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Inside Gulda the Hutt's Palace…
The grand hall of the palace was a cavernous space filled with the thick scent of incense and echoes of distant music. The walls, adorned with exotic trophies and artifacts, bore the scars of past battles—remnants of the volatile power struggle that had granted Gulda her throne.
Gulda sat atop a throne of gold and pillows, her massive form lounging comfortably as slaves fanned her with large feathers.
A hologram flickered to life before her, casting a pale blue light across the dim room. The figure of Count Dooku materialized within the glow, his expression calm but commanding. He clasped his hands behind his back, his tone polite but laced with an underlying menace.
"Gulda," Dooku began smoothly. "It is time for you to repay your debt."
Gulda's bulbous yellow eyes narrowed as he spoke. She shifted slightly on her throne, her wide mouth curling into a sneer. She responded in slow, deliberate Huttese, her voice a guttural rumble.
Beside her, the Twi'lek interpreter echoed her words. "Gulda the Hutt sees no reason to involve herself in your affairs, Count. She owes nothing."
Dooku's holographic form remained perfectly still, his expression hardening. "I am not asking for a favor, Gulda. My master gave you everything you now possess—the throne, the territory, and the fear that keeps your enemies at bay. Do not delude yourself into thinking it cannot be taken away just as easily."
Gulda's thick lips twisted into a scowl, her body undulating with frustration. She growled in response, her Huttese words laced with defiance.
The Twi'lek translated, "The great Gulda does not take orders. Her power is her own. She bows to no master."
Dooku's gaze sharpened, cold as a knife's edge. "No?" he said softly, tilting his head ever so slightly. "Then perhaps you would like me to share this news with your rivals—the many Hutts who would sacrifice their firstborn children to wield even a fraction of the power you now possess."
Gulda's sneer faltered. Her eyes shifted, calculating. She knew all too well that many of her fellow Hutts harbored jealousy and hatred toward her. If Dooku's master—whoever he truly was—decided to support one of them instead, she could lose everything.
With a heavy grunt, Gulda finally relented, her words begrudging and laced with bitterness.
The Twi'lek translated, "What do you ask of the great Gulda?"
Dooku's smile was thin and triumphant. "It is time for the Hutts to step into a larger role. Your people will increase your pirating activities—not just along the outer rim but into the Mid Rim and Expansion Regions. Cause disturbances. Draw the Republic's attention and ensure their focus remains… divided."
Gulda rumbled something under her breath, considering the implications. The Twi'lek hesitated, sensing her mistress's reluctance.
Before Gulda could speak further, suddenly, the palace walls shook violently with a thunderous explosion. *Boom!* Dust and debris rained from the ceiling as the ground trembled beneath them.
Instantly, a Rodian slave burst into the throne room, panting from the exertion. He fell to his knees before Gulda, stammering.
"Speak!" the Twi'lek interpreter demanded, her own fear evident.
The Rodian choked out his message. "Intruders have entered the palace!"
Dooku's holographic image flickered slightly, but his calm demeanor remained intact. "You seem busy, Gulda," he remarked, his tone dripping with mild amusement.
Gulda snarled something in Huttese, gesturing impatiently at the Twi'lek.
The slave translated, "The great Gulda must attend to a pressing matter. She will honor your request, Count. The preparations will begin immediately."
Dooku gave a shallow nod. "See that they do."
With that, the hologram flickered and vanished, leaving Gulda and her entourage in tense silence.
The Hutt lord shifted her massive weight, her beady eyes narrowing as she turned to the Twi'lek.
"Send the guards," the Twi'lek relayed urgently, her voice trembling as she spoke on Gulda's behalf. "Capture the Intruders!"
From somewhere deep within the palace, the sound of boots echoed—Gulda's soldiers rushing to confront the intruders.
The Hutt lord grumbled low in her throat, her expression darkening. Whoever had dared to trespass on her territory would pay dearly…
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On Coruscant…
The call ended, and Count Dooku stood in the dimly lit room, the hologram projector fading into silence. The villa's opulent decor reflected wealth and influence, though it was overshadowed by the ominous presence of the man seated across the room.
