The neon buzz of Baba Yaga’s flickered against Kilian’s knuckles as he drummed them on the table. Aurek’s bay would be locked down tighter than a Hutt’s vault after sunset—stormtroopers patrolling in pairs, scanners humming at full sensitivity. His jaw worked side to side. "We hit it at shift change tomorrow," he muttered, watching FL-AR3’s photoreceptors pulse in agreement. Until then, they needed supplies, and a way to keep Spanner from expelling what was left in his stomach onto someone’s boots.
FL-AR3 had asked earlier to have some of the group funds split up, especially since they should be receiving some income from the job the completed for Ota. Kilian agreed and parceled out 200 credits to each of the individuals and then handed the remaining part of the credit cylinder to Pron, since the amount was being saved for the ship's transponder alteration.
The group split with silent nods—Pron and Kilian toward the doctor’s clinic, FL-AR3 escorting Spanner back to find temporary lodgings, Koraz melting into the crowd with that eerie knack for vanishing which Iktochi seemed born with.
The doctor’s office door swung open with a soft creak, revealing a space so meticulously restored it almost stung. Kilian’s boot scuffed the fresh paint on the threshold—same deep blue as before, but without the scorch marks from the swoop gang’s blasters. The air smelled of sterilizing agents and something floral, a far cry from the tang of bacta and burnt wiring that had lingered last time.
Pron’s ears twitched as he stepped inside, scanning the waiting area. The chairs were new, their upholstery free of blaster holes. Even the holochart on the wall—showing some obscure Bothan anatomical quirk—had been replaced, its glow brighter than the old one’s flicker.
FX-779 stood motionless in the corner, its photoreceptors dimmed to standby mode. The droid’s plating gleamed under the ceiling lights, freshly polished.
The examination table was spotless, the instruments neatly arranged. A single datapad lay untouched on the desk, its screen frozen on a patient’s file—Vekk Tann, a Rodian with a faulty cybernetic eye. Scheduled for a follow-up two days ago.
Kilian knelt beside an overturned chair—not broken, just nudged aside. The floor beneath it gleamed under his handheld glowrod, except for four faint scuff marks. He pressed his palm against them. Perfectly spaced. Like boot treads. "They restrained her here." His voice came out flatter than he intended. No signs of struggle meant no fight. Which meant they'd taken her fast, or she'd gone willingly.
Not finding any clues at all about the abduction, the pair leave after a time, more confused than before. As they step out into the dim light of twilight, Pron thought he saw a familiar face. But it couldn't be. That face belonged to a dead man: Orrem Blaize! As he tried to work his way through the crowd, his target was lost in the masses. Had it been real, or did Pron just imagine it after the excitement of the day?
Koraz slipped through the crowd like smoke, the neon glare of Baba Yaga’s fading behind him. The weapons shop’s sign—a crude vibroblade welded to a rusted pole—jutted over the alley, its flickering glow painting the sand-streaked permacrete in garish red light. Inside the Trandoshan behind the counter didn’t look up from polishing a old-fashioned disruptor rifle. “You buy or you stare, horn-head?”
Clihssk was a particularly ugly and scarred member of his reptilian species. His scales bore the jagged topography of countless brawls—some healed smooth, others still puckered with the ghost of old infections. One eye was milky white, bisected by a scar that ran from forehead to jaw.. The scent of rotting meat clung to him.
Koraz slid the Geonosian blaster across the counter with deliberate slowness, the weapon’s chitinous casing catching the overhead lights in iridescent streaks. The grip was still warm from being tucked against his thigh during the walk here. "Sell," he said. No inflection. Just a statement of fact.
Clihssk’s good eye flicked down, his tongue darting out to taste the air. The Trandoshan didn’t touch the blaster—not yet. "Geonosian make," he hissed, nostrils flaring. "Old war stock. Where’d a gutter rat like you get this?" His claw tapped the counter twice—a nervous tell?
Koraz kept his palms flat on the countertop, fingers relaxed. Koraz looked around and caught sight of the taxidermied wampa head mounted behind Clihssk. "Don’t ask questions," he murmured, "that’ll cost extra."
Clihssk let out what made for a laugh among Trandoshans—a wet, guttural hack like a nexu coughing up a hairball. His milky eye rolled toward Koraz while the good one assessed the blaster’s integrity, his claws scraping against the counter’s durasteel plating.
“Five hundred-fifty,” he hissed. "Illegal weapon."
