Jet hauled the heavy crate up behind him, the muscles in his arm straining under its weight. His grip was firm but trembling, every sinew in his body screaming at him to stop. He kept his stance wide and low, grounding himself to maintain balance as the crate threatened to topple. The exertion was beginning to wear him down, his reservoir of strength dwindling like sand slipping through an hourglass. He had abandoned his jacket earlier in the slog; it now lay crumpled over the edge of the crate. Beads of sweat glistened on his skin, catching the dim light like morning dew shimmering on blades of grass. The sweat had seeped through his battered top, forming dark, uneven patches that clung to his body.

He paused briefly, gasping for air as he raised the ramp, the sound of the hydraulics echoing in the bay. The final piece of gear was loaded. Relief flickered across his face, but it was short-lived. Jet turned to the others who were beginning to trickle into the bay. "That's the last of it," he announced, his voice hoarse and edged with fatigue. He let the cable of the crate slip from his hand, guiding it carefully onto the bay floor before stepping back. With a weary swipe of his forearm, he cleared the sweat dripping into his eyes.

"It's gunna take a bit to get these injectors installed," he muttered, nudging them with the toe of his boot as if sizing them up. "But first, I need to patch up that arm." He inhaled sharply, leaning against the workbench for support, nodding gently to it. "And," he added after a pause, his voice quieter now, almost to himself, "a spot of rest wouldn't go amiss, neither."

Fel was inscrutable as he helped set down the last bit of gear, not far from Jet. He was oddly angry at the mechanic, as if his injuries were in any way his own fault. (they weren’t, and Fel knew it…) He also understood how ridiculous his feelings were at that moment, but feelings and logic were seldom good bedfellows. He wanted to punch Jet in the shoulder, hard, and tell him if he had got himself killed out there, Fel would kill him! …but that was stupid, and even he was aware that it would do no good. Still, he was concerned for his friend, and stepped close to him, resting a hand on his shoulder and speaking low, quiet enough that it would be difficult to hear. “I can’t help you keep your word, if you go getting yourself killed on some rock. What the hell would Nova say? …go, get some rack. You need it. The engines will wait.” He spoke not from a perspective of actual mechanical knowledge, but as a pilot, who knew his ship as much by feel and sound, as by torque wrench and diagnostic – an esoteric connection that had served him well over the years. Now, his assertions about the condition of the UA had been met with raised eyebrows from Jet many times before. The same could be true now. But if Jet had rolled an insight check, he’d see that Fel was telling the truth. At least, the pilot fully believed what he had said. “You know you’ll do better work once you’ve had some rest, and with both arms, dammit. I need to talk to the crew, but what I have to say can wait till you’re upright, without fear of keeling over. You did good, partner. Real good. But you’re more important than any karking injectors.”

Jet opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat like gravel. His jaw tensed as silence filled the space where a response should have been. Nothing came out. He shut his mouth with a quiet exhale, the breath slipping past clenched teeth. Kark it all to hell. Fel was right, and the truth of it settled like a stone in his chest.

Nova’s name hit him low, twisting his gut without warning. If he had died here, alone and broken in the dirt... he shut the thought out before it could dig in. That road didn’t lead anywhere good.

And if she saw him like this? She’d come at him, flailing and furious, fire and panic spilling out in every direction. It wouldn’t be about the wounds or the blood or the close call, it would be about what he had nearly left behind. Fel would be standing beside her, arms crossed, saying nothing. He wouldn’t need to. That look of his would be enough to bury Jet in guilt deeper than any grave.

The two of them could make his life hell. Loud, relentless, impossible to ignore. But through all the noise and frustration, there was something steady in it. Something that held him up even when he tried to fall. Hell, maybe that was what home looked like for him. Maybe that was the point.

He gave a slow nod, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of everything left unsaid. “Yeah.” His voice barely made it out. “It can wait.”

He stood there beside the workbench a moment longer, shoulders hunched, sweat drying on his neck. His breathing had slowed, but only just. His prosthetic was gone, and the weight of that absence tugged harder than it should now. Fel’s words still echoed behind him, quiet but solid, the kind that didn’t need repeating.

As he passed Fel, he reached out and let his hand land on the pilot’s shoulder. Not a pat. Not a clap. Just firm enough to be felt, just long enough to say what needed saying. ‘Thanks. I hear you. You were right.’ He didn’t trust himself to put it into words, not with the burn in his throat and the ache behind his eyes. He gave the faintest nod as he moved past, then he left the hangar.

The jacket slung over his shoulder now felt like a wet tarp, every step down the corridor pulling harder at his bones. His boots thudded against the steel floor, rhythm slow and uneven. He didn’t limp, not exactly, but his body moved like a machine that had skipped too many maintenance cycles. Every joint felt like it needed oil. Every muscle told a story he didn’t want to hear. He had forgotten, for a little while, how old he really was. Fifty-four wasn’t ancient, not by spacer standards, but he used to feel younger. Moved younger. Thought younger. Today? Today had reminded him.

The corridor lights buzzed overhead, flickering in time with his steps. He didn’t bother going to the medbay. Not yet, That could wait. Everything could wait. He reached his quarters, the door slid open with a soft hiss. Inside, everything was still and quiet, the familiar room greeted him without judgment. He let the jacket fall where he stood, then toed off his boots, one at a time. Each motion sent a fresh jolt through his ribs, but he was beyond wincing.

He sat on the edge of the cot, the frame creaking in protest, then let gravity pull him the rest of the way down. His body settled into the thin mattress like it had found something close to peace. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, watching nothing, and then he closed his eyes. The ship kept humming outside his door, the noise distant and soft, and Jet finally let it go.

The food was hot, and quite tasty. The best food the UA’s galley had seen in months. Surely since he and Jet had taken the time to make their own Scrimpi, that had been good eats, but this eclipsed that, by far. The smells of the meat and fresh veg mingling, and the fresh bread to accompany the meal, soon drew most of the crew from their bunks – except Jet, for the time being. For that, Fel was grateful. He thought for a moment about waiting until he had joined them, but he’d get caught up easily enough. A promise was a promise, and he had said he would tell them about the next gig, sooner than later.

He activated the display behind the dejarik table, and cast to it from his datapad, clinking his cup for those in attendance. “Aellyn, thank you for the eats. Damn good, and that’s no lie. I promised you all a discussion about our next job, once we got paid off from Abilene.” He drew out two cred chits and tossed them on the table. “One for you, kid… and one for Aellyn. Thirty-large, each – and that’s just from the Kolto we sold her. Jet and I gave up most of our cut. Wish it was more. But afore we stepped into this last job, I knew most of the take was in the promise of better work on the back end of taking from Vinoor Kara. And Abilene has come through on her end. Whatever she might think of me, she kept her word.” He clicked the datapad, and an image materialized on the screen. “This is the Helix.”

It was a uniquely circular space station, orbiting a planetoid so vibrant a swirl of colours it was almost not to be believed. There was a central hub, with a dozen or more spokes leading out to an outer ‘ring’ of docking bays and ports. It was too sleek, too clean to be very old. “Casino to the well-heeled, hotel to the high-rollers. We’re going to knock it over, shake out the coin.”

He looked from Aellyn to Zane, and back again, both wearing inscrutable faces. He would’ve paid good credits to know what the two of ‘em were thinking. If Jet had been there, the look on his face would have told him some of what he wanted to know. Jet was always better at reading folks than he was. Fel knew the plan was risky, but for him at least, it was worth the risk. “Any day of the week, this would be low-seven-figures for us. Once or twice a month, high-seven-figures. But I’m not interested in stealing from the Helix. Well… I am, but it wouldn’t be my first choice target normally. This particular day – two weeks from today, in case you were wondering – the take could be anywhere from fifteen, to thirty million.” Faces remained ‘quietly concerned.’ He continued on. “The reason this is a good target for us is that on that day, there will be a number of Imperial bigwigs at the Helix, presumably there to do some good old-fashioned gambling. But the reality is, they’re there to buy off the Prime Minister of Byllun-Prime. The Empire needs something that Byllun-Prime has, not sure what or why, but I’m told the pay-off is in cold, hard credits, and to the tune of near sixty million. We intercept the deal. We also take everything the casino has – as cover for the main course… or as insurance to make security look the other way… you be the judge. Either way, it’s long money. High stakes.”

He waited to see if there were immediate questions, but it seemed everyone was still swallowing this news. He smiled, and continued. “Way I see it, we need two ‘faces’ in the casino. ‘High Rollers’ there for a good time, but actually, to intercept codes and access passes for the casino, and to aid and distract from within. Aellyn, we’ll need to hire you an ace in the hole to be your partner on the inside. And unless you happen to be the very best of the best Sabaac shark in the ‘verse, we’ll also need to make a stop on ‘Shaddaa to hire Morrik Venn, so that he can whisper sweet nothings into your ear from the safety of the UA, and guide your hand in the Sabaac tournament.” The name would be familiar, but Fel cast the picture of the Zabrak, as well as the near-human guise of the Prime Minister of Byllun-Prime, Olis Aven, onto the screen. “Zane, I’m going to need you to go undercover in the hotel of the Helix, to get into the Imperial Commandant’s quarters and retrieve what I need in order to steal the Imperial Shuttle. Jet will run security and interference backstage. He and I will need to keep a pretty low-pro, as we’ve both got histories with both the Republic, and the Empire, to say nothing of Rap Sheets… which exclude us from being in the spotlight. ‘Sides… look at us. We’re way too ugly to look much like high-rollers. There’s only so much ugly that makeup can cover. I just want to make sure we get the best shot at success we can get here. ”

The door to the galley hissed open. Jet stepped through, moving slow but steady, the weight of the day still settling into his bones. His hair was slicked back from his face, water still dripping now and again down his jaw. A plain tank top clung damply to his frame, thrown on without much care after the struggle of one-handed dressing. The bare line of his shoulder was exposed where the prosthetic would normally hang, the skin still faintly red from the heat of the shower.

He hesitated just inside the doorway, breathing in the thick scent of stew, meat, and garlic. For a moment, the corner of his mouth tugged upward, a quiet smile breaking through the tired lines of his face. It was small, but it was real. His gaze found Fel, and Jet gave a small, deliberate nod as he crossed the room. No words. Just a quiet acknowledgment of something heavier than he had the energy to name.

