Chapter Text
Ord Mantell has no single smell.
It has a thousand.
Hunter, walking through its streets, senses them all: they merge, clash, chase, and blend, creating a new melody every second.
Each neighborhood is a note… often a dissonant one.
At the spaceport, a rancid mixture of spent fuel, boiled oil, and the stale sweat embedded in pilot suits dominates the air. Just crossing the cargo zone is enough to make the acid burn your nostrils.
In Pyke territory, the air tells a different story. Hunter can detect a sickly sweet spice mixed with fermented resin, all woven into the stench of rot: honey left too long, vinegary wine, incense burned down to black ash. Beneath it all lies something more subtle - but persistent - a metallic, bitter note of dead, treated flesh. And not all of it is animal.
The market is different. There, instead of forming a melody, the scents multiply into noise. Kessel spices clash with dried Mon Cala fish, while the sweet citrus of Ord Mantell’s countryside collides with the acrid chemical fumes from the city’s factories. Add to that furs soaked in cheap perfumes, candles made from grease, tea bags, and exotic essences sold under the counter in black bottles with no labels…
Every stall is an assault on the nose.
When Hunter first arrived, the overwhelming flood of smells nearly stunned him.
But now, they’re familiar. Expected, even.
The real reason Hunter walks the slums every morning before opening his shop isn’t the market.
It’s the people.
What rules Ord Mantell is the scent of suspicion… a blend of adrenaline, tension, and lies that only he can detect.
But it goes deeper than that.
Every emotional state has its own fragrance.
Every mood, every age - even more so, every individual - emits a scent all their own. A singular note that makes them different from everyone else.
Some are repulsive. Others mundane.
And a few - very few - are captivating.
It’s no coincidence that Hunter chooses to settle here.
Ord Mantell is one of the most tantalizing places in the galaxy.
A magnificent banquet, for someone like him.
Because Hunter is born with a gift.
Or, as others might call it… a curse.
His sense of smell is superhuman, a mutation that marks him from birth.
A birth that was far from natural.
He is one of the clones created and raised by the Kaminoans for the Republic… until the order is rescinded.
The Republic had mysteriously transformed into the first Galactic Empire, and the Kaminoans suddenly had found themselves with millions of clones they no longer needed.
Naturally, they tried to dispose of them as quickly - and as profitably - as possible: they sold the clones across the galaxy to anyone willing to pay.
The clones scattered.
Some were shipped to the mines. Others labored in Imperial shipyards.
Some became farmers. Some broke free and turned to piracy or crime.
Hunter is a clone too.
But no one ever recognizes him as one.
He’s different.
Defective. Unique.
None of the others possess his gift: the ability to perceive the most delicate shifts in scent.
He left Kamino as a child, practically a newborn. Of that distant world, he remembers only vague olfactory impressions… scents he never finds again.
Growing up was not easy for him.
The regs pushed him aside. They thought him strange. Different. And they had other problems.
It wasn’t just his appearance: somehow, they sense something in him… an otherness. A difference deeper than appearance. A strange way of interacting with the world… through scent.
And then… there’s the fact that he has no scent of his own.
It’s not immediately obvious. But everyone notices it, sooner or later.
For Hunter, perceiving the world through scent is as natural as breathing.
But it torments him.
Fragrances - especially human ones - are a heavy burden.
Since he was a child, every new scent doesn’t just interest him. It obsesses him.
He feels the need to own it… to absorb it, somehow.
Every scent is unique. Irreplaceable.
So he begins collecting them.
After his morning round through the slums - hunting for new human scents and picking up supplies for his aromatic plants - Hunter returns to his shop.
Officially, it’s a humble herbalist’s store. Small. Unremarkable.
Its weathered sign, faded paint, and rusty hinges don’t attract much attention.
But stepping past the doorway is like crossing into a temple.
Hunter keeps it immaculate: there’s none of the olfactory chaos from outside.
Inside, every scent has its place; they harmonize, singing a melody that only Hunter can truly hear.
The first thing you notice is the silaris root: woody, bittersweet, drying in braided bunches that hang from the ceiling like stalactites; then comes the sharp, astringent note of abresia flowers, sealed in a milky glass bottle; on the shelves sit rows of chili peppers, along with sage, oregano, mint, and hundreds of other spices.
Step inside, and the outside world disappears: even the noise from the streets can’t breach this sanctuary.
Hunter enters, breathing in deeply. But he brings with him the chaos of the street - the smell of Ord Mantell on his coat - momentarily disturbing the fragile balance he works so hard to preserve.
He sighs, removing his coat and hanging it on the rack.
The shelves, carved from dark wood, still hold the scent of resin after all these years: they’re filled with cloudy jars bearing handwritten labels, dusty vials, and transparent amphorae; inside are crushed myrral bark like powdered coal, red salt crystals mined from Saleucami, and black seeds that reek of burnt leather…
Hunter is known for his rare herbs and alchemical plants. But what he truly sells… is scent.