Koraz smiled crookedly—his scars pulling taut—and tapped the counter where the Trandoshan’s claw had just been. “Eight hundred. Illegal buyer.”
Clihssk’s nostrils flared. The shop’s air recycler wheezed, spitting out a stale breeze that carried the metallic bite of blaster residue and something sour beneath—Trandoshan musk, thick with agitation. Outside, the distant wail of a speeder bike faded into Mos Shuuta’s perpetual hum.
"Seven," Clihssk rasped, his forked tongue flicking over jagged teeth. "Prefer ancient weapons." He patted the disruptor rifle on the counter, a relic from the clone wars.
Koraz exhaled through his nose—seven hundred credits would buy passage off this dustball if things went sour. It was an easy enough pick up, essentially a gift from Duke Dimmock, of a sort anyway. "Done."
Koraz slipped out into the streets as a dust storm started to whip itself up.
FL-AR3 didn't need to sleep and his internal batteries could go for weeks. His torso contained an electrical generator that converted the mechanical energy of his movements back into power, which in turn recharged his batteries. His organic friends however, had no such advantage.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered as he processed the available lodging options—each one worse than the last. The cantina was far from restful, although the droid had witnessed patrons passed out there on previous trips. The thought crossed his circuits that if Teemo wasn't in his palace, they could spend the night there, pretending they belonged. That would be too dangerous if something went wrong, or if Teemo himself returned.
Another option was simply commandeering an uninhabited hovel. But in the end, he decided to take Spanner to the bunkhouse near the cantina. The moderate, two-story building was not in the most hospitable location. Thick acrid smoke from the slagworks blankets the building day and night. The ground floor is a modest eatery, run by the bunkhouse owner, while a separate external staircase led to the bunkhouse. It was just a long room devoid of any features beyond the sleeping cots and a solitary air shower cubicle.
FL-AR3 negotiated the price with the proprietor, a balding man with three cybernetic fingers that twitched constantly. After a few exchanges, FL-AR3 concluded that Spanner would need supervision—he didn't trust the proprietor's rheumy-eyed discretion—and spent the night standing sentinel at the foot of the cot as Spanner groaned in his sleep. Twice the kid bolted upright, clutching his stomach before collapsing back onto the thin mattress. By dawn, his breathing had evened out.
Mos Shuuta Mayhem - Interlude 18+
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: Mos Shuuta Mayhem - Interlude 18+
The unusual droid's photoreceptors flared as Spanner sat up, rubbing his face. "I'm alive," Spanner muttered. He blinked at FL-AR3. "You didn't have to babysit me."
FL-AR3's servos whirred softly. "Babysitting implies incompetence," he replied, and gestured toward the untouched glass of blue milk on the table beside the cot. "Hydration is recommended."
Spanner groaned, rubbing his temples. "Right. Because droids always recommend liquids they can't ingest."
FL-AR3 tilted his head, photoreceptors pulsing once—a slow, deliberate blink—before pivoting toward the door. "The milk contains electrolytes. Human physiology requires—"
"Yeah, yeah," Spanner groaned, swinging his legs over the cot's edge. The bunkhouse reeked of stale sweat and ozone from faulty wiring. Outside, dawn painted Mos Shuuta in rust-colored light, the twin suns bleeding through the ever-present haze of slagworks smoke. He grabbed the blue milk and downed it in one go, shuddering as it hit his empty stomach. "Where's Kilian?"
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered toward the window. "Landing Bay Besh. Querying port authorities about the Lucky Guess." The droid's voice carried no inflection, but Spanner caught the faint whir of servos tightening—a telltale sign of suppressed agitation. " He should be back any moment."
Spanner stretched, his joints popping like a misfiring blaster. The kid's pallor had improved, though shadows still clung under his eyes like bruises. He grabbed his jacket, the leather stiff with dried sweat and dust. "Let's hit the doc's office as soon as Kilian gets back," he muttered. "Might find something they missed last night."
FL-AR3's photoreceptors dimmed slightly—processing. "Affirmative. Probability of actionable intelligence: thirty-seven percent."
Pron lay sprawled across the bunk, staring at the ceiling's cracked plaster where rust stains spiderwebbed outward like old wounds. This had been the cot Den Nasi laid in as he experienced a bout of "space sickness". Den had vanished weeks ago, leaving behind nothing but an unmade cot and a half-empty bottle of Corellian whiskey. Pron traced a finger along the bunk's durasteel frame, his mind replaying that day: Den's weak smile, the promise to meet on the ship before they left for Mykyr, then—nothing. No holomessage. No trail. Just empty space where a friend should've been. Proiah Pron frowned.
