Gods, these horrifically long waits. I swear, my mind is in twenty places at once, and I can't focus on one. This story is getting written, though, one way or another.

Han Solo wasn't entirely sure why he was where he was, doing what he was doing. He knew how it'd happened, sure, but he wasn't sure why he was now running for his life around an arena, under Jabba's smelly joint, taking potshots at a Rancor's eyes while the damned Rogue that had gotten him in this situation walked about the place, looking at the ground.

"A little help would be nice!" -he shouted, narrowly avoiding a swipe of the creature's bloody claws and shooting at its face. The Rancor was already half-blind and twice as angry from his marksmanship skills, just about the only thing about this situation that brought some reassuring smugness to his psyche.

Brood exclaimed in triumph, picking up a large bone that looked like a rib from a giant. She then ran towards him, and before he could ask her what the kriff she thought she was doing playing archeologist in this situation, leaped towards the Rancor's head and drove the tip of the bone into its good eye, all the way to the brain, killing it.

He stopped running, speechless, as the great beast fell. Maris walked up to him, half covered in dark brown blood and tossing him the...murder weapon. "Here, it's a Krayt Dragon's rib. Have someone modify it and it'll make for a great melee weapon, as it's one of the hardest and most durable materials out there. Or just keep it like that, it makes for a good souvenir." -she said, grinning like mad and speaking more than she had in the two whole hours he'd known her.

He blinked hard, like he was shaking off sleep. "This is the craziest...y'know what, let's just go."

Maris raised an eyebrow. "I told you, I have a job to do."

He frowned, and she looked upwards. "You might want to get clear."

She closed her eyes, feeling the Force surround her. Light and Dark fought for control as always around her. The dead Rancor behind had faded to an inanimate object. The voices of the restless dead of this place whispered around her, telling her tales and vying for her attention. Above, the hundreds of different life form, both sapient and not.

And the Corellian in front of her...Force sensitive, though much less than even the weakest of infants in the Temple. Interesting; the Force was not known to manifest in minimal amounts. It was usually either intense, or not at all present, with very few exceptions. One of them, apparently, being Han Solo. The man probably thought he was simply quite lucky, but luck, of course, did not exist. She'd felt something small earlier, but had dismissed it as background noise, common in a planet such as Tatooine. She sighed mentally; she still had much to learn.

The trapdoor above them was her objective, and she found it in her mental realm. The rest was a simple matter. She thrust her hand out, grabbing it, and pulled.

The heavy metal grate resisted, as all things did, but it was powerless against the Force itself. It fell, breaking in the process, all around her. And then she leaped.

She opened her eyes when she landed, amused at the crime lord's shocked expression. "Hey. I survived." -she said, and then brought her tonfas to bear, igniting them.

The murderous red glow of her two blades permeated the room. Those that remained were shocked - lightsabers were one thing, but red lightsabers were associated around the galaxy with one thing, and one thing only: the Dark Lords of the Sith.

Of course, she was no Sith, but they didn't need to know that.

Half a dozen Gamorreans snapped out of their spell and charged her, their battle cries sounding suspiciously like angry snorts. She twirled her tonfas to point at the ground, extending her reach, and begun her battle.

One, impaled, another, slashed in half. Two more, taken out with a diagonal slash. Another, beheaded. The last, she pulled to her, and vertically bisected. Five seconds in, and already the guards were out.

A couple dozen criminals and mercenaries pulled up their weapons, and Maris rotated her sabers to point away from the ground. She deflected any and all bolts, about a third finding their way back to their senders, the others sizzling over the heads of the terrified patrons running for their lives. One of the dancers, a human, pulled out a blaster from Force knows where, and made to shoot her, but Maris calmly walked to her, deflecting her shots, and ultimately lashing out with one of her sabers and cutting off her hands, making the scantily clad-woman faint from shock.

With everyone else either dead, dying, or gone, Maris turned to the Hutt, who was slowly retreating, tugging a rebellious Twi'lek behind. The Rogue walked over to the slave, whose chest had been exposed as the top of the terrible outfit had fallen off in the chaos, and easily sliced the chain, resulting in the two falling in opposite directions. Maris switched one of her sabers off...and stabbed Jabba's tail into the ground with the other.