Fel smiled at his oldest friend. “We’re goin’ fishin’ for Imperial dollars, Jet. We’re hittin’ the Helix.” Nothing of what he had said, was said without the weight it was due. Fel knew how difficult this was, how much he was asking of them all, but he was also feeling positive, feeling good about their chances. (and why not? Nothing had a chance to go wrong – yet.)

Jet’s eyes drifted to the display, following the slow spin of the station, his expression largely unreadable. The corner of his mouth twitched, just a little, too dry to be a smile, but too wry to be anything else.

[colour=ff0000=“Of course it’s the Helix.. Why wouldn’t it be?”[/colour] Jet moved to the table, sliding into a chair with a careful, tired ease. The worn surface creaked faintly under his weight as he settled back, his arm resting along the edge. Jet looked at the bowls and the scattered remnants of the meal, then raised an eyebrow, voice low and rough with sleep. "Please tell me there’s still some left,” he said, his eyes flicking over the others at the table before landing on the screen.

It took a few moments to fully comprehend what Fel was laying out to them. She thought the star destroyer was risky but this was another level. Her thoughts broke as Jet joined them.. She watched as he scanned the table, it was obvious he was searching for food before he proclaimed it. “Yeah, of course.” Aellyn mentioned, sliding out of her own chair and stepping toward the stove. Grabbing a bowl, she fixed a large size portion. Leaving enough for a few more bowls if anyone else wanted another helping. She then set the bowl in front of Jet to enjoy. It didn’t take long for him to begin digging in, thanking Aellyn with a small nod and a warm smile.

Aellyn continued to look at the screen, displaying the casino. “ Do we have an idea on who the other guests might be, other than this Prime Minister you mentioned?” She only asked because of the high imperial officers that could be around. It’s risky enough to show her face plus right after the Basilisk heist, it would be worse.

Fel had been given scant little intel with their “payment” from Abilene. He knew what the average take at the Helix would be. He had a general groundplan (not even a terribly detailed one) of the facility. He knew when the buy would be going down with the Imperials and the delegation from Byllun-Prime, and what that would do to the bottom line of their take (within a few hundred thousand – part of it was guesswork on the part of whoever had sliced the intelligence.) All else was up to them to uncover. They had two weeks to dig up what they could. “Nope. No idea. I assume they’ll have a detachment of advisors or council-members, depending on their system of government, and a detachment of guards… but that’s just a guess. There are enough intel brokers on ‘Shaddaa that we should be able to turn over enough stones to get that information, and more.”

Aellyn rubbed the back of her neck. “That’s fair. I might know someone who could help get us intel but I’ll need the holonet. At least to help us get started on that front. “

Fel nodded. “Makes sense, Aellyn. I have a few contacts on ‘Shaddaa, can likely help with getting us some answers. Lorn Pellian, or Lillia Kale might be of help to us.”

Jet set his bowl aside, then leaned back slightly in his seat. He hadn’t motioned to make a sound again since sitting down, his eyes locked on the holodisplay while filling himself with the best food he’d had in a very long time.

While the others talked, he’d been watching the station continue to spin, tracking the likely rotation of the station, the angle of the docking arms, the spacing between support struts. He wasn’t thinking about the Sabacc tables or the credit vault just yet, he was thinking about power routes, ventilation systems, fallback paths. Where they likely could slip in, unseen. As well as where they might vanish to if things, more than likely, went to hell.

”It’s ambitious. Place like that? They shine so damn bright they cast their own shadows.” He cleared his throat, the food still settling in his stomach. ”I’ve not seen many worse gigs. If we’re doing this.. We gotta do it right, but we prep like it’s already gone wrong.”

Fel knew it was a serious statement, and needed to be treated as such…but he couldn’t help himself. “I mean…it’s us. Doesn’t that mean going wrong is a foregone conclusion?”

Jet gave Fel a long stare, one complemented with a smile. The look he’d likely given Fel a hundred times. The one that said ‘Don’t jinx it’ while also being humoured by his dry witticism.

Zane had been thoughtfully (and gratefully) chewing on his stew and turning his cred chit from the Abilene job over in his hands while soaking in all of the proposed situation. So much of what Fel and the others were talking about was over the boy’s head, and even his part in the plot seemed like something well outside of his wheelhouse. But, the kid had some experience in getting into places he shouldn’t. With the right tools and someone that could teach him, slipping into an Imp’s room shouldn’t be too much of a gamble. There were a few things rattling around in his mind, however, that he felt as though he would need some answers for.

Slipping his hand up in the air sheepishly, he waited until Fel’s eyes were on him - giving the kid the most incredulous look he could muster - before finally asking his questions, ”Okay, so…I don’t know much of nothin’ about casinos. Just what I’ve heard from some o’the Junkers on Lotho. But, uh…don’t these places usually have some pretty hefty security? With that many creds floatin’ around, I would think they’d have a whole slew o’fellas–” He caught a glimpse of Aellyn, and added, ”– a-and ladies - who’ll be watchin’ everything like a hungry grek, right? Not to mention tech out the choobs that’ll make our lives miserable…”

Fel was impressed. Kid was asking the right questions. He wished he could answer him, without sounding like a wise-ass. “Yep. They sure will, Kid. You’re right on every count. That’s why we got two weeks to figure as much as we can, before we even set foot on that spinning wheel.”

A little under forty minutes later, Fel was in his berth, door shut, gripping the edges of his bunk. Well, I guess the Kid was sharing his bunk with him now, in shifts. So was it really his anymore? It didn't matter. Better that way. As long as nobody opened the door for the next fifteen minutes. He breathed deep, trying to rid himself of the tension in his shoulders and back. His head swam. He did what he always did in this situation. He stripped and cleaned his blaster. There was something mindlessly therapeutic about it. Something purely mechanical, where he could divorce himself from his emotions and just do the job. Do it right. The void knows, there was enough in his life that would never run smooth, never be 'right.' But cleaning a blaster was one of those things that had been drilled into him at the academy which stuck. A blaster in good condition saved lives. He wanted to save lives. Not all the lives, just his people. He could never save them all. Not since...

The image entered his mind unbidden. The fire. His hands on the yoke. The voices of his wingman and squadron. He saw the buildings ablaze, the freighters. Saw his future. When he finally returned from that particular moment in history, he was sweating, his hands were balled into fists, and he wasn't exactly sure how long he had been 'gone.' That was usually the case. He threw the disassembled bits of his blaster on the floor, like clean-sweeping a tabletop. (though in this particular case, it was his lap.) He stood, momentarily unsure of himself, and where he was. When he was. He paced, kicking the bits he had just evicted, into corners. He was all nerves and frustration, and he didn't know exactly why. And for ten minutes, he had real trouble determining whether it was now, or whether it was ten years ago.

Finally, he calmed, laying his head in his arms, atop the shelving unit across from the bed. Was he leading them into certain death? Or all of them getting pinched? No... he wouldn't go that way. Never again. If it came to that, he'd rather go down that get taken. But were they up for this? Were they acutely aware of what taking this job on, meant? It meant all of them having a price on their heads from the Imperials. Life on the run. Had he made that clear enough? Did they know they had a choice? That they could all walk away right now, and he wouldn't hold it against any of them? Jet would stay. He didn't really know why. The man could do anything, but yet here he was. Loyal to the last. And Wrench would stay. The little trash-can didn't really have much of a choice. Fel had tried to tell the old R2 to leave on countless occasions, but the little droid had thrown his lot in with him, and he had no choice in it. He wasn't sure about Zane and Aellyn. They were smart enough to go. They had reason enough to go. And they had reasons outside of this sardine can to live. He wouldn't have given them a hard time over it. Well -- Aellyn, yeah. But mostly because she deserved it.

He needed to be clearer about their chances. And about the consequences. And he needed to give them all a chance to think it over and opt out if they chose to. He looked at the bit scattered on the floor, and retrieved them. Searched for five minutes on hands and knees to find one of the static pulse adaptors, but finally retrieved it, and reassembled the Power5. He could have done it with his eyes closed. Almost did. Feeling the familiar weight slide home in its holster, he chided himself for such a moment. Couldn't afford that, when there were folks counting on him. He splashed a little water on his face, and headed for the bridge...

Time gets weird when you’re camping out in the guts of a ship.

…actually, everything gets weird when you’re camping out in the guts of a ship.

Each vessel had her own symphony of sounds and smells. Some were more forgiving than others. The bigger the ship, the harder to scrub all the O2. Pockets of foul air would build up in certain bends under the hull, collect in far corners or behind pipes in places usually inaccessible by anything bigger than a womp rat, knocking out anything unlucky enough to venture through. Often, there would be little piles of insect bodies in these spaces, dropping on top of each other the moment they hit the toxic air, unconscious until death arrived. They’d become familiar warning signs for Eryn over the years, just one of the many strange road signs of stowaway life.

She was passing one just now, wriggling between interior hull and a web of thick ducts, keeping well away from the slight open space behind the main duct. It wasn’t just the bad air. The further away from the interior you got, the closer the frozen black of space chilled the atmosphere and surrounding metal. Quite a few frostbite burn scars on her arms from the few times she’d fallen asleep against the wrong side of the hull.

She was on her way to a particular loose panel in the framework big enough for her to squeeze through, right under the hollow ‘storage’ seats of the galley table. At least, she hoped she was. This wasn’t a route she’d taken before. It wasn’t smart to use the same way too many times in a row. Better to change it up a bit if possible to avoid detection. Besides, that droid was wheeling around suspiciously near her usual pathways, and Eryn wasn’t interested in an introduction just yet.

The stowaway paused for a moment, ‘hmphing’ at the idea that she’d been here long enough to have a ‘usual route’. How long exactly? Not a clue. But she was familiar with the shadowed nuts and bolts, knew which sections to avoid and how to sneak in and out of certain areas without an issue. To her, that meant a long time.

Eventually, Eryn came to the colored nest of wiring she’d been looking for, marking the turn towards the galley. The scent of whatever the crew had whipped up grew stronger the closer to the panel she shimmied, and her stomach growled enthusiastically in response. She’d finished her last packet of ration paste long ago, and the idea of having actual food from a cooking pot for the first time since Ukio had taken over, from idea to desperate need. Eryn lay behind the panel for a long, cautious few minutes, doing mental gymnastics to justify the risk she was about to take while scanning the area through the warped mesh paneling for any sign of movement.