He pushed himself upright with a grunt, the cots protesting his sudden movement. He glanced across the bunkhouse—empty except for Spanner’s discarded protein wrappers. The Iktochi had vanished before first light. Pron's nostrils flared. Hopefully that didn't mean trouble.
Pron found Kilian and Spanner outside, hunched over a steaming cup of caf near the bunkhouse’s external stairwell. Spanner looked marginally less corpse-like, though he flinched when the morning wind carried a fresh wave of slagworks stench their way. "FL-AR3’s checking the cantina," Pron muttered, jerking his chin toward the building. "Said he’d ping us if anything smelled off."
Kilian nodded—but Pron wasn’t watching him. Movement flickered at the edge of the crowd passing near a street vendor’s cart. A familiar silhouette: broad shoulders wrapped in threadbare brown robes. Orrem Blaize again.
Pron muttered something about catching up later and bolted into the crowd, his boots kicking up dust as he vanished into the labyrinthine alleys near the junk shop.
Kilian exhaled sharply through his nose, trading a glance with Spanner. The kid looked was finally looking like himself. They took a short cut behind the junk shop, through alley ways. Best to stay off the main walkways in case someone recognized them.
Pron’s footsteps faded as he rounded the corner, swallowed by the labyrinthine alleys. Kilian thumbed his blaster’s safety off—habit more than anticipation—as he led Spanner through the narrow gap between two adobe buildings. The scent of corroded metal and stale engine coolant hung thick here, undercut by something sharper. Kilian’s boot scuffed the dusty pathway as he froze. Spanner bumped into him, muffling a curse.
FL-AR3's servos whirred softly. "Babysitting implies incompetence," he replied, and gestured toward the untouched glass of blue milk on the table beside the cot. "Hydration is recommended."
Spanner groaned, rubbing his temples. "Right. Because droids always recommend liquids they can't ingest."
FL-AR3 tilted his head, photoreceptors pulsing once—a slow, deliberate blink—before pivoting toward the door. "The milk contains electrolytes. Human physiology requires—"
"Yeah, yeah," Spanner groaned, swinging his legs over the cot's edge. The bunkhouse reeked of stale sweat and ozone from faulty wiring. Outside, dawn painted Mos Shuuta in rust-colored light, the twin suns bleeding through the ever-present haze of slagworks smoke. He grabbed the blue milk and downed it in one go, shuddering as it hit his empty stomach. "Where's Kilian?"
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered toward the window. "Landing Bay Besh. Querying port authorities about the Lucky Guess." The droid's voice carried no inflection, but Spanner caught the faint whir of servos tightening—a telltale sign of suppressed agitation. " He should be back any moment."
Spanner stretched, his joints popping like a misfiring blaster. The kid's pallor had improved, though shadows still clung under his eyes like bruises. He grabbed his jacket, the leather stiff with dried sweat and dust. "Let's hit the doc's office as soon as Kilian gets back," he muttered. "Might find something they missed last night."
FL-AR3's photoreceptors dimmed slightly—processing. "Affirmative. Probability of actionable intelligence: thirty-seven percent."
Pron lay sprawled across the bunk, staring at the ceiling's cracked plaster where rust stains spiderwebbed outward like old wounds. This had been the cot Den Nasi laid in as he experienced a bout of "space sickness". Den had vanished weeks ago, leaving behind nothing but an unmade cot and a half-empty bottle of Corellian whiskey. Pron traced a finger along the bunk's durasteel frame, his mind replaying that day: Den's weak smile, the promise to meet on the ship before they left for Mykyr, then—nothing. No holomessage. No trail. Just empty space where a friend should've been. Proiah Pron frowned.
He pushed himself upright with a grunt, the cots protesting his sudden movement. He glanced across the bunkhouse—empty except for Spanner’s discarded protein wrappers. The Iktochi had vanished before first light. Pron's nostrils flared. Hopefully that didn't mean trouble.
Pron found Kilian and Spanner outside, hunched over a steaming cup of caf near the bunkhouse’s external stairwell. Spanner looked marginally less corpse-like, though he flinched when the morning wind carried a fresh wave of slagworks stench their way. "FL-AR3’s checking the cantina," Pron muttered, jerking his chin toward the building. "Said he’d ping us if anything smelled off."
