With some down time after the bounty payment from Tara Nightshade for the smuggler Bandin Dobah, the crew of the Vagrant spend some time in Mos Espa, working out what their next steps might be.
The neon lights of the Cosmic Whirl flickered erratically, casting a strobe-like glow over the dusty patrons of one of Mos Espa's notorious cantinas. The murmur of alien languages and the occasional droid beep melded into a rhythmic hum that seemed to pulse with the energy of the planet's two suns. FL-AR3, a droid with a gleaming blue exterior, hidden by a darker cloak and hood, and a mysteriously reprogrammed mind, sat in the corner booth, his photoreceptors scanning the room with the precision of a seasoned sentinel. The smell of exotic spices and the faint metallic scent of freshly welded ship parts hung in the air, a potent cocktail that never failed to remind him of some forgotten galaxy..
Suddenly, a burst of laughter pierced the din, and FL-AR3's head swiveled to the source. There, amidst a group of rowdy smugglers and a trio of cantina dancers, was Shara, the green-skinned Twil'ek with facial tattoos that looked like a map of distant star systems. Her eyes, a piercing shade of yellow, caught his gaze and held it for a moment, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The last time he saw her, she had been the one to introduce him and his motley crew to Tara Nightshade, the enigmatic information broker who had become a pivotal part of their lives. The encounter had been brief, but it had left an indelible mark on the droid's memory circuits.
Shara, noticing his recognition, sauntered over to his booth with the grace of an acrobat, the sash around her waist fluttering with each step. Her movements were as mesmerizing as the tales she often spun about her adventures across the galaxy. She slid into the seat opposite him, her long lekku draping over the back of the chair. "Well, if it isn't the droid with more secrets than a Sith holocron," she teased, her voice a sultry purr that could charm the circuits out of any protocol droid. "I see you're sticking to your usual blue milk. How quaint."
FL-AR3's dome-shaped head tilted slightly to the side, the glow from the lights glinting off his armor plating. "I find comfort in consistency," he replied, his voice a calm monotone that belied his complex inner workings. "And your company is a welcome surprise, friend."
Shara leaned forward, her smile broadening. "Oh, I've got a surprise for you, all right." She reached into the folds of her clothing and pulled out a data chip, the size of a fingernail, which she placed on the table with a dramatic flourish. "This little gem is the reason I came looking for you."
The droid's sensors heightened, his interest piqued. "What is it?"
Shara leaned in closer, her tattoos seeming to dance in the neon light. "Information that Tara Nightshade is looking for," she whispered. "It's about the shipments from the black market. The kind that can make or break a smuggler's fortune."
The droid's processors whirred to life, calculating probabilities and potential outcomes. "Where is this person?"
Shara leaned back, her lekku swaying gently. "On Rhyloth, likely in the mines. They're laying low, but I've got a line on where they might be."
The mention of Rhyll sent a jolt through FL-AR3's systems. It was a planet notorious for its treacherous environments and even more dangerous inhabitants. But for the sake of Tara and their ongoing operations, the risk was one they had to take. "We must leave immediately," he said, urgency seeping into his usually calm demeanor.
Leaving the cantina behind, FL-AR3 stepped out into the evening. The air was thick with the heat of the day's accumulated sunlight, a stark contrast to the cool, conditioned air of the Cosmic Whirl. The streets of Mos Espa were a tapestry of shadows and light, the former hiding more than they revealed. As he made his way back to where the rest of the crew were staying, his optical sensors detected a figure lurking in the shadows, their outline obscured by the flicker of the dying suns. The figure was armored, their gear a mix of old and battle-worn sheathing that suggested a storied history of combat and survival.
The droid's internal alarms didn't sound; he had learned to trust his instincts, and these armored figures were a common sight in the underbelly of Tatooine. Yet, something about this one was different. It was the way she held herself—poised, alert, and unmistakably female. Her eyes, obscured by a tinted visor, tracked him as he approached. For a brief moment, their gazes locked, and FL-AR3 felt a peculiar sensation, akin to the buzz of a malfunctioning circuit. It was as if she could see through his metal casing and into the very core of his being—a disconcerting feeling for a droid whose existence was defined by the very data he had been programmed to protect.
