Targes Rex

Take No Shit Bounty Hunter


Targes Rex

Sex: Male

Age: 35

Height: 6’2’’

Species: Human

Hair Color: Black

Eyes: Unknown

Profession: Bounty Hunter

Hobbies: Tricking out Speeders, Sabacc, Dejarik, Holochess, Patching up wounds from jobs, Has recently taken up Holo-Novellas

Likes: Living, Credits, Long breaks, Shooting people who piss me off, The hum of a good hyper drive, A dependable Blaster, Kezarian Style Eggs, Bed Time Myths of the Old Republic

Dislikes: Cheapskates, Gangs, Trandoshans, Vibro-Axes, Putting civilians in the line of fire, Other Bounty Hunters taking my mark, Bolgletti Thek, Imperial Bureaucracy, Space Cops, Morons who don’t go with the plan.


This is a dirty job, but it pays. You’d think it might be easier to be some moisture farmer off some dusty rock or a cantina jockey blaring the same damn song over and over again and you’d be right, it would be compared to this. You don’t play Bounty Hunter without knowing that you’re only a hairs width away from being no different then the scum you track down, especially in the Outer Rims. You don’t do what I do without knowing that you are a bad man, especially if you are planning on being a good Hunter. But that’s how life is in this little galaxy of ours.

I remember a different life though, a long long time ago in some quadrant whose name I never want to remember. It was a good life, quaint, blaster free, with the only burns, maiming, and explosions you’d have to worry about coming from were from a faulty plasma exhaust from some cheap Rodian’s overcompensating lemon. Not glamorous in the least but again the occupational hazards of being a mechanic doesn’t typically involve being shot at, then again I suppose that makes me a very atypical kind of guy. They were the Red Novas, your usual band of scum and assholes too minor to be any real threat to Imps and big enough to make your typical Joe’s life hell.

Their goons usually come every two Imperial weeks collecting “protection money” from the shops and I paid it no mind, my boss Torque, who I believe actually
changed his name to that probably as some living ad campaign or some crap, would do the typical routine of paying them off with a shit eating grin on his face and things were fine, except for one day when they fucked up badly.

I kept telling her to stay away from the shop, to keep low and not come at all during those days but she wanted to surprise me. What shitty luck to be born on that particular solar day. I remember my cake on the floor. I remember a screaming Gran with half of his face melted off. Some bald bastard missing his fingers thanks to a ceramite torch and a Rodian limping away like punk. I didn’t want her to see this but as soon as I heard her screaming for help in the garage I lost it. I had declared war with the Novas and I didn’t want any part of it.

Torque fired me for fear of retaliation but that didn’t save his shop. A group of dumb-asses are just that, but I guess that’s just what makes them dangerous since its a group of them. I had to lay low and hide for months, trying to scrounge up what credits we can for a shuttle off of here and I was close. 400 credits short. She was worth 400 credits and that’s discount price, and no son of a bitch with any sympathy couldn’t save us and I couldn’t save Aneria. The Novas found the shack we were hiding and turned the place to pitch during the night. She died in my arms and I could do was grab hold the only thing I had left in this world and run.

Do you know the price of a shuttle for three in the Cerneus Sector? 25,000 credits. Do you know the price of vengeance in the Cerneus Sector? Turns it its 24,600 credits. When you try to make yourselves out to be a big tough gang a lot of people will want you dead and a lot of people wanted the Novas dead. It’s funny when favors start flooding in when you offer bodies instead of odd jobs but I guess that’s just the galaxy we live in. Got myself a used E-11 Blaster, some information, a lot of explosives and a mask. I went picking them off one by one. I hunted them down like the Narpa Rats they were. Gunning them down when they were drunk off their asses, courtesy of me. Rigging their speeder to blow, holding their loved ones hostage, pinning the blame on them with smaller gangs, beating the men who killed her with my bare hands. I pulled every dirty trick in the book to get what I wanted. And when it was done and the Novas were all dead.

I realized something after all that, I earned a lot of credit, and I needed it to. I didn’t have much left in the world except for one thing and I intend to keep it far away from any bastard with a blaster, me especially. So here I am years later after a lot of shit and alot of jobs in space in what may be my floating gaudy tomb appropriately called the Idiot’s Array.

In a crew that amounts to a terrorist, a sociopath, a sociopaths robot, and a Rodian with worse luck than me. Pay has been hard to come by, and blaster burns have not. It’s times like these I really hate this job but if this pays off for all trouble its worth then maybe, just maybe it’ll be worth it.

I highly doubt it though. May the Force fuck this shit.

Targes Rex

Edge of the Empire: The Idiot's Array TrongTran