The bartender's left eye twitched whenever someone ordered Jawa juice. Koraz Gent watched it happen twice now—first with the Rodian spacer, then the Twi'lek in dusty robes. That milky eye flickered like a faulty holoscreen.
Koraz traced a finger along the rim of his tumbler, the cheap synth-whiskey burning his throat. Nal Hutta’s humidity clung to his horns, a sticky film that no amount of wiping cleared. Memories surfaced like swamp bubbles: Jabba’s rancid breath as the Hutt leaned close, whispering *"Show me the blaster bolt before it flies, little seer."* He’d been twelve, sweating in Tatooine’s twin-sun glare. Now, some years later, freedom tasted like recycled air and pride.
Across the bar, a Devaronian named Vorz slid onto a cracked stool, reddish skin dull under the flickering neon. Koraz didn’t acknowledge him—just tapped twice on the countertop. "Word in the lower levels whispers of a Pantoran diplomat," he murmured, pretending to inspect his claws. "Carries a case of refined coaxium. Hiring protection for a run through the Kessel sectors. She pays triple for… *discretion*." Koraz’s jaw tightened. Diplomat meant politics, and politics meant complications. But coaxium meant credits—enough to quiet Jabba’s looming percentage demand. He grunted, sliding a chit across the bar. Vorz palmed it, vanishing into the smoke.
The cantina air thickened with the scent of fried nerf and spilled spotchka. Koraz leaned back, against the ferrocrete wall. *Politics*. His precog flickered—a phantom sensation of blaster heat grazing his temple, the sharp tang of ozone. Not now. He forced it down, focusing on the droid band’s screechy melody. Jabba’s oily chuckle in Huttese echoed in his memory: "Credits clear the path, little seer. Politics? Just blasters with prettier words." Koraz flexed his fingers above his holstered blaster pistol. Triple pay. Triple risk.
Suddenly, the synth-whiskey turned to sand in his throat. A cold, electric shudder ripped through Koraz’s spine, sharper than any spice hangover. His vision fractured—the smoky cantina dissolved into searing twin suns glaring over Tatooine’s dunes. A wave of B1 battle droids marched, clumsy and relentless, their metallic limbs kicking up dust clouds. The dry rasp of their joints grated against the silence. *Clank. Clank. Clank.* The stench of scorched plastoid filled his nostrils, phantom blasterfire whining past his horns. He saw the glint of an unknown insignia etched crudely on a droid’s chestplate.
Koraz snapped back to the humid cantina, knuckles white on his tumbler. Sweat beaded along the ridges of his horns. These weren’t Jabba’s rusted protocol droids or Gamorrean thugs. These were factory-fresh military hardware, marching towards across Tatooine.
The clatter of Vorz’s stool hitting the floor echoed sharply. Koraz hadn’t even registered the Devaronian returning. Vorz leaned in, voice low and urgent. "The Pantoran’s waiting outside her star-yacht. But whispers just hit the net—Black Sun’s hunting her case." His red eyes flicked towards the exit. "Seems they know *exactly* where she docked." Koraz’s gut twisted.
*Clank. Clank. Clank.* The phantom rhythm pulsed behind his eyes. Those droids marching under Tatooine’s suns—Jabba’s territory. No insignia he immediately recognized. Military-grade. Fresh. If they rolled into Mos Espa… or Mos Eisley... The Pantoran’s triple pay evaporated like vapor in his thoughts. Jabba’s percentage demand? Insignificant sand against a sandstorm. Those droids spelled scorched earth, and Jabba wouldn’t survive an open assault. "Neither would my freedom," Koraz realized bitterly. The Hutt’s demise likely meant someone might come hunting 'him'.
He pushed the half-empty tumbler away. Synth-whiskey sloshed against the grimy counter. Vorz blinked, confused. "Gent? Coaxium waits—"
"Not today." Koraz's voice was gravel scraping stone. " I gotta make a call."
Koraz - A Stitch in Fate
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: Koraz - A Stitch in Fate
Koraz found himself on a cargo freighter en route to Geonosis. He had contacted Jabba about the potentially dangerous vision regarding a Battle Droid army. The Hutt, through his protocol droid, “suggested” Koraz travel to Geonosis to learn more about this threat. If there was a droid army being formed, at the very least the parts or plans originated there on Geonosis.
The ship rattled violently as it exited hyperspace over the rust-red planet, its rings casting jagged shadows across Koraz's horns. He adjusted the worn leather strap of his blaster holster.