Silent patience under starved, dehydrated, exhausted pressure was a skill you learned quickly in her situation. You learned it, or you died ignoring it.

No sounds from the galley yet.

With grimey fingers, Eryn pulled the empty hydra-bag from her pocket, making sure the mouth was open wide enough to receive whatever she could grab. In one smooth, practiced motion, she carefully pushed the paneling away, slid through the opening, paused under the table one last time, and then slunk towards the stove. Eyes on the galley doors, she dunked her bag in the pot, noting it had cooled down, dragged the opening through the mixture a few times to collect what she could, and swiped a small container of polystarch bread from the counter.

She was slinking back towards the open panel before twenty seconds had passed, licking the stray food on her hand as it drizzled down the mouth of the bag, and she was back inside the crawl space with the panel replaced in record time.

After laying motionless to listen once again, Eryn tucked herself under the seat, managing to sit up a bit by compressing her spine against the back of the space that was surely used for smuggling, and began very slowly eating from her bag. She’d seen what lots of food very fast did to a stomach used to being empty. Even careful as she was, it was gone in four minutes, and she spent the next three painstakingly squeezing every drop from every corner.
Weird that it was so good. She didn’t expect a crew of this…caliber to have its own chef. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so bad after all.
…maybe they had more stuff like this in the chillbox? Chefs cooked a lot, right? She made a mental note to check out the cold storage next time.

Eryn allowed herself a few minutes to just sit and enjoy not feeling weak and dizzy, letting the thrum of the vessel vibrate through her with eyes closed.

Now maybe she could sleep.

She was moving again shortly after, aiming for her ‘nest’, the warm spot she’d found during her exploration. It was tucked up and behind one of the scrubber ducts, hidden from sight but allowing her a vantage point into the hallways, warm enough to be comfortable, and the angle allowed for decent airflow and ventilation.
To GET to it, however, required a rather slow and precarious crawl up and across one of the main hallway ceilings through the ‘heart’ of the ship, and the only thing separating her from the metal ground below was a thin sheet of what felt like tin and a flimsy mesh paneling. But she’d figured out how to go slow and use her surroundings to distribute her weight, and as long as no one was below, she didn’t worry too much.
She’d crawled atop more precarious things and lived to tell the tale.

There was never a time she didn’t check below before she started. The mesh offered a blurry look at the hallway, but it was enough to make out moving shapes. Top down view showed none of those, so after another moment of waiting, Eryn began her crawl. Emboldened by her stolen meal and wanting a bit of shut-eye, she took it a bit faster than usual, hands and knees still careful but coming down quicker than they should have. Halfway there, the droid rolled around the corner, and she tried to stop where she was to let it pass, but the panel wobbled alarmingly at her sudden halt.

The stowaway knew it was coming milliseconds before she felt the mesh give way.

“..Oh SHI-” Eryn dropped like a rock, surfing the panel straight down as she landed right on top of the droid’s dome. She rolled on impact as the panel slid to the ground with a tinny clatter, coming to a crouch a few feet away.
She was exposed.
It sent her body into overdrive, eyes sharpened, adrenaline bright in her blood, but she didn’t draw a weapon. She didn’t run.
She just stared. Stared at the droid in front of her, frozen, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Wrench would have flinched, if it had been capable. Would have screamed like a little girl, if it had been a biologically inferior organism. Would have immediately called for help, and the rest of the crew, had it not been the better part of six years since its last memory wipe. And Wrench, was a very special breed of stubborn, single-minded, and oddly prescient. Couple that with a loyalty and determination to rival Fel’s, and a slightly self-serving streak, and Wrench could be… unpredictable. In circumstances like this.

Hell. In any circumstance.

They were in the central corridor outside twin (port and starboard) holds. There was no possibility at least part of the crew hadn’t heard the commotion. So before engaging, before moving or even speaking, Wrench swivelled his torso and engaged the fore and aft, port and starboard locks on the compartment. The only way out now was the twin gangways leading to the dorsal and ventral cannons. But that was no way ‘out.’ There was no way out, unless Wrench opened the airlock.

*do you comprehend Binary?* the little droid chirped…

Eryn didn’t need to look around to know she was karked, but she did it anyway, casting her gaze from clearly inaccessible escape routes to droid. She was careful not to look at the gaping hole above its chirping dome, in case she could use it for something in the next few minutes. Not escape, of course, she’d be flushed out quicker than a turd, but it would make a decent handhold for some leverage and a nice place to engage the spring-action blades in her boots. A handful of options flickered through her brain.
Sometimes the best exit is the botched entrance.
“Yeah…” Voice low, she cocked her head and set her jaw, picturing her knife in the droids ‘eye’. “I get you.”

The grimy stowaway had three modes.
One, violence. Fight, attack, punch-first-ask-later.
Two, run.
And three, play games until you got what you wanted and then revert to One.

There was no way the rest of the crew hadn’t heard the commotion. She fought the primal urge to pull every weapon out and cut anything that came near her, bucket of bolts or bio-beings alike. She’d seen bits and pieces of the crew when she could, watched and listened while they interacted. They weren’t the worst. No one gave off ‘I Wanna Wear Your Skin’ vibes or seemed particularly cruel.
Maybe Mode Three was the way to go here.

Quickly, before she talked herself out of the idea, Eryn drew a knife from her left boot and the one on her belt and threw them across the floor. They slid noisily, coming to rest before the droid’s ..uh.. rolly ’feet’. She stood, hands up in what appeared to be surrender. “Do you get me, Wheels?”

Wrench “looked” as she threw down the weapons. He saw everything (within reason.) There was no need to make a show of it. In fact, doing so made the little droid suspicious that in no way was that all of the female’s weapons. Thankfully, there was no outward show for Wrench to tip his hand. No raised eyebrow, no pursed lips. (Biologics were so problematic and smelly.) To Eryn, all she would see is Wrench’s radome turn two degrees, toward her. His computer interface arm was already coupled to the port on the Starboard bulkhead.

Truth be told, Wrench was a little surprised at this humanoid’s presence. He wondered how long she had been aboard.

*I am torn between offering to open the cargo elevator, thus solving the problem of You… and asking how you managed to get aboard …have you always been here?*

Wrench heard the banging on the hatch, heard Fel’s overbearing vox, knew the crew was going to be unaccepting of additional biologicals aboard. He re-checked for a microsecond that he had locked out the common area and engineering panels. Satisfied that he had bought himself a moment, he engaged the alarmed female – for so she was. Her heart-rate was elevated, and her body temperature had spiked. *My response is prescribed by my allegiance to my people. You do pose a possible threat. Give me a good reason why I don’t end your biological functions with the cold vacuum of the Black?*

“I..uh..” A good reason? She didn’t have one. But the fact that the droid was asking questions at all instead of just automatically blowing her out the airlock was a point in her favor. A small one, but one all the same.

Eryn was quiet for a moment, almost physically struggling to get words out. Not because she couldn’t figure out what to say, but because it’d been such a long time since she’d had anything resembling a thoughtful conversation with anyone that she’d just kind of…forgotten how to? Words stuck in her throat like fishbones, and she took a deep breath, trying to get them out. After all, her life DID depend on it, and while the droid was clearly not bloodthirsty or beyond fairness, it was definitely serious, and she didn’t want to push her luck there.

The last time she’d fragged up and been caught aboard was back at the beginning of all of this, before she’d completely lost her soul.
Before she’d seen nothing but the bad side of the ‘verse.
She’d only been allowed to stay after agreeing to work a job for them for ‘free’, thus paying off her ‘debt’.
Maybe…?

She swallowed, actually annoyed at her own sloppy handling of the situation. Being caught off-guard was bad enough. Rendered mute and floundering around for any shred of old social skills was just too much.

“I just. –Needed a ride. Off that rock,” she finally choked out. “I was… stuck. Couldn’t pay for it. I just…needed a break.” It wasn’t a lie, at least. “But I don’t want trouble,” she added quickly, trying her best not to look threatening. “I’ll-.. I’ll work, if that helps. For your people, or whatever. Labor for a ride. Drop me at the next planet, I’ll never bother you again.”

Eryn looked up at the tall new arrival, drawing a very deep, exasperated breath. “...No?” she answered him with a furrowed brow, anxiety at the idea of having to repeat everything almost overwhelming what little control she had over her need to run or stab something. Not that the newcomer towering above them all would have been a good place to start that. From what she’d seen on Abilene, she figured he could shut down any threat with one punch easily. But she knew she had one chance at this, so after a tense pause and one or two panicked looks at the droid hoping it would talk for her, Eryn set her jaw and closed her eyes in irritation.
“Needed a ride. Couldn’t pay. Didn’t trust anyone. I like small spaces. Only ship to land in weeks. Saw opportunity. Took it,” she growled, jerking her chin at the astromech. “Tripped over the metal. Got caught. Here we are.”
And here they were. She could hear at least some of the others outside the closed doors.
It took her a minute to realize she probably sounded how she felt, and more than likely it wasn’t doing her any favors, so she did her best to soften a bit. “I’ll work. Labor for a ride, like I told the dome. Don’t want any trouble.”

Wrench’s radome spun to look at Jet. *she broke my ceiling. We need to remove her from the ship before she breaks something we can’t live without*

Jet’s eyes stayed on Wrench a moment longer, jaw tight. ”Yeah, she busted the ceiling, and stowed away.” He ran his hand back through his hair, exhaling slowly. ”Not exactly her finest day, I’m sure. He glanced toward the girl, then back again to the droid. ”But locking the crew out and nearly venting her? That ain’t your call to make, Wrench. Damage or no.”

He turned to the stowaway then, his voice level but edged with wear. ”And you, don’t say you didn’t want trouble. You brought it the second you crawled aboard.” He paused, a small sigh as he rubbed his face with his hand. ”You didn’t know who we were, fine. But you still made the call to sneak aboard. That’s on you.”

He shifted his weight in the doorway, another breath, steadying. ”Look, it’s not my decision whether you get to stay or not, but I’m not about to space you for being desperate. Sit tight. The rest’ll be here soon enough, and I doubt they’ll be shy about it.”