Most customers don’t understand that: they come in asking for ointments or exotic herbs… And Hunter mixes perfumes, aromas, and foul stenches into masterpieces.
The herbalist’s shop is just a façade, because what Hunter really does happens beneath it.
Downstairs - underground - is his lab. And there, he blends fragrances.
There, he gets what he wants.
There, his obsession takes shape.
Because Hunter is more than a rejected soldier, more than a defective clone, more than a soft-spoken herbalist with a delicate touch. At night… He becomes an assassin.
He descends to the lower floor.
That space is his world, the place where his gift - what he was made to do - truly comes to life.
And what lies in that lab… is top secret.
He enters the code into the keypad on the metal door that separates him from the lab. When it unlocks, the door slides open, revealing his sanctum.
Inside: a low counter, its corners worn smooth with time, supports the distillation equipment - stills, small retorts of clear glass, and an old compressor that wheezes like a dying lung. Next to it stands the workbench, stained with dye - each splash a sensory map of his latest experiments. Bundles of fresh leaves and rare mosses hang from the walls, forming a green, iridescent mosaic. A single black candle, always burning, threads the air with sweet, heady smoke.
This is where he crafts his perfumes.
In surgical silence.
Through a methodical, near-sacred ritual.
Here is where he distills his creations… But above all, this is where he conducts his most secret work.
The experiments he keeps to himself.
His extraordinary senses have made him a master perfumer, and his blends draw customers from across Ord Mantell… willing to pay dearly for his masterpieces.
But some fragrances never leave this lab.
Some are for him alone.
Special perfumes… born from the rarest scent of all: the human scent.
Most humans smell bland, forgettable, and often masked by fuel, fish, or chemical residues. But now and then… one of them is different.
Hunter remembers the first time he smells it.
It was years ago, on a remote outpost. He was returning from his job at the tannery - thankless, underpaid - when something hit him.
A scent.
Powerful. Sweet. Perfect.
The most perfect fragrance he had ever encountered. And he wanted it.
He followed it through the streets, entranced, obsessed.
Until he found her: it was a girl, older than him. Unremarkable to the eye… but her scent is something else entirely.
Hunter approached in the dark, moving with a stealth he didn’t know he possessed until that very moment.
She turned, her eyes widened and she took a step back: she had sensed something.
Even if she didn’t understand it, she felt it: that wrongness about him. The absence of his scent.
He killed her before he even knew what he was doing. Not out of intent. He regrets it, at first… but that’s only the beginning.
The need to claim that scent, to possess it, to preserve it, overrides every moral instinct.
And then he discovers something else.
When he wears the perfume made from that essence, he becomes… normal: people speak to him. Smile. They welcome him as one of their own, and stop looking at him like a monster.
Ironic.
All it takes to stop being a monster… is becoming one.
From that moment on, he had never stopped. There are some scents he cannot resist, and, even when he tries, the obsession eventually breaks him.
But over time, he became methodical.
He left that forgotten outpost and came to Ord Mantell: here, he builded a new life. A new identity. With the “special perfume,” no one questioned him, no one stared… He was just a skilled herbalist, a quiet merchant. He created his shop, his place to work.
In his shop, in this lab, Hunter captured the essences of those he killed - his preys. He bottled their fragrances and cataloged them: still, silent, yet somehow… alive. With their help, he survived: he walks among humans, pretends to be one of them.
And in a city like this - where crime is constant and people vanish without comment - no one asks questions when a few souls disappear each month.
Now, he begins working again: the perfume must be distilled quickly. Timing is everything.
The human scent fades fast, replaced by decay: if not extracted at the right moment, it’s lost forever. But Hunter never misjudges: he pours alcohol into the glass vial. Then, drop by drop, he adds the essence. The notes begin to merge. To sing.
He continues adding others until the blend is complete. He seals the vial: it needs to rest at least a week, macerating in a cool, dark place. The lab is perfect for that.
He’s just about to shelve the new perfume, setting aside his tools, when something stops him.
A new aroma hits him and Hunter nearly drops the vial. He sets it down carefully - urgently- then closes his eyes. He tastes it in the air: sharp, spicy, full, bittersweet on the edge. Unique.
He wants it. He needs it.
Then… the bell above the shop rings.
It’s him. The scent is in the shop.
Hunter swallows hard, then wipes his hands and walks to the door. He forgets to seal the lab behind him.
The moment he crosses the threshold, the fragrance floods him. It erases everything else.
For long seconds, all he can do is breathe it in. Then, finally, he sees him: tall, lean, athletic; cold eyes locked onto his; a crosshair tattoo over his right eye. A clone, but not like the others.
It’s like me.
The stranger’s gaze pierces straight through him, like no one else ever had.
Hunter feels seen. Exposed.
Stripped bare.
I have to have it.