've ended up."
"I'm starting to understand," Alex sighed. "Attempts to change things are broken by economic interests. The Republic couldn't destroy the Hutts because too many influential people were their clients or debtors. The Empire won't be able to either."
"And ordinary sentient beings?"
"Ordinary sentient beings suffer. But no one cares about their opinion. They are expendable material for the pleasures and profits of the elite."
***
Back in the workshop, Alex couldn't sleep for a long time. Despair and rage at what he had seen warred within him with a chilling, crystal-clear conclusion.
He hated this place. Every atom of his being screamed for him to get on the "Wanderer" and fly away, wherever his eyes led him. But escape wouldn't change anything. On another planet, he would simply exchange one cage for another, perhaps cleaner, but just as strong.
The thought was born not as a flash of insight, but as a heavy, inevitable sentence upon himself. The system must be broken. Not adapted to, not survived in, but destroyed. But for that, he was now nobody. A speck of dust that would be erased without notice. A surge of rage would lead him straight into that gutter they had driven past.
So there was only one way. To become someone. To gain strength, resources, connections. And the best place for that was right here, before him. The rottenest core of the galaxy. Garrek told him to close his eyes. Alex decided to do the opposite—to peer into every crack.
Every client-bastard, every order to modify a droid for torture, every hint of slave delivery—it's not just dirt. It's knowledge. Understanding how the machine works, who its gears are, and who is the lubricant. And knowledge, as he was beginning to understand, is power here. Power that is not in a blaster, but in information. Someone is already using this darkness for their own purposes—Hutts, corporations, shadow players, maybe even the Emperor himself. Why shouldn't he?
He won't save one slave girl today, only to have ten brought in tomorrow. Instead, he will find the slave trader, compile a dossier on him, calculate his routes and patrons. So that one day, when he has enough strength, he will not just kill him, but overturn his entire network. He will repair smugglers' ships to know their secret routes and vulnerabilities. He will fix droids for perverts to gain access to their protected data.
Nar Shaddaa would become his university. He would study the anatomy of evil from within, so that one day he could strike it at its very heart. The time would come, and the compromising material he gathered, the weaknesses he uncovered, the agents he infiltrated would become weapons not for blackmail, but for revolution. But that day would not come tomorrow; it had to be prepared for.