Kill General Kenobi.

Pre Vizsla's words echoed in the assassin's mind as she crept down the darkened alleyway. He said it so casually, as though he were merely commenting in the weather. The alor of Death Watch would never say such a thing, of course, and especially not to a filthy chakaar like her.

Suicide. It was suicide to try to assassinate a Jedi Master, but Vizsla cared not whether she lived or died. She was an assassin, a slave, she was expendable. Her mission, on the other hand, was a rare and critical one. This Jedi had a history with the pacifist Kryze, and killing him would give her one less ally to call upon. Not to mention such a feat would inspire fear within all of her 'allies'.

After all, if Death Watch could kill a Jedi Master, was anyone truly safe?

Failure was unacceptable.

The sound of bar music grew louder with every step she took. The assassin closed her eyes and sighed as she opened the door to an all-too-familiar haunt, allowing the music to overtake her senses and drive away her fears, if only for a little while.

Bobbing her head in time to the beat, she seated herself at the bar. Immediately, a mug of shig was placed in front of her. Smiling, she turned to the bartender, Jode, and handed him a few credits in return. 

Kill General Kenobi.

The assassin's smile faded for a moment, and neither the music nor the soothing beverage in her hand could calm her nerves. Why should she kill the General?

Because if you don't, Vizsla will have your head, she reminded herself harshly. She absentmindedly sipped her drink, trying to quell the feeling that gnawed away at her, urging her to run, to hide, to leave this life behind her.

"Credit for your thoughts?" Jode's voice snapped the assassin back to reality and she jumped, instinctively reaching for her sai before she realised she was in no danger. Slowly relaxing, she set her now empty mug on the counter.

"Cuy ogir'olar,"  she said in response to his question.

"If it's nothing, why is it bothering you?" the cheerful bartender chuckled. Not giving her a chance to reply, he slid an ornate key across the counter. "I already know you're not going to tell me what's up, but the garden's empty if you want to mull it over without  group of drunken men staring at your sheb.

The assassin swiped the key off the counter and rose, sending a withering glare to the 'drunken men'. "Vor'e, Jode."

"Anything for my favourite customer!" Jode grinned. "Just don't forget to return that key!"

The assassin chuckled to herself as she unlocked the gate that led to the rooftop garden. Unbeknownst to the friendly barman, she had bypassed the gate so many times that she didn't need a key. The garden had one of the best views in Mandalore, so she often snuck in after-hours just to get away from everything.

As she sat on the garden ledge, her legs dangling over the side of the building, her thoughts returned to the idea of running. The next transport leaving Mandalore was bound for Coruscant and it departed in an hour. If she left now, and took all of the shortcuts... No. She was no coward, no matter what Vizsla said. She was Mandalorian and if she was to die, she would make sure her mission was completed.

It was settled then. Tomorrow, the assassin would slip into the crowds that gathered to greet General Kenobi. As soon as he was exposed, she would take him out with her poisoned dart. Her target would be dead before he hit the floor. If she succeeded, maybe her master, Pre Vizsla, would grant her a name.

Vocab:

Alor: Leader

Chakaar: Low-life, general term of abuse.

Cuy ogir'olar: It's irrelevant/it's nothing (Lit: it's neither here nor there).

Sheb: Backside, butt, you get the idea.

Shig: Any beverage of whatever's available, usually a mild, citrus flavoured herb called behot.

Vor'e: Thanks.

Part of Star Wars, Clone Wars era fanfiction.