Kilian nodded—but Pron wasn’t watching him. Movement flickered at the edge of the crowd passing near a street vendor’s cart. A familiar silhouette: broad shoulders wrapped in threadbare brown robes. Orrem Blaize again.
Pron muttered something about catching up later and bolted into the crowd, his boots kicking up dust as he vanished into the labyrinthine alleys near the junk shop.
Kilian exhaled sharply through his nose, trading a glance with Spanner. The kid looked was finally looking like himself. They took a short cut behind the junk shop, through alley ways. Best to stay off the main walkways in case someone recognized them.
Pron’s footsteps faded as he rounded the corner, swallowed by the labyrinthine alleys. Kilian thumbed his blaster’s safety off—habit more than anticipation—as he led Spanner through the narrow gap between two adobe buildings. The scent of corroded metal and stale engine coolant hung thick here, undercut by something sharper. Kilian’s boot scuffed the dusty pathway as he froze. Spanner bumped into him, muffling a curse.
Re: Mos Shuuta Mayhem - Interlude 18+
Five figures emerged from the shadows ahead, blasters already leveled. Their armor wasn’t uniform—patched together from scavenged plating and Hutt enforcer gear—but the insignia stenciled on their pauldrons was unmistakable: Thule’s sigil, a twisted nexu claw. The leader, a scarred Devaronian, grinned wide enough to show filed-down canines. "Kilian Asteeds. Malan sends his regards."
Kilian stepped forward making sure to have Spanner behind him.
"Don’t be stupid, Asteeds," the Devaronian drawled, sidestepping into a patch of harsh sunlight that gleamed off his scavenged chestplate. "Malan doesn’t want you. Just the boy. He's always been happy with your runs in the past. Step aside, and you walk away." His blaster didn’t waver—trained squarely on Kilian’s sternum.
Behind him, Spanner’s breath hitched. Kilian didn’t turn, but he felt the kid shift—not retreating, just redistributing his weight like he was priming to bolt or brawl. The alley reeked of spilled coolant and the metallic bite of old blood.
Kilian shoved Spanner behind a stack of corroded fuel drums just as the first blaster bolt seared past his ear. The stench of ionized air mixed with the alley’s perpetual reek of fried pika grease. Spanner’s boots skidded on spilled lubricant as he ducked, yanking his own pistol free—but the kid was still shaky, his grip unsteady.
"Run!" Kilian barked, snapping off a wild shot toward the Devaronian’s knees. The smuggler didn’t wait to see if it connected. "Find Pron or that damned Iktochi!" Behind the fuel drums, Spanner hesitated—just long enough for Kilian to snarl, "Go, kid, *now*!" His next shot downed one of the thugs when it connected square in the chest.
Spanner bolted, boots kicking up plumes of dust as he wove through the alley’s labyrinthine twists. The echoes of blasterfire faded behind him, swallowed by Mos Shuuta’s constant hum of speeder traffic and distant haggling. Twice he doubled back, certain someone was tailing him—only to find empty passageways choked with discarded scrap. His breath burned in his throat.
Pron was halfway across the district when Spanner spotted him, leaning against the wall of a defunct moisture vaporator. The Sullustan’s wide hands clenched and unclenched as he glared at the crowd milling around a vendor’s cart. "Lost him again," Pron muttered before Spanner could speak, kicking a pebble with unnecessary force. It ricocheted off a droid’s leg, earning a metallic squawk of protest.
Spanner’s breath still came in short gasps. He pressed his palm against the vaporator’s sun-warmed metal to steady himself. "Thule’s goons," he wheezed. "Ambushed us. Kilian told me to—"
Pron’s ears twitched backward. "Blaize led me straight into that alley." His fingers flexed near his holster, like he was mentally reconstructing the path the phantom had taken—always just out of reach, always vanishing when Pron got close. "Convenient timing."
They sprinted back through the maze of alleys, Spanner’s boots slipping on loose sand, the kid’s breath ragged. Just as they rounded the last corner, the scent of scorched metal hit them—a blaster’s aftermath. The alley was eerily quiet now, save for the drip of coolant from a punctured fuel drum. Koraz arrived a few moments after them, drawn by the distant sound of an intense gunfight.
Kilian was gone. Only the Devaronian’s body remained, slumped against the wall with a smoking hole where his left eye had been. The other thugs had vanished, dragging their wounded with them.