Geonosis smelled like dust and rusted metal even through the freighter's filtration systems. Koraz strode down the landing ramp, his boots crunching on gritty sand mixed with industrial runoff. Ahead, towering spire-like structures pierced the sky, remnants of droid factories long abandoned after the Clone Wars. The air hummed with the low-frequency thrum of unseen machinery beneath the surface. Distant, repetitive clanking echoed through the canyon-like streets – a sound that raised the fine hairs along his neck ridges. Too rhythmic for maintenance droids.
Hive Gogum’s hidden underground bazaar unfolded beneath arched rock ceilings thick with glowing phosphorescent fungi, casting sickly green light on stalls selling thermal detonators disguised as engine parts and Tibanna gas canisters labeled as coolant. A Geonosian noble with polished chitin plates shoved past Koraz, chittering angrily into a comlink about "Imperial inspection delays." Koraz didn't need his erratic precog to sense the tension here; it vibrated in the clenched mandibles of merchants and the too-quick gestures of buyers haggling over black-market disruptor rifles. Jabba’s instructions echoed in his mind: *Find Duke Piddock. His debts shape his usefulness.*
Just yesterday, Duke Piddock had held his grand opening in a lavishly cramped cantina carved deeper into the hive’s rockface – a desperate bid to lure off-world arms dealers. The scent of spilled spotchka and overcooked synth-meat still clung to the recycled air vents as Koraz pushed open the heavy blast door. Inside, the cavernous space throbbed with pulsing Bespin electro-jazz and the chatter of several patrons nursing drinks. A pallid and exotically dressed Twi’lek girl with stunningly long lekku intones sultry vocals over the melodies. A lone protocol droid swept glittering confetti around the boots of a snoring Gamorrean guard, its photoreceptors dim with resignation.
Just yesterday, Duke Piddock had held his grand opening in a lavishly cramped cantina carved deeper into the hive’s rockface – a desperate bid to lure off-world arms dealers. The scent of spilled spotchka and overcooked synth-meat still clung to the recycled air vents as Koraz pushed open the heavy blast door. Inside, the smallish space throbbed with pulsing Bespin electro-jazz and the chatter of several patrons nursing drinks. A pallid and exotically dressed Twi’lek girl with stunningly long lekku intones sultry vocals over the melodies. A lone protocol droid swept glittering confetti around the boots of a snoring Gamorrean guard, its photoreceptors dim with resignation.
"No audience today," growled a large Geonosian leaning against a viewscreen displaying Geonosis’s twin suns setting. His hand rested casually near his blaster’s grip – Piddock’s security chief, Bronn. "Duke's indisposed."
“I heard there was quite the party yesterday.”
Koraz’s voice cut through the Twi’lek’s vibrato, his gaze fixed on Bronn’s compound eyes. The Geonosian’s antennae twitched, assessing the Iktochi’s worn spacer gear and the deliberate stillness of his stance. Bronn shifted, his chitin scraping against the wall as he jerked a clawed thumb toward one of three private rooms separated by lavish tapestries. “Fine. Five minutes.” The words rasped like sandpaper on stone. Bronn’s blaster stayed holstered, but his wings vibrated a low, warning hum as he slid back the fabric.
Inside, the meeting room smelled of stale incense and spilled lum. Empty glasses sat on a polished obsidian table beside a slick of dried purple liquor – evidence of yesterday’s negotiations. Bronn gestured dismissively at the scattered datapads glowing faintly on cushioned benches. “Duke won’t return till next cycle. Too many… *interested parties* yesterday.” He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath sour with fermented fungus. “Sullustan engineer, sweating like a Rodian in magma. Ordered a hundred DH-17s – whispered ‘For Kashyyyk’s forests.’” Bronn scoffed, mandibles clicking. “Rebellion scrap.”
“Others?” Koraz pressed, scanning the room. Bronn’s wings flattened defensively. “Black Sun was here,” he hissed, voice dropping to a subsonic thrum Koraz felt in his bones. Bronn shuddered, chitin plates rasping. “Bought disruptors. Experimental ones.”
Then Bronn’s mandibles clicked sharply, as if recalling something unpleasant. “Five others. Humans mostly, and one Sullustan pilot. Bought three sample rifles – modified EE-3s. In and out fast. Didn’t haggle, didn’t drink much.” He gestured toward the tapestry-covered exit with a claw. “But one droid stayed. Ugly custom job.”