The windows revealed the towering skyline of Coruscant, the heart of the Republic. Just beyond the shimmering lights, the Senate building loomed, and the spires of the Jedi Temple glowed faintly in the distance.
Dooku turned away from the projector and addressed the figure seated in a dark, throne-like chair at the center of the room.
The figure's long, clawed fingers drummed rhythmically against the armrest, a contemplative rhythm that seemed to echo the beating of a distant war drum.
It was Darth Plagueis.
The Muun sat still, shrouded in shadows, his sunken, skeletal features partially illuminated by the ambient city lights. His yellow eyes glimmered with cold intelligence, a predator's gaze fixed somewhere beyond the present moment, lost in the intricate web of his design.
Dooku inclined his head in respectful deference. "It's done, master. Gulda the Hutt has been reminded of her debt, and the wheels are in motion." His deep voice was calm, measured, yet edged with curiosity. "When shall we initiate the next phase of the plan?"
Plagueis' fingers paused mid-tap. He leaned forward slightly, his bony hands resting on the armrests of his throne as if weighing the galaxy's fate in his palms. He was silent for a moment, considering, calculating.
"We can begin now," Plagueis finally murmured, his voice low and deliberate, like the slow roll of thunder. "It is time to contact the Trade Federation. Inform them that the moment has arrived—our time to act is at hand."
Dooku gave a respectful bow, his dark cape shifting as he turned toward the exit. "As you wish, my lord." Without another word, the former Jedi strode out of the room, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor as he moved with purpose to set the next phase into motion.
Once alone, Plagueis reclined slightly in his chair, his hands steepled under his elongated chin. His gaze wandered out toward the glittering expanse of Coruscant, his thoughts drifting not only to the impending conflict but also to the legacy he was about to unleash upon the galaxy.
A small, rare smile tugged at his lips—a cold, hollow curve devoid of joy or warmth, carrying only the weight of grim satisfaction. "How ironic," he murmured under his breath, the words barely audible. "Sidious… my wayward apprentice. I wonder—how will you react when news of your homeworld's fate reaches your ears?"
His fingers resumed their steady, rhythmic tapping, each beat like the tolling of a bell.
"Soon," Plagueis mused, his voice trailing off as his gaze fixed on the distant spires of the Jedi Temple. "Very soon…"
The shadows deepened, wrapping around him like a shroud. Outside, the galaxy carried on, oblivious to the dark storm that was about to consume it.
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Back at Gulda's Palace…
The sun had barely dipped below the dunes of Tatooine when the assault began. Gulda's palace—a labyrinthine complex of sandstone and durasteel—stood in the distance, its silhouette jagged and imposing against the night sky. Guards patrolled the walls, and turret-mounted cannons swiveled, scanning the desert for threats. The stillness was short-lived.
With a deafening BOOM, a plasma rocket fired by Rocket exploded against the main gate, sending shards of metal and stone flying through the air. The alarms blared as the gates crumbled, engulfed in flame. Guards scrambled into action, barking orders in Huttese.
Tony Stark was the first to enter, his thrusters roaring as he launched himself over the ruined gate. His HUD flickered as it locked onto enemies, marking them in red.
"Alright, let's get to work."
Tony's Iron Man Suit engaged with a sharp whine of repulsors, and twin energy beams erupted from his palms, blasting two guards off the battlements. They hit the ground with bone-crunching thuds, smoke curling from their armor.
Another tried to fire a heavy laser cannon, but Tony shot a wrist missile, detonating the cannon in a fiery burst that took the guard with it.
On the ground, Natasha Romanoff sprinted through the shadows, her blaster barking as she downed three guards in quick succession. Each shot hit its mark—center mass—dropping them before they could retaliate. She darted behind cover, scanning the area for the next threat.