------------------------------------------
Unused XPS (+5 XP)
Spanner - 15
FL-AR3 - 0
Kilian - 20
Pron - 10
Koraz - 15
Group Funds - 1023 credits (-85 Yaga)
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 Geonosian Rifles hidden in cargo hold for Nyn
4 Blaster Pistols (200 ea)
Kilian stepped forward making sure to have Spanner behind him.
"Don’t be stupid, Asteeds," the Devaronian drawled, sidestepping into a patch of harsh sunlight that gleamed off his scavenged chestplate. "Malan doesn’t want you. Just the boy. He's always been happy with your runs in the past. Step aside, and you walk away." His blaster didn’t waver—trained squarely on Kilian’s sternum.
Behind him, Spanner’s breath hitched. Kilian didn’t turn, but he felt the kid shift—not retreating, just redistributing his weight like he was priming to bolt or brawl. The alley reeked of spilled coolant and the metallic bite of old blood.
Kilian shoved Spanner behind a stack of corroded fuel drums just as the first blaster bolt seared past his ear. The stench of ionized air mixed with the alley’s perpetual reek of fried pika grease. Spanner’s boots skidded on spilled lubricant as he ducked, yanking his own pistol free—but the kid was still shaky, his grip unsteady.
"Run!" Kilian barked, snapping off a wild shot toward the Devaronian’s knees. The smuggler didn’t wait to see if it connected. "Find Pron or that damned Iktochi!" Behind the fuel drums, Spanner hesitated—just long enough for Kilian to snarl, "Go, kid, *now*!" His next shot downed one of the thugs when it connected square in the chest.
Spanner bolted, boots kicking up plumes of dust as he wove through the alley’s labyrinthine twists. The echoes of blasterfire faded behind him, swallowed by Mos Shuuta’s constant hum of speeder traffic and distant haggling. Twice he doubled back, certain someone was tailing him—only to find empty passageways choked with discarded scrap. His breath burned in his throat.
Pron was halfway across the district when Spanner spotted him, leaning against the wall of a defunct moisture vaporator. The Sullustan’s wide hands clenched and unclenched as he glared at the crowd milling around a vendor’s cart. "Lost him again," Pron muttered before Spanner could speak, kicking a pebble with unnecessary force. It ricocheted off a droid’s leg, earning a metallic squawk of protest.
Spanner’s breath still came in short gasps. He pressed his palm against the vaporator’s sun-warmed metal to steady himself. "Thule’s goons," he wheezed. "Ambushed us. Kilian told me to—"
Pron’s ears twitched backward. "Blaize led me straight into that alley." His fingers flexed near his holster, like he was mentally reconstructing the path the phantom had taken—always just out of reach, always vanishing when Pron got close. "Convenient timing."
They sprinted back through the maze of alleys, Spanner’s boots slipping on loose sand, the kid’s breath ragged. Just as they rounded the last corner, the scent of scorched metal hit them—a blaster’s aftermath. The alley was eerily quiet now, save for the drip of coolant from a punctured fuel drum. Koraz arrived a few moments after them, drawn by the distant sound of an intense gunfight.
Kilian was gone. Only the Devaronian’s body remained, slumped against the wall with a smoking hole where his left eye had been. The other thugs had vanished, dragging their wounded with them.
------------------------------------------
Unused XPS (+5 XP)
Spanner - 15
FL-AR3 - 0
Kilian - 20
Pron - 10
Koraz - 15
Group Funds - 1023 credits (-85 Yaga)
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 Geonosian Rifles hidden in cargo hold for Nyn
4 Blaster Pistols (200 ea)
Re: Mos Shuuta Mayhem - Interlude 18+
Koraz's boot scuffed against the permacrete as he paused beneath the jagged awning of a junk shop. The twin suns hadn't yet fully crested Mos Shuuta's skyline, casting long shadows that twisted the alleyways into grasping fingers. His horns tingled—that old Iktochi instinct—as a speeder bike roared past, its rider's face obscured by a sand-scarred visor. Could've been anyone. Could've been Drak's people.
The Expedition Store's sign swung on rusted chains, its faded letters spelling out promises of "quality" and "discretion." Koraz snorted. The actual size of this warehouse is deceiving as the main building is hidden by the smaller surrounding storage rooms. It's vast cargo door is open and is a hive of activity as several Aqualish move cargo around.
