[right][h3]B1-LL3 "Billy" - Beck's Skiff, Jundland Wastes[/h3][sup]Interacting with: [@Moskau Spieluhr][/sup][/right][hr]A distant wall of sand sapped the colours from the suns. A pair of yellow lenses twisted tighter as they watched from underneath a wide-brimmed hat. 

"Agh, sand!" B1-LL3 exclaimed, to the voice of a B-grade actor. As much as it tried to flatten the exclamation from the sound sample, the awful acting still carried through. Its yellow lenses fell from the horizon and to its chassis, where it tugged and twisted at its hips and its elbows. Seemingly not content with its inspection, it tugged a bandage from a crook in its belt and began fastening it around a wrist servomotor. The sand that they headed for would get everywhere, coarse and rough as it is, and B1-LL3 knew first hand it certainly isn't beyond many of the myriads of threats in the wastes to attack in a sandstorm. It didn't take the many threat notifications for B1-LL3 to know that a seized joint was the last thing it needed if it came to that. 

Its rifle almost looked as sad as B1-LL3 did: rusted and mismatched, with bolts hanging out that are too long to fit. A roll of tape might almost do it some good - a thought B1-LL3 agreed with as it covered over a damaged ejection port with a few wraps of it. It made a conscious effort to keep the rifle stowed above 6 feet high. If Kid got a hold of it, B1-LL3 imagined that he would hand him back a different weapon altogether. In the back of it's indexed secondary memory, B1-LL3 made a note of getting Kid to take a look at the weapon if they ever took another job together; but for now, they both had bigger concerns.

The sandstorm crept closer, or at least as well as a sandstorm could creep. It loomed over them, sapping the colour out of the twin suns and casting a long shadow that only drew closer. It wouldn't be easy to press through a sandstorm by skiff, but it had to be done. B1-LL3 twisted to look at the hovertrain. Water, B1-LL3 reminded itself; the very same thing its two wards needed 6.2 times per day. Browsing back through its secondary memory records, B1-LL3 eased for a moment to revisit old memories; memories of his two daughters leading it by the hand and eating its meals, from steel to skin. 

But now it was time for reality. B1-LL3, returning to the land of the living, swung its rifle over its back by the sling and stood up from its rail. It had heard about the woman with no name. Being a droid in the industry, how could it not? In truth, it hoped to learn a thing or two from at least everyone on the skiff before the job was over, but old no-name especially so. B1-LL3 was not subtle in its approach: it whined and whirred, plagued by mismatched servomotors and rusting joints. Contrary to its lack of discretion though, it knew better than to talk to her, so it didn't bother. Instead, it plucked a packet of off-brand cigarras from a dusty pouch and offered a protruding one towards the woman. 

A distant wall of sand sapped the colours from the suns. In a manner not too unfamiliar, a plume of smoke sapped the colours from a pair of faint yellow lenses, all underneath a wide-brimmed hat.