Mikaela followed close behind, still shaky but determined, her blaster raised. A guard rounded the corner, catching her off guard, and Mikaela froze for a fraction of a second. "…"
The thug sneered, lifting his weapon—but Mikaela was quicker. Driven by instinct and fear, she squeezed the trigger, the shot finding its mark. The grin vanished from his face in an instant as he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
"Nice shot," Natasha urged, reloading her blaster. "Keep moving."
Mikaela gave a tight nod, gripping her weapon tighter.
Meanwhile, Groot's wooden limbs twisted and stretched, smashing through a squad of guards. His branches coiled around one, hoisting him into the air and slamming him into the ground with brutal force.
Another guard tried to attack him from behind, but Groot twisted, skewering the attacker with a sharp wooden spike.
"I am Groot!" he roared, hurling the lifeless guard into the palace wall.
Rocket laughed maniacally, loading another round into his bazooka. "Don't worry, Groot! I've got your back!" He fired the rocket into a group of reinforcements pouring through the side entrance, the explosion rocking the ground beneath them and reducing the soldiers to smoldering debris.
…
..
.
In the throne room…
Gulda the Hutt sat on her elevated platform, her bloated body shifting uneasily. The explosions rattled the palace walls, the sounds of death and destruction creeping closer. She could hear the screams of her guards and slaves, each one cutting deeper into her resolve.
Her interpreter cowered beside her, trembling. "Master… maybe we should flee? The intruders are—"
The Hutt rumbled in her native tongue, frustration and fear thick in her voice. Her oily skin glistened under the throne room's dim lights as she shifted uneasily on her throne.
For the first time in years, Gulda felt a cold knot of fear coil in her gut.
The sounds of battle drew closer—blaster fire, explosions, and the unmistakable thud of bodies hitting the ground. Then, silence fell, heavy and ominous.
Gulda's beady eyes flicked toward the throne room doors, her massive body tensing.
Suddenly, the doors burst open with a thunderous crash—the lifeless bodies of her guards hurled through the air, slamming into the walls and floor like discarded toys. Smoke and dust swirled through the entrance as the silhouettes of her attackers emerged.
Tony Stark strode in first, his armor humming with residual energy, his helmet retracting to reveal a cocky grin.
Natasha and Mikaela followed, guns drawn, their sharp eyes scanning the room for any sign of further threat.
Rocket and Groot entered last, Rocket casually resting his bazooka on his shoulder, a wicked grin spread across his face.
Gulda stared at them, her heart pounding in her massive chest. The fear she thought she had long buried now surged to the surface, paralyzing her.
Tony stepped forward, his voice low but filled with menace.
"Knock, knock."
The group spread out, surrounding the throne, each of them ready for whatever came next.
Gulda swallowed thickly, her gaze darting between them, fully aware of the situation she found herself in.
————
Meanwhile, outside…
Smoke billowed into the night sky, thick and acrid, mixing with the scent of scorched metal and burned flesh. Bodies of guards lay strewn across the dunes, twisted in unnatural angles, their weapons discarded in the sand.
The shattered wreckage of the bounty hunter's ship still smoldered nearby, sparks popping faintly as the last remnants of the explosion hissed away into the night.
A lone ship descended through the smoky air, its engines humming low as it touched down on the outskirts of the battlefield.
The landing ramp hissed open, and Peter stepped out, dressed in a mismatched set of clothes scavenged from Tony's group's ship, which he found while searching for them in Mos Espa.
The jacket was scuffed, the pants a little tight, but it was better than wandering around naked.
Peter adjusted the collar of his jacket, his boots crunching against the sand as he took in the scene. His gaze swept over the ruined palace, the scorched remains of vehicles, and the lifeless bodies scattered across the landscape. The fires crackled softly, their embers casting long shadows in the moonlight.
He exhaled a slow, weary sigh, rubbing his face with both hands, as if the weight of the situation pressed down harder with every second.
"Really, guys?" he muttered, kicking a charred piece of debris out of his path. "Couldn't just stay out of trouble, could you?"
A/N: 2200 words :)
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