Fixer switched off everything that may be an interference in the lower level. Given he was the closest thing to something illegal onboard, he didn't want the imps to inspect them; although it was not difficult to pretend being a reprogrammed maintenance unit made up of thrash, it was not pleasurable. For the maker's shake: some of the new guys in the order didn't even knew how a B1 looked like. It had been just 50 years, and half the galaxy seemed to have forgotten the most numerous army in galactic history!.

Once everything was done, the droid runned the test he had promised to the computer, and included a sub-routine to ensure nothing else was transmitting. If he was forced once more to pretend being a lobotomized sub-par R1 just beacuse someone couldn't stop downloading xeno-porn for a few minutes ... ¡Rargh!.

The cook announced the Corellian Pancakes day through the commlink. It reminded Fixer of one of his many personal and never-started projects: find an SE-4 servant droid and strip it of his taste sensors. The organics on-board always became true animals when those things arrived on the table. They couldn't possibly be THAT good. There's nothing that good in life.