Wrench said nothing to the tall human – the one with one ‘proper’ arm (and one fleshy arm.) Thankfully, humans had trouble discerning droids’ ‘eff off’ face from their ‘I’d die for you’ face…

Hearing Jet on the comms, she pulled her weapon. “Screw this…” Aellyn stepped into the common area, toward the door that Wrench had closed. With one hand she slammed against it. ”C’mon Wrench..open up. They can’t go anywhere.”

Fel followed Aellyn out of the cockpit, a determined look etched onto his features. Aellyn drew her gun, Fel drew his. Damn good idea. But Aellyn was back to beating on the door. Fel was through with that noise. Instead, he leveled his Power5 at the access panel, and fired, point-blank. The electrical panel blew apart in a short, sharp report – a little smoke, a few sparks. Tearing what was left of the panel off the wall, the Pilot hacked the wiring bundle off the back of the reader, and grounded the circuit against the casing, completing the circuit between the two hot leads. The access panel was virtually destroyed, but if anyone was going to kark up his ship, it was damn well going to be him.

The door slid open, and Fel levelled the heavy blaster once more, smoke still curling from the wide emitter shroud, this time at Eryn’s head. “What in the three suns is this, Schutta… this ain’t no rutting taxicab, Di’kut. Fracking scrunty spoggick!”

“I’m using you as a ride?” Aellyn quipped, raising her blaster slightly as she looked to the Pilot before turning her attention back to the other three. Where was the kid? She wondered. She looked over at the stowaway, easing up before holstering her weapon, believing the numbers were in their favor.

Jet’s lip curled as Fel and Aellyn stepped in. ”Speaking of trouble..”

Fethin’ hell, if Eryn had to repeat herself again…
Maybe just dying would be easier.

“Again! Trouble! Don’t want it!” Eryn raised her voice, wiggling her raised hands with urgency as she glared down the smoking barrel in her face. Even in her anxious, beleaguered state, she caught the words from the woman as she holstered her weapon, indicating this was his ship and he was in charge. Eryn had figured as much, from watching the interactions on Abilene, but the confirmation helped. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted that the fiery-haired female had put her weapon away, though.

What felt like a long minute was probably only a few seconds as Eryn scrambled around in her own brain, looking for any signs of her mother’s quick, witty tongue or her father’s savvy one-liners, anything to give her an edge here. But she could barely remember their faces now, much less try to absorb the last sparkle of their personalities. She came up pretty short pretty fast.

Floundering mentally, she gave up, opened her mouth, and prayed there was something in there worth speaking. “Just lock me up!”

….Welp. That’s the last time she’d try that tactic.

“Or put me to work, I’ll fix your karkin’ ceiling,” she threw a glance at the droid, “I’ll-.. I’ll pay off my ‘ride’ to wherever you’re going with labor and then you’ll never have to see me again. But I’m here now, I just needed to get off that gorram planet, but I don’t have any credits and you were the first ship in weeks, and I know what I’m usually good at, which is not being seen, current situation aside, so I…snuck in.” She dropped her hands finally. “I didn’t take anything except that food in the galley, once you were done. So just…” If she wasn’t resigned to her fate, she did a decent job of looking like it. “Lock me up, put me to work, but I-...”
She met their eyes, one by one, with maybe the first genuine emotion she’d felt since she’d arrived on Abilene.
Well, besides anxiety and annoyance and murderous rage.
“...I think all of you’ve known what it’s like. You gotta do what you gotta do to survive.”

Fel listened. He really listened. Tried to put himself in her shoes. It wasn’t a place he’d been in, for many years. Longer than he cared to recall. And when last he had been in that unenviable position, he hadn’t been given a choice. He’d been tossed out at the next station. Not even a planet or a moon. He’d made that cold, dirty station ‘home’ for six months. And he had certainly been ‘doing what you gotta do’ for years. He eased off the trigger, though there was still steel in his eyes. “Not being seen, huh? …tell me more about that.”

Eryn narrowed her eyes, gaze flicking from him to the blaster and back to him. “Let me live ‘til your next stop and I’ll tell you?”

Jet watched the blaster ease down, caught the subtle shift in Fel’s shoulders. The kind that said calculation. He was weighing his options and he knew what made him do it. He’d seen that look before. Jet’s brow creased slightly, just enough to show he’d clocked the change. He didn’t speak, not yet, he didn’t need to, but one dark, greying eyebrow lifted just a little. He already knew what Fel was thinking, and was waiting to see if he was right.

Fel took a step back, turning slightly to open a slim passage to the common area in the UA, enough room to step past him, and Aellyn, pointing the barrel of his Power5 at the door to his bunk. “Step into my office, Stow.” He did not elaborate on which quarters were his. He knew very well that if she’d been aboard since Abilene, she knew damn well. It was said conversationally, but make no mistake: it was not a request. It was an order.

‘Stow’. Cute.

Eryn did her best to look bored and annoyed as she stepped past him, taking her time, holding his gaze the whole way like she was challenging an animal, but inside she was coiling like a cornered viper ready to strike. Nothing good ever came of a one-on-one in a captain’s ‘office’.

For them, at least.

This spacer’s dirtbag meter seemed pretty low, all things considered. Eryn cast a look back at the red-haired woman as she entered his quarters (he’d assumed correctly, she’d mapped the whole place and knew where they all slept), noting she didn’t look particularly mistreated or exploited, which was a good sign. Maybe. Probably?

Eryn had learned the hard way never to trust appearances.

Aellyn locked eyes with the stow. In a brief second, she knew that look.

Eryn turned back to face the door after just a few steps, standing in the middle of the room, one foot planted slightly behind her, both arms by her side with shoulders back and jaw set. “Now what, ‘Cap’?” It was a point for her that there hadn’t been time yet to run her face through the database, though she bet the droid outside had it on its schedule. “Talk more? Throw hands? Play sabacc for my freedom?”

Aellyn stuck her arm out, holding Fel back as she looked at him. A look that he all too recently gave her for breaking protocols.. “Give her a chance, she might surprise you. Like me…” She wasn’t sure the last bit was any good advice, having two of her on the ship might mean an early death to the captain. The stow seemed a bit like her.

It wasn’t much of a room. Certainly not enough room to swing a cat by the tail. Most surfaces were cluttered, some precious items, mostly just bits and pieces of stuff that was in the midst of being taken apart, or put back together. He stood there, let the door shut behind him, arms crossed over his chest, and just let her be uncomfortable for far longer than she would have preferred, silently evaluating.

Finally, he pointed at the bunk without uncrossing his arms. “…pull the mattress off my bed.” Her face and her eyes asked a silent question, since the bed was likewise covered in bits and pieces. He answered it before she had a chance to ask. “Let the shit fall on the floor.”

He waited for her to comply. Only after she had begun, would she understand. His bunk was actually a medscanner, repurposed due to lack of space. “In.” …it might have sounded like an order, but his voice was soft.

Eryn stared at him for a long minute, fighting the urge to attempt to gut him right there and try that slightly loose panel in the corner as an escape route. Make it to the bridge, flush out the crew, take the ship, find herself the new owner.

Except it was never that simple, never that easy, and to be perfectly honest with herself, she wasn’t capable of it right now. Not enough sleep, not enough knowledge, and given how the crew had handled themselves on the ramp with Abilene, she wouldn’t make it even halfway through her shoddy plan.

Seemed her only option was to do the scan.

Except then he’d probably see everything. Every identifying marker authorities and ‘others’ had plugged into her ‘Wanted’ page on the holo-network to help them track her, every facial recognition flag to trigger– …she was overthinking it. She doubted a spacer would have his stuff hooked up that deeply to the database. Tracking went both ways… Right?

“I’m not sick and I don’t have fleas,” Eryn commented flatly, stepping into the scanner. She laid flat on her back, feeling horribly exposed in more than one way as the lights began and the beams passed over her.

Honestly? There wasn’t much to see.

The most abnormal thing that flashed in the information update was that she wasn’t entirely human. Her bones, while normal in appearance, were far lighter and exceptionally elastic, capable of enduring great pressure without breaking and compacting in ways the human skeleton could not. It certainly explained how she got around in tighter spaces, and why there were no healing marks from past broken bones.

Nothing else particularly out of the ordinary. No sign of medical issues save some basic malnutrition and dehydration from her lifestyle. There was a significant amount of scar tissue across her body in what almost looked like patterns, like someone had just taken a paint brush dripping of blaster bolt wounds and burn scars and just flicked it in her general direction. They’d healed remarkably well, and some of the tribal tattoos decorating her shoulders and torso hid a good amount from sight.

The thick burn scars on her palms were another story. They ran in single raised dark lines across her flesh, ending in melty dots, as if whatever had done the damage had paused and lingered too long. But there was no sign of what had caused it, no residual metals or elements to give clues. They were just…there. And clearly very old.

There was a small metallic wrench tattoo on her right hip, probably would’ve lit up the scanner with impurities. It looked homegrown and amateurly etched, probably using cheap inks and slightly dirty tools.

And, to everyone’s surprise, actually no fleas.

Fel looked at the scan. Made mental notes. Mostly the scarring. Maybe the tattoo. He was quiet awhile, simply taking in what the scans said, which was more than she was letting on. It told him how hard she had lived. Where she had come from, if not verbally, telling him what planetoid or moon she hailed from, or what vertical level of some stacked megalopolois she was from, it at least spoke to her shared experience. The kind of sabacc hand life had dealt her. He wouldn’t ask about the scars. Not now. Not likely ever.

“You know I ought to vent you for pulling a stunt like that.” It wasn’t a question. He shut off the medscanner, stepped away, toward the door. Kark it, he was getting soft. And letting her away with it would tell her everything she needed to know about the kind of pushover he was. Not just her, but Aellyn, and Zane too. If he couldn’t maintain order on his ship, if there were no consequences, then what kind of a boat was he running? He remembered a squad leader sending a new pilot to the brig for three days for coming in to dock too fast. Recalled witnessing the public whipping of a stormtrooper for desertion. Remembered being ordered to dish out “discipline in line with Imperial doctrine” in the 181st, and how it turned out when he refused, watching as one of his squad-mates was tortured for what they called ‘gross insubordination.’ He let out a sigh.