Koraz stepped inside, the scent of oiled leather and old blaster grease thick enough to taste. Behind the counter, an Aqualish with one milky eye and tusks yellowed by tabac stains grunted at him. "Creshaldyne armor," Koraz said, thumbing the credits pouch at his belt. "Full set. Medium humanoid."
The Aqualish snorted, mucus bubbling in its throat as it jerked a webbed hand toward the rear wall—empty save for hooks dangling broken harness straps. "Gone," it rasped. "Bounty hunters buy up, six months now." Its good eye rolled toward a rack near the door, where a patched reinforced jacket hung between a corroded chestplate and a pair of knee guards welded from starship hull scrap. "Take that. Good for sand. Good for..." It mimed a blaster bolt impact against its own chest with startling accuracy.
Koraz agreed, paying the asking price of 250 credits, a little more than it was worth, but he ended up with the jacket as well as rugged trousers, sturdy boots and gloves and a modified engineer's helmet. The real advantages the Iktochi was looking for was composed of numerous adjustable loops, straps, hooks, and sealable pockets and an integrated tool belt. Plus the armor distributes weight and provides easy access to tools and supplies in the field. He also picked up a utility belt while here. Satisfied, he was off to find more gear.
The general store smelled of dried spices, its half-empty shelves sporting basic provisions, tools, work, clothing and other mundane items. Koraz’s boots scuffed against the gritty floor as he scanned the dimly lit aisles. Approaching the counter he saw a flickering monitor mounted. As the Mirialan proprietor came over, he saw that the monitor indicated that there were six stimpacks available.
Arnwine’s fingers danced over the console, her emerald-green skin contrasting with the grimy countertop. "System’s lying," she muttered, shaking her head. "Got four left." She jerked her chin toward a dented medkit behind her, its seal broken. "Supplier skipped town—or got skipped." Her dark eyes flickered toward the door as if expecting trouble. "Take 'em or leave 'em."
Koraz slid the credits across the counter, the chipped ceramic tiles catching the dim light. The stimpacks were about to expire, their labels faded. He pocketed them anyway. "Breath mask?" he asked, tapping the side of his face where his nostrils flared slightly—Iktochi didn’t need filtration as badly as some species, but sandstorms were another matter.
Arnwine’s emerald fingers drummed the counter. "Either the Expedition Store got another shipment," she said, jerking her chin toward the door, "or Vorn’s junk shop might have something buried in that scrap heap of his." Her voice dropped. "Unless you want Imperial-issue. Then you’d need to visit the garrison’s dump site after dark." Her eyes flicked to the door again—nervous or just impatient?
Koraz exhaled—he had already been by the Expedition Store. So off to Vorn’s it was.
On the way he had passed an odd shrine almost hidden in an alcove between the corners of two buildings. It would have been unnoticed, except Koraz felt a strange sensation pass over him, almost a euphoric nausea, like when you feel better after vomiting. Koraz stopped for a moment, then proceeded on.
The junk shop squatted between a podracer repair bay and a boarded-up building, its façade a few bits of starship plating covering the rundown pourstone structure. It was immediately obvious due to the scrapyard adjoining.
Inside, the place reeked of ozone and old lubricant. Vorn—a grizzled human with a prosthetic arm cobbled together from droid parts—leaned against a counter made from a salvaged vehicle of some sort. His eyes narrowed at Koraz's approach. "Iktochi," he rasped, scratching his grease-stained beard. "You look like a man who knows what he wants. Or at least what he needs." A smirk cracked his lips as he gestured vaguely toward the yard. "Feel free to poke around."
Koraz stepped past rusted engine blocks and stacks of dented plating, his boots crunching over something unrecognizable. The "scrapyard" was less a treasure trove and more a graveyard for machinery that had long since given up the ghost. A disembodied protocol droid head stared at him from a pile of junk, its photoreceptors dim.
"Not interested in digging," Koraz said, kicking aside a cracked power converter. The scent of stale coolant clung to the air. "Need a breath mask—functional, not decorative." He jerked his chin toward a gutted landspeeder where a trio of Jawas were gleefully dismantling what remained of its motivator. "Something they wouldn't bother stealing."
Vorn chuckled, the sound like sandpaper on rusted metal. He turned toward the shadows behind his counter and bellowed, "R5! Get your rusted chassis over here!"
From the gloom came nothing but the faint hum of dormant machinery. Vorn scowled, fingers tightening around the counter's edge. "R5," he barked again, voice sharpening. "You deaf or just lazy?"