As he passed, she stepped from the shadows, her booted foot landing with the precision of a warrior. "What you?" she asked, her voice a curious blend of feline purr and icy calculation. Her accent was unplaceable.
"I am FL-AR3," he replied, his voice unwavering despite the sudden encounter. "And you are?"
"That not what this one meant. What you, really?" Her tone was insistent, the barrel of her blaster shifting slightly as she emphasized the question.
"I am a droid," FL-AR3 reiterated, his servos whirring softly. "A reprogrammed one, to be precise."
The armored figure considered him for a moment, then nodded. "I see. But there something more to you, is there?"
Vagrancies (Interlude)
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: Vagrancies (Interlude)
The sabbac den was dimly lit, filled with the murmur of desperate whispers and the clinking of chips. Kilian, a human smuggler with a scruffy look, leaned against the bar. He nursed a drink, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced nonchalance of a man who'd seen enough trouble to know when it was looking for him. The air had the scent of spice and sweat, the kind of place where everyone had a story and none of them were ever told.
Nearby, a Nikto and a human huddled over the bar, the flickering light from the glowing sabbac boards casting eerie shadows on their faces. The Nikto, his blue-green skin a stark contrast against the dingy surroundings, held up a bounty puck with a tooth-filled grin. His eyes, narrow slits in his mask-like face, danced with excitement as he spoke in Huttese, his voice a gravelly hiss. The human, a scar-faced man with a greasy ponytail, nodded along, his own excitement palpable.
"You know Bargos the Hutt not one to be trifled with," the Nikto said, flipping the puck over to reveal the image of an attractive female Mirialan. Her dark hair cascaded over one eye, a smug smile playing on her lips as if she knew she was being hunted.
The human nodded, swiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "No kidding. But the payday on her head is worth the risk."
Kilian's attention perked up at the mention of asymmetrical facial tattoos. It was unusual for a Mirialan to have such a distinctive feature. Most of them bore symmetrical patterns that marked their status and heritage. This woman must be someone of significance or sheer audacity. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of trouble she was in that warranted a bounty from Bargos the Hutt. Or what kind of trouble she'd stirred up to get that tattoo.
The conversation shifted, and the Nikto slapped down another bounty puck on the counter, the chips clattering like a death sentence. "Ah, this one causing ruckus all over sector," he said, switching to Basic for the benefit of his human counterpart. The image of a Duros with a notorious snarl filled the small screen. The alien's blue skin looked almost gray in the low light, his yellow eyes piercing even through the digital projection.
"He's been giving the patrols a run for their money," the human murmured, his gaze lingering on the puck.
The human looked at the third and final bounty they were hunting. "This is just a kid," he scoffed.
The Nikto nodded in agreement. "But," he added with a sly smile, "this one - mark of thief on him. Could be apprentice. Someone we know."
"But he's like, what? 16?" the human slid the puck away from himself.
"You know stories. They say kid was one that destroy Imperial planet killer!"
The human finished his drink and slammed the mug onto the bar. "Just stories. I bet it was an inside job!"
Nearby, a Nikto and a human huddled over the bar, the flickering light from the glowing sabbac boards casting eerie shadows on their faces. The Nikto, his blue-green skin a stark contrast against the dingy surroundings, held up a bounty puck with a tooth-filled grin. His eyes, narrow slits in his mask-like face, danced with excitement as he spoke in Huttese, his voice a gravelly hiss. The human, a scar-faced man with a greasy ponytail, nodded along, his own excitement palpable.
"You know Bargos the Hutt not one to be trifled with," the Nikto said, flipping the puck over to reveal the image of an attractive female Mirialan. Her dark hair cascaded over one eye, a smug smile playing on her lips as if she knew she was being hunted.
The human nodded, swiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "No kidding. But the payday on her head is worth the risk."