“Tell me what you’re doing when you aren’t sneaking aboard other peoples’ ships.” She looked at him with that same flat, barely-concealed ‘FU’ look. “I mean, you aren’t a professional piece of ballast. What are you, when you’re at your best?” The look continued, punctuated by a blink or two. He sighed again, rolling his eyes slightly. “Pilot? Gunfighter? Thief? Slicer? …Smartass?”

Someone you don’t want in your orbit, she thought with equal parts hard-shell venom and quiet shame.

Eryn hoisted herself out of the scanner and fought the overwhelming urge to go squat in the farthest corner and assume gargoyle status in the shadows, complete with glaring black eyes and threatening lip-curling. She settled for a softly offensive stance as far away from him as she could get without looking like she was trying to be far away, head tipped slightly down and jaw set as she peered up at him with eyes only.

Part of her wanted to just not answer him at all, see how far she could push the limit of his patience, but she also liked breathing and didn’t trust he wouldn’t change his mind and ‘vent’ her immediately. She took a short breath…

“I don’t like people.” Off to a great start, wow. She blinked, regaining control of her words. “I’m not used to them anymore. But I’ll deal with them, if it’s necessary, or if there’s credits involved. Seems you’ve got everything you just asked me about already covered with your crew, though. You pilot. Old Juggernaut is the muscle. Tin Can slices. Red probably covers smartass and I bet all of you do your fair share of stealing with zero problems.”

She straightened. Was that pride in her shoulders? Or just an attempt to look squared up and confident when she felt neither? “Seeing as I was lurking in your rafters for quite some time before your shit broke and I fell outta the damn vent, and no one caught on? I’m sure you can guess at my skills. On top of stealth, we’ve got ace runner, accomplished climber, handy in tight places. Done work, uh…’helping’ people expire faster. Not clean or neat at it, but I get the job done.”

Eryn paused, already feeling like she’d just given away far too much.

“At the end of the day, though…” She shrugged a little. “I’m just a dirty prison shiv with no direction but revenge, lookin’ after my own ass.”

He nodded, turning away from her and opening the door. “The bunk is yours. You’d be surprised how much more comfortable it is than sleeping on top of a bunch of cable and conduit. Help yourself to food, and the 'fresher. We’re heading for Nar Shaddaa. You can do what you want when we get there. And do me a favor… try not to disappear into the walls. This place is haunted enough.”

Jet propped the prosthetic forearm against his knee, the broken elbow joint cradled against the hard edge of his ribs. Its metal shell was buckled, scraped, scorched where stress had split the casing down the seam. The smell of burnt circuitry clung to it, acrid and metallic. He should’ve fixed it hours ago.

One working hand. One hydrospanner. He turned the tool slowly, easing a warped bearing into alignment. The edge of his thumb traced the rim, checking for catch. The ache in his knuckles had been a dull hum for hours, but he welcomed it. It meant he was still here.

The cargo bay was still, quiet in that heavy way that creeps in late when the ship's asleep but your thoughts aren’t. Above, the fans pulsed softly. Wrench muttered somewhere in the corridor, likely about the busted ceiling.

Nar Shaddaa soon, Helix after that. There were vaults to crack, codes to break… Fel was already dreaming of the payout like they weren’t scraping parts together just to stay airborne. Jet let the checklist roll through his head like static, noise to keep the dark from pushing in around the edges.

He would've had this done already, if it weren’t for Nova dropping through the ceiling…

Nova?

He froze.

That wasn’t Nova.

The stowaway had been human. Wide eyes sunken like someone who hadn’t slept in days. But his mind had conjured green skin, wild curls, and her: Nova, tumbling feet-first from the ceiling of his old Nar’ workshop, laughing like gravity meant nothing to her.

The disconnect fractured something in his chest. The tool slipped.

Metal sliced deep into his palm.

“Kriff—!”

He jerked back, breath catching sharp as the hydrospanner clattered to the floor. Blood welled instantly, warm and viscous, rolling down his wrist. A single drop landed on the prosthetic's wrist socket.

Red on metal. Then…

Felucia.

Jungle heat pressed into his skin like a fever. The air stank of churned soil and something fouler, something burnt. Mud sucked at his knees where he crouched behind a makeshift blind, hands dancing over a cracked security console. His visor flickered.

“Two minutes, Jet,” Rexa’s voice came through the comm, clipped but calm. “You’re almost there.”

He looked back. She was there, rifle raised, eyes locked on the perimeter. Steady, and unshaken.

Then she jolted. It was a clean bolt, center mass. Her chestplate fractured with a hiss and a scream of melting plastoid. She collapsed without a sound.

Jet watched the light leave her eyes before his legs even moved.

“No… no no-...”

He was on her, too late. His hands fumbled for pressure, for a wound he couldn’t find. Her breath was rattling. Then not.

He didn’t remember standing. Didn't remember reaching for her DC-15A. Just the weight of it in his hands. His scream never reached his lips.

He pulled the trigger. Blaster bolts ripped through the jungle. Green bark exploded. Screams lit up the dark and fell quiet. Trees burned. Men died. He kept shooting. Bursts of fire tore through the undergrowth, his vision smeared with tears he hadn’t realized were falling. His arms shook. Blood stuck to his boots. He couldn’t stop.

He didn’t want to stop.

The shots bled into ringing.

“Jet!”

The voice was thin, flickering through the haze.

“Jet!”

He spun, half-expecting to see Rexa, still breathing, still standing.

Just smoke.

“JET!”

The cargo bay came back like a slap. Jet gasped, bent forward. He was soaked with sweat, his shirt once again clung to him like a second skin. His breath came in short, broken pulls. The cut in his palm throbbed angrily.

His fingers trembled. He looked down at the arm, at the blood. At nothing that could give him comfort. She was gone. And Nova? Nova was out there somewhere. Alone, Maybe afraid, Maybe hurt, and he knew nothing. Maybe he hadn’t earned knowing.

His vision blurred again. He blinked hard, setting his jaw, and pressed the cloth tighter to his hand until the sting bit deeper than the memory. Then he reached down, slowly, deliberately, and retrieved the hydrospanner from the floor.

One-handed work. One more seam to straighten. No ghosts now. Just metal.

Dry foodstuffs - at least a month’s worth, if they did proper rationing.

Spare parts - a wide array; he’ll likely need to see about organizing those.

More spare parts - some of these didn’t look like they’d get more than a few creds at a swap meet.

Knick-knacks - Looks like memorabilia; maybe stuff that they didn’t wanna look at, but couldn’t get rid of.

A locked crate - Not messing with that.

Buncha clothes - Looks like…disguises, maybe?

Wow…spare hyperfuel - Oh wait. Just empty canisters. Wonder when these are getting refilled?

Med supplies - the stuff Zane swiped on Lotho, and some older stuff that the kid found in there.

Annnnd, the crate of spare weapons - stun batons, case of concussion grenades, a few E-11s. Looks like maybe a few more things?

Wait…what the kriff was that noise? The crash outside broke him out of his rhythm. He started walking across the metal grating of the port-side cargo bay, his slightly-oversized boots clanking on the metal, making his way to the door. He reached his hand up to open it - locked. The kark? Pressed the button again - still nothing. What was that frackin’ override again? He tried a combination; nope. Tried another one; still no dice. The trill of the keypad was actually starting to get a bit annoying, if he was being honest. Did he really forget the karkin’ password? No way.

”Seriously?! Wait, no. It was…kriff me, I can’t remember!”

He took a deep breath, exhaling frustratedly as he tried three more combinations. The denial tone was taunting him now. Throwing all caution to the wind, he reached into his appropriated tech belt, grabbing out the slicer kit. He could hear muffled voices outside - Wrench was there, and it sounded like…a female’s voice? Not Aellyn’s though. Not the right timbre. Why the kriff was this door even locked?! The kid was really starting to get annoyed now. Popping the cover with the small tech tool, he looked at the mess of circuitry and wiring within.

”Who even kriffin’ wired this thing?!”

No sense in yappin’ about it. Time to work.

Zane continued to draw the wiring out of the panel, eventually pulling the excess all out and letting it fall toward the floor. It almost reached the grating. Finally seeing the zeta plugs on the circuitry, he began using his set of tools to start the bypass.

First try, kriffin’ thing shorted.

Sparks flew, and Zane was startled, flinching like he’d just been shocked. He hadn’t, but the shock to his system felt real enough.

”Frack my life.”

Zane spent the better part of the next two and a half hours trying to restore power to the small panel. When it sprung back to life, he was actually as excited as he would have been if he’d actually opened the door. And then, it hit him.

The sudden need to pee.

It wasn’t a small sensation, either. It had sprung up on him quicker than a gundark tackling a nuna in the fields. The kid cursed his luck, and actually started to look around the bay to see if he had any alternate options. He could only imagine how upset Fel would be if he had to pee in a corner or something. Well, so long as he didn’t think about waterfalls or running faucets - kark, he just did.

Another hour passed, and the young scrapper was now streaming beads of sweat down his forehead. The stress was real. He had tried thirteen different circuit combinations, splicing twelve sets of wires, and stang-near overloading the ionic capacitor - nothing was working. His need to urinate had become a biological imperative at this point. His breath was coming out in ragged huffs, and he was wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve, which was fairly drenched now.

A small whimper escaped his lips as he came down to the last few circuit combinations. The panel’s interior was covered in scorch marks and slightly-melted wiring covers, to say nothing of the ton and a half wires that were strewn out and pinned up along the bulkhead beams. It looked like a bunch of ooglaks had gotten into the cargo bay - maybe that’s who Zane could blame all of this on. Yup. We picked up a bunch of ooglaks on Abilene. They’re all gone now though. The kid had vaporized them. He yelled at them, “How dare you mess up Cap’n Fel’s ship like that?” and poof - pink mist.

Another short. Wait…the door slid open.

”Kriff yes!!!"

The kid shouted so loud that the nearby bulkheads sang like they had been struck. Standing up, he darted out of the hold, not caring if anyone was standing nearby. Boots hit the floor panels like a stampede of Banthas running across the dunes as he shot into the nearby ‘fresher.

And then, finally…relief.