Koraz’s gaze followed Bronn’s gesture. Bronn shifted his weight, wings buzzing softly. “Not protocol. Not labor. Looked… military. Old design, heavy plating. Scavenged parts welded on. Ordered a drink for some reason and just looked at it.”
The Geonosian’s antennae twitched violently toward the main cantina floor. “A Gand,” he rasped, lowering his voice to a whisper that smelled of decaying spores. “Came in sniffing the air after they left.” Bronn’s claw tapped his own dusty neck. “Asked questions. Sharp ones. Wanted to know what ship was theirs. Offered credits for the droid’s destination.”
Koraz didn’t react outwardly, but the stale air suddenly tasted thick with implication. Gand Findsmen didn’t chase petty thieves; they hunted bounties worth planetary extraditions. He pictured that heavy-plated droid in his mind – military-grade, scavenged, purposeful. Not the kind to linger over lum. *Whoever they were, someone was paying serious credits to burn them.*
“Did the group or the Gand ask about anything else?” Koraz pressed, his voice low and steady. A subtle shift of his hand sent a discreet pouch of credit chips sliding across the obsidian tabletop, stopping just beside a sticky purple smear. The metallic chime inside was muffled but distinct. Bronn’s compound eyes flickered, antennae dipping toward the offering. The sour fungal scent of his breath intensified as he leaned closer, claws snatching the pouch with practiced speed, tucking it beneath his chitin plating.
Bronn’s mandibles worked silently for a moment, the low thrum of his wings shifting pitch. “The group,” he hissed, his subsonic voice vibrating the empty glasses. “Supposedly wanted to know why Duke Piddock broke off negotiations with… someone… on Tatooine.” Bronn paused, compound eyes darting toward the thick tapestry separating them from the cantina’s pulsing music.
Koraz’s brow ridges furrowed slightly. Tatooine. Jabba’s domain. The connection clicked like a blaster power cell snapping home. If Piddock broke off the negotiations, then his precog ability implied that someone else had picked them up. But whom? This group might be looking for the same answers. Or were they somehow responsible? These weren’t the only questions Koraz needed to answer.
The ship rattled violently as it exited hyperspace over the rust-red planet, its rings casting jagged shadows across Koraz's horns. He adjusted the worn leather strap of his blaster holster.
Geonosis smelled like dust and rusted metal even through the freighter's filtration systems. Koraz strode down the landing ramp, his boots crunching on gritty sand mixed with industrial runoff. Ahead, towering spire-like structures pierced the sky, remnants of droid factories long abandoned after the Clone Wars. The air hummed with the low-frequency thrum of unseen machinery beneath the surface. Distant, repetitive clanking echoed through the canyon-like streets – a sound that raised the fine hairs along his neck ridges. Too rhythmic for maintenance droids.
Hive Gogum’s hidden underground bazaar unfolded beneath arched rock ceilings thick with glowing phosphorescent fungi, casting sickly green light on stalls selling thermal detonators disguised as engine parts and Tibanna gas canisters labeled as coolant. A Geonosian noble with polished chitin plates shoved past Koraz, chittering angrily into a comlink about "Imperial inspection delays." Koraz didn't need his erratic precog to sense the tension here; it vibrated in the clenched mandibles of merchants and the too-quick gestures of buyers haggling over black-market disruptor rifles. Jabba’s instructions echoed in his mind: *Find Duke Piddock. His debts shape his usefulness.*
Just yesterday, Duke Piddock had held his grand opening in a lavishly cramped cantina carved deeper into the hive’s rockface – a desperate bid to lure off-world arms dealers. The scent of spilled spotchka and overcooked synth-meat still clung to the recycled air vents as Koraz pushed open the heavy blast door. Inside, the cavernous space throbbed with pulsing Bespin electro-jazz and the chatter of several patrons nursing drinks. A pallid and exotically dressed Twi’lek girl with stunningly long lekku intones sultry vocals over the melodies. A lone protocol droid swept glittering confetti around the boots of a snoring Gamorrean guard, its photoreceptors dim with resignation.
Just yesterday, Duke Piddock had held his grand opening in a lavishly cramped cantina carved deeper into the hive’s rockface – a desperate bid to lure off-world arms dealers. The scent of spilled spotchka and overcooked synth-meat still clung to the recycled air vents as Koraz pushed open the heavy blast door. Inside, the smallish space throbbed with pulsing Bespin electro-jazz and the chatter of several patrons nursing drinks. A pallid and exotically dressed Twi’lek girl with stunningly long lekku intones sultry vocals over the melodies. A lone protocol droid swept glittering confetti around the boots of a snoring Gamorrean guard, its photoreceptors dim with resignation.