Kilian's attention perked up at the mention of asymmetrical facial tattoos. It was unusual for a Mirialan to have such a distinctive feature. Most of them bore symmetrical patterns that marked their status and heritage. This woman must be someone of significance or sheer audacity. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of trouble she was in that warranted a bounty from Bargos the Hutt. Or what kind of trouble she'd stirred up to get that tattoo.
The conversation shifted, and the Nikto slapped down another bounty puck on the counter, the chips clattering like a death sentence. "Ah, this one causing ruckus all over sector," he said, switching to Basic for the benefit of his human counterpart. The image of a Duros with a notorious snarl filled the small screen. The alien's blue skin looked almost gray in the low light, his yellow eyes piercing even through the digital projection.
"He's been giving the patrols a run for their money," the human murmured, his gaze lingering on the puck.
The human looked at the third and final bounty they were hunting. "This is just a kid," he scoffed.
The Nikto nodded in agreement. "But," he added with a sly smile, "this one - mark of thief on him. Could be apprentice. Someone we know."
"But he's like, what? 16?" the human slid the puck away from himself.
"You know stories. They say kid was one that destroy Imperial planet killer!"
The human finished his drink and slammed the mug onto the bar. "Just stories. I bet it was an inside job!"
Re: Vagrancies (Interlude)
"Hey, Spanner, check these stabilizers out," Proiah called out.
Spanner, knee-deep in a pile of discarded parts, glanced up from his scanner. The setting sun cast a warm glow on his dusty face, highlighting the streaks of grime that had become a second skin to him today. He squinted against the light, his eyes scanning the dilapidated shipyard. The place was a graveyard of forgotten vessels and broken dreams. They had been scavenging for parts in Mos Espa to repair the ship they claimed from the smuggler Bandin Dobah, the YV-666, which had been dubbed the Vagrant.
The air had the scent of scorched metal and grease, a potent reminder of their task at hand. Spanner's scanner beeped insistently, drawing his attention back to the hyperdrive's schematics. "Looks like we're gonna need a couple of TL-50 power converters, and some new hypermatter condensers," he said, his voice echoing in the vast, open space. Proiah nodded, his mind already racing with the logistics of where they could find such rare and expensive items without drawing too much attention.
They had made their way to Mos Espa, a bustling spaceport notorious for its cutthroat marketplace. It was the perfect place to find what they needed, but it was also a hotbed for scoundrels and scavengers like themselves. The sun was setting, casting long shadows that danced with the dust devils that swirled through the streets. The neon lights from the various shops and cantinas flickered to life, bathing the area in a garish spectrum of colors that clashed with the orange-hued sky.
Proiah and Spanner approached the ramshackle building that housed the most renowned, or infamous, repair shop in the area. The sign above the door read "Ronock's Junk and Repairs." They stepped inside, the door squealing on its rusty hinges, and were met with the cacophony of whirring machines and the smell of burning metal. The proprietor, a gruff-looking Besalisk named Batoo, looked up from his workbench, his one good eye narrowing as he took in the sight of the Sullustan and the young fringer.
"Whaddaya need?" Batoo barked, his voice a mix of boredom and suspicion.
Proiah held up the scanner with the hyperdrive's image glowing on the screen. "We're looking to fix up our YV-666's hyperdrive. Got a couple of issues here," he said, pointing at the highlighted areas.
Batoo squinted at the device, his thick furrowed brows knitting together. He took the scanner from Proiah's hand and inspected the readouts closely. The shop was a chaotic maze of machinery and spare parts, with cables hanging from the ceiling like a web of metal veins. His one good eye darted back and forth, assessing the data. "Looks like you've got yourself a classic case of a burned-out power flux connector," he grunted, handing the scanner back. "Could also be the ion exciter's on the fritz. You're gonna need those TL-50s and some new condensers."
"Of course once you fix that, then the horizontal booster and the hyperdrive compressor coils will need to be checked and synchronized or you could burn them right out."
Spanner nodded solemnly, scribbling down notes on a data pad. Proiah knew they didn't have the luxury of time, nor the funds to replace everything at once. They had to prioritize.