The approach to Nar Shaddaa was ‘easy’ enough. Nobody to hail, nothing to clear with orbital control or a defense fleet… nobody gave a shit. So on that score, approaching ‘Shaddaa was simple enough. And nobody was watching. I mean – loads of people were watching, but that was the good thing. There was SO much coming and going, and all of it (to one extent or another) illicit, that you had to do something pretty spectacularly stupid to stand out in the Black around Nar Shaddaa. Sure, there were larger factions, and folks to be paid off to stay in the Hutts’ good graces, but on the whole, approaching the Smuggler’s Moon was as simple as crashing. No, the trouble was not getting killed while doing it.

Because the place was a lawless shavitt-hole, there were no agreed-upon shipping lanes, no approach vectors, barely any sensor buoys to dictate where the hell you should be going on approach. You had to have your wits around you while descending to planetside, and even that was no guarantee you wouldn’t get broad-sided by some ancient scow or hotrodded snubbie. Fel was on his game though, and maneuvered easily enough (though there were a few choice words aimed at one of the Hutts’ blockade runners and a couple of nameless ‘ugly’ sec patrol boats) to the outskirts of the Refugee sector.

Another good thing about ‘Shaddaa, if there was an empty landing pad, it was “free for the taking.” That’s not to say there weren’t fees. There were. And depending on where you landed, you ran the very real risk of having your ship blown to bits if you had ‘taken someone’s spot.’ Which was why Fel landed in no-man’s land, outside the Refugee Sector, near enough to the Red Light district, and the Upper Industrial zones. They were nowhere. Which was just fine by Fel. Touching down on a nameless landing pad, with nothing but trash blowing about under his repulsors, Fel shut down all but the essentials. He wouldn’t be going anywhere until he knew who would be squeezing them for credits. It wasn’t a question of ‘if.’ Someone would. But there were as many flavours of scumbag on Nar Shaddaa as there were grains of sand on a beach, the question was, how dangerous was the scum who laid claim to this sector?

He didn’t strictly need to tell anyone aboard the UA to play it safe. They all knew well enough that this place could swallow you whole, a little tenderizin’, a little seasonin’ and down you went. But he planned on saying it anyhow, as he closed the shutters along the flight deck viewports, and moved aft, adjusting the weight of the blaster at his hip…

Aellyn grabbed her gear and stepped into the main room. She pulled the collar of her coat up around her neck as she saw the pilot emerge from the cockpit. “I’ll be out for a few days. I’ll give you a check in within twenty-four hours. It will give me time to find what I need for this Helix job.” She pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder, keeping it close. She hit the button near the ramp as it lowered. She didn’t wait for an answer or acknowledgement from him or anyone. She headed down the ramp and onto the platform, where she headed toward the nearest taxi station.

He didn’t stop her. What right did he have to do so? She was halfway down the ramp and out into the gloom of Nar Shaddaa’s mid-level semi-permanent twilight before Fel had even engaged his mouth. And so, he simply didn’t. He raised a hand, and simply waved as her back descended, turned and disappeared from view. “Good luck.”

The door to Jet’s quarters hissed open, and the man who stepped out looked markedly different from the tired mechanic who’d vanished into the ship hours earlier. He’d shed the sleeveless tank and workbelt, now wrapped in a fitted coat that hit mid-thigh, worn durafiber fabric reinforced at the shoulders and collar. The kind of gear that let you vanish in a Nar Shaddaa crowd, plain enough to forget, tough enough to bleed in. A wide-strap satchel rode diagonally across his torso, tucked snug beneath the opposite arm. His boots thudded with more purpose than his usual drag.

More telling than the gear was the prosthetic. It was whole again, still scratched, still war-weathered, but moving smooth, the internal motor whir barely audible. Jet flexed the fingers absently as he passed the galley, rotating the wrist once before letting it hang at his side.

He caught up to Fel near the ramp, “Gotta check on something,” Jet said, his voice low but steady. “Won’t be far and I’ll stay on comms in case anything breaks.”

The kid was walking out of the extra quarters he’d taken to fixing up over the last few days. He seemed a lot more well-rested - his eyes weren’t ringed with dark circles and seemed far less sunken, and the complexion of his skin had started to clear up. He had pulled the jumpsuit’s sleeves back over his arms and zipped it up - from what he had gathered from the rest of the crew, the place was seeming like it might be kind of cold out. The jumpsuit looked as nondescript as possible. As much as Zane wanted to stylize the bland uniform, he knew it would help him blend into a more-populated landscape. Parlo had taught him that, once upon a time.

His tech belt was the only thing that seemed to have any difference - well, that and the tac-sling that was holding his E-11 blaster rifle. The tech belt had all of the identifying markings ground out of the leather, as well as a few other scuff marks to make it look legit. The toolkits’ serial numbers - if they had any - were all filed off, save for the model numbers. Same with his E-11. It was an old scrapper trick he’d picked up during one of their swap meets. No serial number meant no way to track it, which also meant there was no way of knowing who the previous owner might have been. It may have been unscrupulous, but it was necessary. At least for now.

He’d fashioned one of the spare pouches into a temporary holster for the hold out pistol Fel had given him. He needed to see about getting that back to the old spacer, but he hadn’t found the right time in their travels to get that taken care of. Holding the small blaster in his hands with the safety on, he approached Fel as he saw Jet heading for the ramp.

”Hey boss? Wanted to say ‘thanks’ for letting me hang onto this for ya.” Holding the small blaster on the palms of his spindly hands, he offered it to the seasoned captain with a half grin on his features. Looking over his shoulder at Jet, his eyes flashed wide with realization, ”Ooh! Mr. Jet! You mind if I tag along with ya? My first time out an’ about on a new planet - I’d rather not go off half-cocked an’ lose my choobs on some place known as the ‘Smuggler’s Moon’, y’know?” The kid gave him his best grin, although it was also a fairly-nervous one.

The odd duo couldn’t have looked more dissimilar if they had coordinated outfits. Not that Fel felt the need to speak to everyone who left the ship, but Jet, and the Kid? Yeah. He faced his old partner, taking hold of his shoulder. “Take all the time you need. But don’t go looking too deep, if you aren’t ready to learn the truth.” He left it vague, but there was no chance Jet wouldn’t know what he was talking about. Turning to Zane, he looked at the holdout pistol, held out to him in the young man’s hand. “Keep it, kid. Just watch who you flash it to. Some folks here don’t take kindly to that. Step easy, and come back in one piece, you two.” He stepped aside, letting them step out and away.

Zane’s expression was an amalgam of surprise and confusion - furrowed brow, slightly-widened eyes, mouth slightly agape.

”Y-...You serious, Cap’n? I mean, if ya ever need it back, just lemme know. I’ll take good care of it, promise!” The kid holstered the holdout blaster back in the pouch on his belt, letting the mag-latch on the flap snap shut before wandering off with Jet, eager to see what Nar Shaddaa had in store for him.

Empty boat, except for Wrench, and the Baggage…

The Baggage had spent the rest of the flight sitting in silent shock on the captain’s bunk, staring wide eyed at the opposite bulkhead, flicking the twin blades in the toes of her boots in and out as she mindlessly mashed her toes on the trigger points.

It wasn’t often that people surprised her. When it did happen, it was rarely a good thing for her, and the evidence was scarred all up and down her body to prove that. It took many gentle years and a lot of luck to trust that the ‘verse wasn’t just full of horrors and shitstains, and only minutes to unlearn how (and why) to see the good. So when Eryn was left alone, unscathed and still breathing in the bunk after the med scan, something in her brain short-circuited.
Or, maybe it was in her soul.
If she still had one of those.
Whatever, the fact that this captain ‘Fel’ (as she’d heard the others call him) and his crew hadn’t done her any evils so far was taking her dark expectations for a joyride and she wasn’t enjoying any of it. His last words bounced around through her mind over and over again at high-speed, too quick and slippery for her to catch. ‘The bunk is yours. Get comfy. Have some food. Help yourself. Take a sonic shower. Free to go when we get there.’

Like………… the actual karkin’ kark? Not a hint of malice anywhere, no obvious ulterior motives?
How dare he. After she stole from him, hitched a ride without payment, caused property damage, how dare he just be a decent human being.
What the hell.

Eryn got up abruptly, palming the door with annoyance as she marched out into the hallway. It was time to go. For so many reasons, it was time to go. She couldn’t be around this kind of thing. It wasn’t good for her focused goals.
And she wasn’t good for decent folk.
The non-wicked ‘niceness’ of this spacer had upset her chaotically constructed house of cards, balancing on the foundational belief that everyone was trash and ‘good’ was just a manipulation tactic.
A fact the ‘verse had beat into her time and time again.

She tried hard to reassure herself on the walk to the ramp that it was all just a show to bring her guard down and then cut her open for black market parts, or sell her into slavery, or keep her aboard for abuse and use her meat for meals afterwards, or maybe he’d already learned of her bounty and meant to collect on the Smuggler’s Moon…
Maybe he was one of those people who lived by ‘favors’. He hadn’t mentioned it, but maybe now he thinks she owes him for not killing her, something he’d hold over her for power later on…

None of it stuck with the narrative she’d been shown, though. Her musings slid away as she approached the ramp, that overly familiar rusty, bloody, muddy, boozy, staticky, oily Nar Shaddaa air enveloping her with its rotten, gnarly arms. She could already smell the cheap perfume on sweaty skin from the Red Light Sector, and she was pretty sure they were nowhere near it.

She stood like a shadow, watching Fel give warm parting words to his crew as they all dispersed.
Her annoyance somehow skyrocketed and diminished all at the same time.

As their backs faded into the dark grime of the Smuggler’s Moon, Eryn pulled the dark scarf tucked into the collar of her jacket across the lower half of her face and came forward, arriving silent as a ghost at Fel’s side, watching as he did.

Truth be told, she had absolutely no desire to be back on Shaddaa. There was truth to the saying that you could disappear easily here, a haven for those wanting to fly under the radar. Usually, that appealed to her. But it was also the place everyone looked first when they were hunting a bounty or looking for a lost soul. It was hard to go a block without running into at least one being on the hunt, and even the fetid metal maze of the urban underside got crowded real fast when listings were hot on the holo-net.

But she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t stay with these people, not for much longer, it would interfere with her plans and heighten the risk of exposure to entities she’d rather not tangle with… and it’d endanger them.
But she knew she really couldn’t stay, because a tiny part of her wanted to stay, and that scared her.

“You’re really just gonna let me go?” She didn’t look at Fel, already mapping out where she’d go from the landing. “No strings? Just ‘bye, good luck’?”