"No audience today," growled a large Geonosian leaning against a viewscreen displaying Geonosis’s twin suns setting. His hand rested casually near his blaster’s grip – Piddock’s security chief, Bronn. "Duke's indisposed."
“I heard there was quite the party yesterday.”
Koraz’s voice cut through the Twi’lek’s vibrato, his gaze fixed on Bronn’s compound eyes. The Geonosian’s antennae twitched, assessing the Iktochi’s worn spacer gear and the deliberate stillness of his stance. Bronn shifted, his chitin scraping against the wall as he jerked a clawed thumb toward one of three private rooms separated by lavish tapestries. “Fine. Five minutes.” The words rasped like sandpaper on stone. Bronn’s blaster stayed holstered, but his wings vibrated a low, warning hum as he slid back the fabric.
Inside, the meeting room smelled of stale incense and spilled lum. Empty glasses sat on a polished obsidian table beside a slick of dried purple liquor – evidence of yesterday’s negotiations. Bronn gestured dismissively at the scattered datapads glowing faintly on cushioned benches. “Duke won’t return till next cycle. Too many… *interested parties* yesterday.” He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath sour with fermented fungus. “Sullustan engineer, sweating like a Rodian in magma. Ordered a hundred DH-17s – whispered ‘For Kashyyyk’s forests.’” Bronn scoffed, mandibles clicking. “Rebellion scrap.”
“Others?” Koraz pressed, scanning the room. Bronn’s wings flattened defensively. “Black Sun was here,” he hissed, voice dropping to a subsonic thrum Koraz felt in his bones. Bronn shuddered, chitin plates rasping. “Bought disruptors. Experimental ones.”
Then Bronn’s mandibles clicked sharply, as if recalling something unpleasant. “Five others. Humans mostly, and one Sullustan pilot. Bought three sample rifles – modified EE-3s. In and out fast. Didn’t haggle, didn’t drink much.” He gestured toward the tapestry-covered exit with a claw. “But one droid stayed. Ugly custom job.”
Koraz’s gaze followed Bronn’s gesture. Bronn shifted his weight, wings buzzing softly. “Not protocol. Not labor. Looked… military. Old design, heavy plating. Scavenged parts welded on. Ordered a drink for some reason and just looked at it.”
The Geonosian’s antennae twitched violently toward the main cantina floor. “A Gand,” he rasped, lowering his voice to a whisper that smelled of decaying spores. “Came in sniffing the air after they left.” Bronn’s claw tapped his own dusty neck. “Asked questions. Sharp ones. Wanted to know what ship was theirs. Offered credits for the droid’s destination.”
Koraz didn’t react outwardly, but the stale air suddenly tasted thick with implication. Gand Findsmen didn’t chase petty thieves; they hunted bounties worth planetary extraditions. He pictured that heavy-plated droid in his mind – military-grade, scavenged, purposeful. Not the kind to linger over lum. *Whoever they were, someone was paying serious credits to burn them.*
“Did the group or the Gand ask about anything else?” Koraz pressed, his voice low and steady. A subtle shift of his hand sent a discreet pouch of credit chips sliding across the obsidian tabletop, stopping just beside a sticky purple smear. The metallic chime inside was muffled but distinct. Bronn’s compound eyes flickered, antennae dipping toward the offering. The sour fungal scent of his breath intensified as he leaned closer, claws snatching the pouch with practiced speed, tucking it beneath his chitin plating.
Bronn’s mandibles worked silently for a moment, the low thrum of his wings shifting pitch. “The group,” he hissed, his subsonic voice vibrating the empty glasses. “Supposedly wanted to know why Duke Piddock broke off negotiations with… someone… on Tatooine.” Bronn paused, compound eyes darting toward the thick tapestry separating them from the cantina’s pulsing music.
Koraz’s brow ridges furrowed slightly. Tatooine. Jabba’s domain. The connection clicked like a blaster power cell snapping home. If Piddock broke off the negotiations, then his precog ability implied that someone else had picked them up. But whom? This group might be looking for the same answers. Or were they somehow responsible? These weren’t the only questions Koraz needed to answer.