The Hutt howled in pain, eyes widening and tongue flying widely, his stubby arms flailing and fruitlessly trying to reach her. "Bitch! Release me, or you'll wish the Rancor had killed you!" -he roared, though his voice was more panicked than fearsome.

Maris' face was stone, uncaring. "You mentioned Fett had a new employer. Who is it?"

He spit, but the fluid simply slid out of his mouth pathetically. "I will choke you, cut you, and feed your body to the womp rats, whore!" -he wailed.

The Rogue extracted her blade, admiring the burnt flesh for a moment, and then sliced the Hutt's tail clean off. The Hutt shouted in pain, louder than ever. Maris grabbed his throat with the Force, lifting the massively heavy creature and choking him.

"I grow tired of your home's stench, so I will ask one. Last. Time. Who hired Fett?"

Jabba was pawing uselessly at his massive neck. "Rakel! Her name was Rakel!" -he choked out, in heavily accented - and frantic - Basic.

Maris smiled coldly, satisfied, and deactivated her remaining blade. "The New Republic thanks you for your cooperation." -she said, and promptly crushed the Hutt's larynx, putting him out of his misery.

She attached her sabers to her forearms once more, and turned, only to find Han Solo staring at her with wide eyes as he helped the Twi'lek get dressed again by giving her his jacket.

"Holy kriff." -said Solo, almost breathless.

"Are you surprised?" -she asked, curious.

Han blinked. "Uh, yeah? You just killed the most powerful Hutt in the galaxy. With a one-liner. I expected you to be crazy, but I didn't think you'd kill him."

The Rogue huffed. "And what exactly were you expecting? I'm a Rogue, and he was breaking the law."

Han scoffed. "You mean he was in your way, and managed to get one over you."

She smiled. "That, too."

"And what, you're judge, jury, and executioner? I mean, don't get me wrong, he was scum inside and out, but I don't know that killing him like that was the right thing to do."

She shrugged. "As I thought I made clear, I care little for morality. Justice must prevail, and clearly no one else was willing to take him out. Again, what did you think I would do?"

Solo holstered his weapon. "I dunno. Flash your sabers and call it a day, maybe. He'd back off on chasing me, maybe get a good scare on the slavery part. Now…" -he gestured around him, at the bloody, mutilated, and charred corpses she'd left in her wake. Even the Twi'lek she'd saved looked terrified, unable to take her eyes off the hilts on her forearms.

For a moment, Maris wavered. Perhaps the Corellian had a point. She'd been more than a little rash - perhaps there was more she could've threatened out of the Hutt regarding her mission, or at least information the Republic might use on the heinous dealings of the Outer Rim.

But then, she looked at the lifeless eyes of the horrible creature behind her, and reassured herself that she had done the right thing.

"Hardly any use dwelling on it. I have a new objective to complete."

Han sighed, then walked over to the corpse of a man holding a fancy looking blaster, and pried it from him, handing it, his vest, and a small credit pouch to the now-former slave.

Maris raised an eyebrow, surprised, even more so when he walked to her side. "What are you doing?"

"Following you. Obviously."

"Why?"

He looked her in the eye. "Someone's got to make sure you don't slaughter half of Tatooine's population."

She frowned. "I wouldn't-"

"Save it. Let's go catch Fett."

He walked away, towards the entrance. Maris couldn't tell why, but her stomach had dropped at some point in the conversation.

Jerk with a heart of gold, that Han Solo.

This is what a Rogue is. An autonomous warrior who walks the line between Light and Dark. Be wary, that you do not attempt to hinder their path, for they are unstoppable.

As you can see, Maris exemplifies the problem with Rogues. Even with an ironclad temper, temptations are bound to break through sometime. Maris hates slavers. Jabba was one of the worst examples of one. Cue his gruesome murder. Maris does admit that she still has much to learn, compared to the premier Rogues such as Ventress or Anakin.

Jabba's death puts the New Republic in an uncomfortable position; they are in a fragile peace with Hutt space already, fresh out of a brief but brutal war to end slavery. Tatooine is technically neutral territory, but the Hutts won't see it that way - and though Jabba's demise may be good for the Crime Lords, they still have a reputation to maintain. Expect consequences for this.