He had been watching the two men depart, looking anywhere but back inside his ship. Hand on one of the hydraulic rams that supported the planetfall ramp. So it made sense that her voice arrived, behind him. She would have been listening for them, landing, discussing, departing. It’s what Fel would have done. So when she spoke, it wasn’t entirely a surprise. “That’s the notion,” he replied, to nobody in particular. The pilot glanced back for just the briefest of moments, over his shoulder at her. She did not meet his gaze.

“Here…” he said, slipping a small satchel off his shoulder and setting the bag on the ramp, stepping back, leaning against the support strut. There was plenty of space for her to pass by. “Ain’t much, but can’t have you walking out of here with your ass in the breeze.”

Inside were a hundred credits, some dried rations, and an old BR-14 blaster and a fresh charge. Not that she could see any of it from atop the ramp. He stood, arms crossed over his chest, looking out into the murk of Shaddaa’s gloom.

He was giving her…stuff?

Eryn approached the bag like a jumpy feral cat, suspicious but curious as she crept around Fel, taking full advantage of that space. Upon opening the sack and cautiously withdrawing some of the contents, she froze, fixing the captain with the most bombastic side eye she’d managed to date.

She opened her mouth but found she had no words.

There was something tiny but familiar, soft and mushy and poignant blooming in her chest atop the cold, deep acid scars of abuse. She spent a moment metaphorically stomping on it, desperately, running dark thoughts through her mind to counteract the discomfort. It helped, a little.

In the end, she slung the pack on her back and gave Fel a nod in thanks, which was all she could manage before slinking away into the Nar Shaddaa scenery. Eryn looked back once before disappearing into the urban sprawl, something she’d never done before. Hadn’t been a reason to do it until now. And for the first time since her life had been upended… she was questioning her mission.

Fel was alone on the Unfair Advantage. It didn’t happen often, anymore. Lots, in those early days, before Jet. Long before any of the current ‘crew.’ He still wasn’t sure how many of them were in for the long haul. He would’ve guessed most would head for greener pastures if they pulled off the heist. …If. He didn’t have much to do aboard-ship. He wandered. Engine room, mostly squared away. Galley, well-enough stocked, and not like ‘Shaddaa was home to such unimaginable delicacies that a shopping trip was on his to-do list. Hardly. The flight deck was, in a word, perfect. Just as he wanted it. Worn parts, paint rubbed off panels and items that were regularly handled. Modifications that made the ship a virtual extension of himself. The bunks… sure, they were a part of ‘his ship.’ But they weren’t his anymore, strictly speaking. So he steered clear of them. Even his own. It would have been an invasion of privacy.

In the back of his mind, he knew what he had to do. Didn’t want to. So he continued wandering. Checked the hold, grabbed a few tools off Jet’s workbench, and ascended to the dorsal hatch, stepped out onto the superstructure. Not something he got a chance to do very often. It was dirty, from a thousand re-entries and more than a few scars of laser-fire damage. The port Borstel cannon had been a degree or two out of alignment for better than a month, and he hadn’t had a chance to do anything about it. So for the next couple hours he sat, dismantling its focussing matrix. Sure enough, a servo was on its way out, and by the time Fel had replaced it, the brighter gloom was being replaced by a darker one. By the time he had put Jet’s tools back (they were in better shape than any of his own…) it was what passed for night, on the Smuggler’s moon. Time to do what he had to do.

Wrench was a creature of habit. Which was both good, and bad. But if the little droid, Fel’s oldest companion, followed his usual routine, he’d be powering down to plug in and charge up shortly. Sure enough, Fel found the little Astro droid on the flight deck, plugged into its custom-made astromech socket, on a soft power-down. Making the power-down, a hard ‘off’ was no simple feat, but it was made easier by the fact that Wrench was ‘sleeping.’ After that was done, Fel accessed the droid’s memory banks with an external terminal.

How long had it been? Fel had never wiped the droid’s memory. Not once. He believed, as many did, that the Astro droids developed a personality over the months and years of experience they gathered. He had been content to let go all the oddities and the headstrong streak that Wrench had cultivated. He had even leaned into it on many occasions. The short cuts, the jump memory, the secrets that little droid held, had saved him on more than one occasion.

But. What had happened with Eryn had been borderline dangerous. He’d let it go at the time, because what was the other option? There was a time and a place. And now was the time. Wrench was becoming a loose cannon. Of all the things aboard the UA that could, and did, act in an unpredictable manner, Fel needed Wrench to be rock-solid. Didn’t he? His finger hovered over the ‘execute’ button which would wipe R2-P47’s memory and reset it to factory standards. He looked over the dented and carbon-scored radome of the little droid, oblivious to his companion’s actions.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Fel had been made to kill before. Had willingly killed before. But had never killed a friend. There would be some other work-around for it. There would have to be. Wrench wouldn’t abide a restraining bolt, but Fel couldn’t kill his oldest friend. He unplugged the terminal and closed up Wrench’s access ports, thinking once more whether he was making the right choice. Exited Wrench’s diagnostic mode, letting him go back to ‘sleep.’ He’d have to answer for it at some point, because Wrench would know that he had been offline for nearly three minutes. But not now.

Fel walked back to the dorsal hatch ladder, ascended, and sat on the edge of the UA’s cargo mandible, looking out into the night. Once again, he wasn’t sure he had done the right thing. There was a lot more of that these past few weeks than he was comfortable with. He didn’t usually second-guess himself, good or bad. Maybe he was losing it. Whatever ‘it’ was.

Focus. Aellyn breathed in deeply as she stared out the window of her taxi. She had forgotten how easily the neon lights got to her. Was there such a thing as too much unnatural light? Her fingers rubbed her eyes, trying to make the feeling go away. But images of him, seeing his face, seeing the disappointing look of her walking away again. This heist will be her, no, their ticket out, like she mentioned to him. No more fighting, no more running. Aellyn paused, digging into her jacket and pulled out her data pad. The list of places, stuck in her head for years. This was her path. The endgame was him. Focus.

“Miss…” The droid stuttered, his head twisted back to her.

Aellyn looked up and saw her ride had made it back to one of the many landing zones. She could see the UA in the distance. They didn’t leave her, that was a good sign.. Opening the door, she moved the crate onto the path and pulled out a few credits, paying her fare. As the taxi sped off, she kicked the crate forward as it moved ahead of her. Her thoughts back to the Helix job.

“Kid will be an undercover hotel personal. Big guy is security. Fel said something about another face and possibly a high roller to help.” Aellyn thought more. That would be two people on the floor, showing their faces along with hers. However, she managed to get something to help with that. Too many variables still. Too many things to go wrong. What about the stow? She was good at getting in and out of tight spaces. Wonder if she would be at all interested? Aellyn stuck her hands in her pockets. Though, the girl would probably be long gone by now.

Or, maybe she was lurking in the darkness, shadowing Aellyn with intent.

Eryn hadn’t made it half a mile before turning back. The idea that she’d walked away from a situation with a bag of goodies, well wishes and no work done to make up for it all sat in her stomach like a bad bowl of glowblue noodles. Not because she wanted to repay kindness with kindness, but because now, no matter what he’d said about it, she felt like she owed Fel something. The invisible leash of an unsettled debt clenched around her neck, ready to haul her back at a moment of his choosing. It didn’t matter that he didn’t seem the type to collect. She felt it, she hated it, and she couldn’t outrun an I.O.U favor for long.

So, she’d taken up a watchful position atop a low roof with some visibility of the ship’s surroundings and waited for a convenient chance to return. Because like hell was she gonna just walk back in and face the music without some kind of cover story for her throwing in with them.

That the cover story happened to be the redhead and her giant floating crate was just luck at this point. Eryn had watched the big one..Jet? She’d watched him leave, considered following him, thought he looked a little too much like he wanted to be alone. But this one? Well, she had a big trunk thing in tow, something she hadn’t had leaving the port, and didn’t seem particularly hostile. In fact, there was almost a satisfied determined spring in Aellyn’s step.

…Also, she was the only other one who’d left the ship, so this was probably Eryn’s only shot at this point. So, she packed up her bag, left her empty ration wrapper and the remains of a piece of jerky she’d stolen on the floor like any good denizen of Nar Shaddaa, and slid quietly to the ground floor.

And back like a bad penny, there she was, the stowaway suddenly at Aellyn’s side, keeping silent stride with the mysterious red-head. “What’s in the box, Red?”

Dank Ferrik. Where did she come from? Aellyn kept her stride but the thought of pulling her pistol and shooting the girl came to mind. However, shooting her would be the easy path and the way of the smuggler's moon. She tilted her head toward the girl and huffed, both acknowledging and annoyed. “None of your business..” She responded as they both approached the UA. Stopping just short of the ramp, she let the crate settle on the landing pad. “Figured you would be gone by now? Not sure why you’re sticking around.” Aellyn placed her hands on her hips, leaning to one side. She looked the girl over.

”Unless you feel obligated to stay…which.. “ She thought about her next phrase. ”Could be useful to us.” She shifted her weight to the other side. “How much did you hear about the Helix job? I don’t trust the pilot enough to pick out a side partner for me. You, on the other hand, seem like a person that can talk and sneak her way out of things. If you are interested, of course. Decent pay day. ”

“Not here for credits.” First time she’d ever said THAT one. But she meant it. “Any other crew would’ve sold me for parts or spaced my ass back in the ship. Your lot didn’t. Scales aren’t even now.” Eryn pushed the hood back from her face and turned to face the woman, unprepared for the metaphorical fist of painful nostalgia that hit her in the gut when she noted Red’s pose, hands on hips, weight shifted to one side. All hip-y confidence and ‘get back’ attitude.

Just like mom used to stand.

She blinked hard and swallowed the clench in her throat, drawing a clarifying breath. “Don’t want anything else from you people. Just here to pay off my debt. I don’t like owing anyone.” Eryn cracked her knuckles, letting the sensation pull away any lingering emotion. “So I’ll sneak ‘nd talk, and whatever else I need to do for this Helix job, and then I’m done. Heard a fair bit. Could use a detailed debrief, though.”

Eryn slung her rucksack off her shoulder and tossed it on top of the woman’s crate. All going to the same place for now, she figured.

“Name’s..Mal, by the way.”