A mechanical whine answered him—low, sullen, unmistakably disobedient—followed by the sluggish whir of servos engaging. From behind a stack of corroded hull plating, the R5 unit rolled forward at glacial speed, its dome rotating just enough to convey reluctant acknowledgment. Its red and white plating was scuffed nearly gray with age, streaks of carbon scoring marring its once-pristine surface.
Vorn’s lip curled as the droid paused beside a pile of discarded actuator coils, its dome tilting like a stubborn child. "Tha’ mask," the junk dealer growled, jabbing a grease-blackened finger toward the back room. "The one that Twilek pawned off last week. Get it. Now." When the droid emitted a drawn-out, questioning whistle, Vorn’s boot lashed out—connecting with the R5’s midsection with a hollow clang. The droid rocked back, its motivators whining in protest before it finally trundled off, moving only marginally faster.
Koraz watched as the R5 disappeared into the gloom. Behind them, the Jawas’ chatter rose in pitch, their beady eyes flickering toward the altercation before they resumed stripping the landspeeder carcass with renewed vigor. Something about the way they hunched over the wreck suggested they’d seen this routine before.
The Iktochi’s grip tightened on the breath mask—cheap plastoid, but the filters were intact—when the first blaster bolt split the air. Not the distant zapof cantina disputes or the sporadic potshots of drunk spacers. This was close. Methodical. The sharp pop-pop-pop of disciplined fire, answered by the wilder staccato of someone desperate.
Koraz tossed credits onto Vorn’s counter without counting. The junk dealer barely had time to snarl before the Iktochi was already moving, slipping through the junk-cluttered aisle with the practiced ease of a hunter. He didn’t sprint. Sprinting drew attention. Instead, he strode fast, hand brushing his holstered blaster, weaving past a stack of cracked repulsorlift coils. The gunfire was close enough but it had ended by the time he arrived. There were Spanner and Proiah Pron crounched over a dead Devaronian sporting Malan Thule's insignia. Kilian was nowhere to be found.
The Expedition Store's sign swung on rusted chains, its faded letters spelling out promises of "quality" and "discretion." Koraz snorted. The actual size of this warehouse is deceiving as the main building is hidden by the smaller surrounding storage rooms. It's vast cargo door is open and is a hive of activity as several Aqualish move cargo around.
Koraz stepped inside, the scent of oiled leather and old blaster grease thick enough to taste. Behind the counter, an Aqualish with one milky eye and tusks yellowed by tabac stains grunted at him. "Creshaldyne armor," Koraz said, thumbing the credits pouch at his belt. "Full set. Medium humanoid."
The Aqualish snorted, mucus bubbling in its throat as it jerked a webbed hand toward the rear wall—empty save for hooks dangling broken harness straps. "Gone," it rasped. "Bounty hunters buy up, six months now." Its good eye rolled toward a rack near the door, where a patched reinforced jacket hung between a corroded chestplate and a pair of knee guards welded from starship hull scrap. "Take that. Good for sand. Good for..." It mimed a blaster bolt impact against its own chest with startling accuracy.
Koraz agreed, paying the asking price of 250 credits, a little more than it was worth, but he ended up with the jacket as well as rugged trousers, sturdy boots and gloves and a modified engineer's helmet. The real advantages the Iktochi was looking for was composed of numerous adjustable loops, straps, hooks, and sealable pockets and an integrated tool belt. Plus the armor distributes weight and provides easy access to tools and supplies in the field. He also picked up a utility belt while here. Satisfied, he was off to find more gear.
The general store smelled of dried spices, its half-empty shelves sporting basic provisions, tools, work, clothing and other mundane items. Koraz’s boots scuffed against the gritty floor as he scanned the dimly lit aisles. Approaching the counter he saw a flickering monitor mounted. As the Mirialan proprietor came over, he saw that the monitor indicated that there were six stimpacks available.
Arnwine’s fingers danced over the console, her emerald-green skin contrasting with the grimy countertop. "System’s lying," she muttered, shaking her head. "Got four left." She jerked her chin toward a dented medkit behind her, its seal broken. "Supplier skipped town—or got skipped." Her dark eyes flickered toward the door as if expecting trouble. "Take 'em or leave 'em."
Koraz slid the credits across the counter, the chipped ceramic tiles catching the dim light. The stimpacks were about to expire, their labels faded. He pocketed them anyway. "Breath mask?" he asked, tapping the side of his face where his nostrils flared slightly—Iktochi didn’t need filtration as badly as some species, but sandstorms were another matter.