Just then, a Kubaz wandered into the shop, his lanky frame casting long shadows across the floor. His goggle-covered eyes darted around the room, and he spoke in a series of rapid-fire clicks and whistles that only another Kubaz would understand. Batoo's expression shifted from boredom to a sudden sharp focus. He responded in some other alien tongue, his voice low and urgent. The conversation was quick, but the tension was palpable before the Kubaz slipped away into the night.
Proiah and Spanner exchanged curious glances. The Kubaz had kept its eyes on the pair during the whole conversation.
"Look, we don't want no trouble here," the Besalisk said. "Besides we're closed now. Have a nice day," and ushered the two spacers into the Tatooine dusk and dust.
Spanner, knee-deep in a pile of discarded parts, glanced up from his scanner. The setting sun cast a warm glow on his dusty face, highlighting the streaks of grime that had become a second skin to him today. He squinted against the light, his eyes scanning the dilapidated shipyard. The place was a graveyard of forgotten vessels and broken dreams. They had been scavenging for parts in Mos Espa to repair the ship they claimed from the smuggler Bandin Dobah, the YV-666, which had been dubbed the Vagrant.
The air had the scent of scorched metal and grease, a potent reminder of their task at hand. Spanner's scanner beeped insistently, drawing his attention back to the hyperdrive's schematics. "Looks like we're gonna need a couple of TL-50 power converters, and some new hypermatter condensers," he said, his voice echoing in the vast, open space. Proiah nodded, his mind already racing with the logistics of where they could find such rare and expensive items without drawing too much attention.
They had made their way to Mos Espa, a bustling spaceport notorious for its cutthroat marketplace. It was the perfect place to find what they needed, but it was also a hotbed for scoundrels and scavengers like themselves. The sun was setting, casting long shadows that danced with the dust devils that swirled through the streets. The neon lights from the various shops and cantinas flickered to life, bathing the area in a garish spectrum of colors that clashed with the orange-hued sky.
Proiah and Spanner approached the ramshackle building that housed the most renowned, or infamous, repair shop in the area. The sign above the door read "Ronock's Junk and Repairs." They stepped inside, the door squealing on its rusty hinges, and were met with the cacophony of whirring machines and the smell of burning metal. The proprietor, a gruff-looking Besalisk named Batoo, looked up from his workbench, his one good eye narrowing as he took in the sight of the Sullustan and the young fringer.
"Whaddaya need?" Batoo barked, his voice a mix of boredom and suspicion.
Proiah held up the scanner with the hyperdrive's image glowing on the screen. "We're looking to fix up our YV-666's hyperdrive. Got a couple of issues here," he said, pointing at the highlighted areas.
Batoo squinted at the device, his thick furrowed brows knitting together. He took the scanner from Proiah's hand and inspected the readouts closely. The shop was a chaotic maze of machinery and spare parts, with cables hanging from the ceiling like a web of metal veins. His one good eye darted back and forth, assessing the data. "Looks like you've got yourself a classic case of a burned-out power flux connector," he grunted, handing the scanner back. "Could also be the ion exciter's on the fritz. You're gonna need those TL-50s and some new condensers."
"Of course once you fix that, then the horizontal booster and the hyperdrive compressor coils will need to be checked and synchronized or you could burn them right out."
Spanner nodded solemnly, scribbling down notes on a data pad. Proiah knew they didn't have the luxury of time, nor the funds to replace everything at once. They had to prioritize.
Just then, a Kubaz wandered into the shop, his lanky frame casting long shadows across the floor. His goggle-covered eyes darted around the room, and he spoke in a series of rapid-fire clicks and whistles that only another Kubaz would understand. Batoo's expression shifted from boredom to a sudden sharp focus. He responded in some other alien tongue, his voice low and urgent. The conversation was quick, but the tension was palpable before the Kubaz slipped away into the night.
Proiah and Spanner exchanged curious glances. The Kubaz had kept its eyes on the pair during the whole conversation.
"Look, we don't want no trouble here," the Besalisk said. "Besides we're closed now. Have a nice day," and ushered the two spacers into the Tatooine dusk and dust.