Arnwine’s emerald fingers drummed the counter. "Either the Expedition Store got another shipment," she said, jerking her chin toward the door, "or Vorn’s junk shop might have something buried in that scrap heap of his." Her voice dropped. "Unless you want Imperial-issue. Then you’d need to visit the garrison’s dump site after dark." Her eyes flicked to the door again—nervous or just impatient?
Koraz exhaled—he had already been by the Expedition Store. So off to Vorn’s it was.
On the way he had passed an odd shrine almost hidden in an alcove between the corners of two buildings. It would have been unnoticed, except Koraz felt a strange sensation pass over him, almost a euphoric nausea, like when you feel better after vomiting. Koraz stopped for a moment, then proceeded on.
The junk shop squatted between a podracer repair bay and a boarded-up building, its façade a few bits of starship plating covering the rundown pourstone structure. It was immediately obvious due to the scrapyard adjoining.
Inside, the place reeked of ozone and old lubricant. Vorn—a grizzled human with a prosthetic arm cobbled together from droid parts—leaned against a counter made from a salvaged vehicle of some sort. His eyes narrowed at Koraz's approach. "Iktochi," he rasped, scratching his grease-stained beard. "You look like a man who knows what he wants. Or at least what he needs." A smirk cracked his lips as he gestured vaguely toward the yard. "Feel free to poke around."
Koraz stepped past rusted engine blocks and stacks of dented plating, his boots crunching over something unrecognizable. The "scrapyard" was less a treasure trove and more a graveyard for machinery that had long since given up the ghost. A disembodied protocol droid head stared at him from a pile of junk, its photoreceptors dim.
"Not interested in digging," Koraz said, kicking aside a cracked power converter. The scent of stale coolant clung to the air. "Need a breath mask—functional, not decorative." He jerked his chin toward a gutted landspeeder where a trio of Jawas were gleefully dismantling what remained of its motivator. "Something they wouldn't bother stealing."
Vorn chuckled, the sound like sandpaper on rusted metal. He turned toward the shadows behind his counter and bellowed, "R5! Get your rusted chassis over here!"
From the gloom came nothing but the faint hum of dormant machinery. Vorn scowled, fingers tightening around the counter's edge. "R5," he barked again, voice sharpening. "You deaf or just lazy?"
A mechanical whine answered him—low, sullen, unmistakably disobedient—followed by the sluggish whir of servos engaging. From behind a stack of corroded hull plating, the R5 unit rolled forward at glacial speed, its dome rotating just enough to convey reluctant acknowledgment. Its red and white plating was scuffed nearly gray with age, streaks of carbon scoring marring its once-pristine surface.
Vorn’s lip curled as the droid paused beside a pile of discarded actuator coils, its dome tilting like a stubborn child. "Tha’ mask," the junk dealer growled, jabbing a grease-blackened finger toward the back room. "The one that Twilek pawned off last week. Get it. Now." When the droid emitted a drawn-out, questioning whistle, Vorn’s boot lashed out—connecting with the R5’s midsection with a hollow clang. The droid rocked back, its motivators whining in protest before it finally trundled off, moving only marginally faster.
Koraz watched as the R5 disappeared into the gloom. Behind them, the Jawas’ chatter rose in pitch, their beady eyes flickering toward the altercation before they resumed stripping the landspeeder carcass with renewed vigor. Something about the way they hunched over the wreck suggested they’d seen this routine before.
The Iktochi’s grip tightened on the breath mask—cheap plastoid, but the filters were intact—when the first blaster bolt split the air. Not the distant zapof cantina disputes or the sporadic potshots of drunk spacers. This was close. Methodical. The sharp pop-pop-pop of disciplined fire, answered by the wilder staccato of someone desperate.
Koraz tossed credits onto Vorn’s counter without counting. The junk dealer barely had time to snarl before the Iktochi was already moving, slipping through the junk-cluttered aisle with the practiced ease of a hunter. He didn’t sprint. Sprinting drew attention. Instead, he strode fast, hand brushing his holstered blaster, weaving past a stack of cracked repulsorlift coils. The gunfire was close enough but it had ended by the time he arrived. There were Spanner and Proiah Pron crounched over a dead Devaronian sporting Malan Thule's insignia. Kilian was nowhere to be found.