Aellyn grinned. “Alright, Mal. Let’s stow the crate and your sack. Then you and I, go get a proper meal? Go over the details?” She turned and pushed the crate up the ramp, ditching it into her room. She headed back down the ramp toward the girl. Wrapping an arm around Mal’s shoulder, she turned them heading back toward the taxi station.

The kid had stepped off the boat with Jet, a seasoned spacer who knew one heckuva lot more than Zane did about the Smuggler’s Moon. So, as with just about anything that didn’t have to do with Lotho Minor or any of its surrounding celestial bodies, the youth gave deference to the experienced. Jet had pretty much laid down ‘the law’ (if there was any to be told of) regarding the Red Light District.

Jet adjusted the strap across his chest, the faint clink of tools, weapons, or otherwise useful gear shifting at his side as he kept a steady pace beside Zane.

“Alright.. So we’re making our way through Nar’s Red Light, its own ‘warm welcome.’ You’ll get dealers pushin’ spice, dancers pushin’ dreams, and half the other folks pushing their luck.” He glanced ahead, scanning the ever shifting sea of bodies as the glow of signs bled through the smog. “Don’t make eye contact unless you’re buying, don’t flash creds you ain’t ready to lose, and don’t follow anyone toting anything that seems too good to be true” He paused, “Because it is.”

Jet’s tongue ran the inside of his cheek, sparing a glance sideways without breaking his stride, “If anyone separates us, shout out, loud.”

And like any good teenager worth his salt, Zane wasn’t listening to a bit of it.

He was far too enthralled with the idea of setting foot on a new planet. He never stepped off the ship onto Abilene’s soil; never saw the open skies that weren’t threatening to kill him at every turn, never got to breathe the good, clean air of a place that wasn’t an acrid cesspool. With this being only his second time to finally explore a planet, his eyes were wide with wonder and his ears were closed to anything that wasn’t the din of the Smuggler’s Moon.

It just so happened that they were approaching the very area that Jet was trying to warn him about. Zane stared straight ahead, noting that the streets (and wow, there were actual streets!) were becoming a bit more narrow, and there were a few people standing near the corners of the nearby buildings that – well, they weren’t exactly dressed too warmly. Save for a light jacket, the women were wearing hardly anything. Neither were the males, with the exception of a few of them. One such fellow - a red-skinned Devaronian, by the looks of him - came sauntering forward from one of the corners, dressed in what passed for a classy suit, a wild-looking fur coat, and a wide-brimmed hat that had holes cut out of the front so his horns could stick through. He had a few shiny necklaces made of what appeared to be aurodium and platinum, although they were actually some slightly-convincing knock-offs, and toting an aurodium-tipped cane with a knobbed head that looked like some sort of sea creature.

Giving the cane a quick flourish as he stepped in the way of Zane, the Devaronian pointed the cane at him just as Zane stepped into the tip. The kid winced, his brow furrowing, just about to object to the rough treatment as the Devaronian spoke in his gravelly, low tone.

“Hey…you sure you’re old enough to even be here, kid?” He said with a half-grin, reaching down to lewdly grab his crotch to emphasize his next statement, “Barely look like your gobbies have shifted…”

Zane’s head cocked as he rubbed the spot the being had poked him in, ”Old enough for what, sleemo? It’s a public street, ain’t it?”

The horned creature’s grin faded, apparently not taking too kindly to Zane’s objection, “You’ve got a smart mouth, ‘Junior’ – you tellin’ me you don’t know where you’re walkin’? This is Pleasure Point, princess! But you gotta be a grown-up if you wanna stay on this playground…”

Zane’s confused gaze went from the Devaronian over to Jet, hoping he could fill him in on what the “sleemo” was referring to. The horn-head looked over to Jet also, sizing him up with a wary eye.

Jet had seen it all before, more times than he cared to count. The flash of faux-aurodium, the puffed-up ego, the fake fur coat that reeked more of desperation than decadence. He could smell the hustle from meters away, kriff, he basically knew the script well enough to write it himself. But he wasn’t here for theatrics, or tricks of any other kind, and he sure as hell wasn’t here to lose the kid five steps into Nar.

He stepped up behind Zane, steady and unhurried. When the Devaronai glanced his way, just a flick of the eye, Jet didn’t give him the luxury to look away. He didn’t posture, or flex, but simply stood there, broad and scarred, gaze leveled with the kind of deadpan calm that spoke louder.

His voice followed, slow and even. “He’s old enough to decide where he walks.” A pause, barely a breath. “But you shove that stick at him again and I’ll break it off at the wrist.”

There was no heat in it, no barking threat, just a straightforward honest statement of intent. He let it hang in the air long enough to see the flicker of uncertainty crawl across the horny bastard's face. That wary sizing-up from earlier, yeah, he’d seen that look a thousand times over. The predator unsure if the prey was bigger than itself, and whether the risk was worth taking.

He didn’t need the guy to run, didn’t even need an apology, just to turn tail and leave. And when he did, swaggering as he made his way back to his back alley post, he spared Zane a sidelong glance, just for a moment. He let a few steps pass in silence before speaking.

“Eyes up next time, kid. Nar’ don’t care if you’re green nor grinnin’, it’ll chew through either just the same.” He looked back, not unkind but sharp. “You keep walkin’ like that, someone’ll make you pay for it.” A smile crept across Jet’s face, it would have looked ugly had he not started laughing belly first. “Least you didn’t punch him. That would’ve been my mess to clean up!”

The kid flashed a nervous smile back at Jet as they continued walking through the district. Trying not to let his eyes wander too much, Zane finally understood why this district was meant for “grown-ups” - every window seemed to have either flesh being peddled or some other sort of vice. A rather scantily-clad Rodian gave him a wink of her rather large eyes, cat-calling after him, “Ever had a blowjob from a Rodian before, big boy? It’s wild!”

Zane’s eyes sprung wide open at her not-so-subtle statement. ”Uh…nope, sure haven’t.” He stutter-stepped to catch himself back up with the master technician, their gaits practically the same, and yet, Jet’s was far more confident and assertive. The kid was able to see it in his walk, and the look on his face - Jet seemed to be on a mission. All Zane could do was grab the strap of his E-11 and hope that he’d have no occasion to use it.

The streets on Nar had changed. Not in the literal sense, but more from the observation of a man who once lived the life here, now living for someone else. Again. He couldn’t put his finger on it but he was sure the eyes that used to turn away from him as he walked, the stares that he caught that felt unwelcome, weren’t as afraid as they used to be. Like he had become a target they thought twice on whether he was a risk worth taking. Maybe it was the kid’s presence following him? Afterall, Nova never used to follow Jet around like this, she knew the streets just as much as he did, kriff, maybe even moreso.

The distraction was welcome. Thinking about the state he’d find his once thriving workshop was a heavier thought, and it was an uncomfortable thought at that, one he wasn’t ready to carry. Although the cartels had ‘promised’ to keep it protected, with how things changed hands around here, he wasn’t sure whether to expect it to be up and running under ‘new management’ or renovated into another spice den.

Rounding the final corner, Jet held his breath. A few short steps slowly revealed the shutters still down, although now covered in graffiti sprawled across it reading ‘Drekjawz Own This Row.’ He couldn’t help but smirk. The Drekjaws was a local swoop gang in the area which he had done repairs for in the past, maybe it was a way for them to protect the place, or maybe the whole thing had been forgotten and it was just an empty space to be filled with tags. Jet stopped a couple steps from the place, he took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, seemingly forgetting the kid stood next to him.

“This is the ol’ workshop. It's a wonder the damn building’s still standing. Not like I left it under the best protection, afterall…”

The kid stared at the building in wide-eyed wonder. It may not have looked like much to the average spacer or local, but today was a bit of culture shock for the teenager. He had scarcely seen a group of standing buildings that weren’t ramshackle huts in the middle of a sparsely-populated settlement. The fact that they’d just walked through two different districts of buildings that were several stories tall had Zane walking around slack-jawed for the past hour. The young scrapper watched the much-larger man walk up to the place, eager to see what was about to happen.

Jet stepped forward and planted his foot on the edge of the shutter, pulling it tight against the ground, and placed the palm of his prosthetic against the ridged metal. A small chime pinged from behind it and the shutter groaned open, the motor grinding against rust as it dragged the old durasteel upward. Somewhere inside, the familiar pitch of the defense grid gave one last tired whine before it faded into silence. It was still operational, and still keyed to his signature. That was something.

Jet lingered for a moment, allowing the shutter to raise enough before stepping through the threshold and into the light.

The air was warm, humming with quiet life. The old overheads glowed steady above him, casting soft amber across the cluttered floor. Music kicked in from the wall speaker in the corner, distorted synth over grinding pulse loops. One of Nova’s favourite tracks for soldering full throttle. Jet had always joked it would give him tinnitus. She’d just turn it louder.

The workbench was active. Tools lay scattered mid-project, a soldering wand still glowing faintly, wires stripped and coiled beside a half-disassembled rig. A caf mug sat on the corner, steam curling up in slow spirals. Her jacket, patched and grease-stained as always, was draped over the back of the chair.

She turned toward him with that look. Half proud, half annoyed, like he’d kept her waiting too long, hair in her face, smudge across her cheek. “Took you long enough,” she said, setting a tool down beside her. “I kept it running.”

Jet froze. His heart climbed up into his throat before he could stop it. He took a step toward her. The light, the warmth, the sound, it all wrapped around him like he had never left. Like she had never left.

A tear welled up behind his eye, forcing him to blink.

It all vanished.

Darkness swallowed the room. The silence was immediate, oppressive.

For a breath, nothing moved. Then, flick. The overheads sputtered to life in a jagged, uneven stutter. Cold light buzzed down from tired old fixtures, throwing long shadows over still, untouched surfaces.

Dust drifted through sharp sunbeams slicing in through the vent grates. It sparkled in the air, thick and slow. The workbench was dead. The soldering wand lay cold and forgotten.

Jet stood there, unmoving. The breath he'd taken on the way in still hadn’t fully left him. He exhaled, finally. A quiet, shuddering release that settled somewhere behind his ribs. Then, with only a glance back toward the rest of the shop, he spoke. “I got to grab some things. I didn’t exactly leave the place in my right mind. Help yourself to whatever you find. Tools, spare parts, doesn’t matter, it's not needed here. If you need me…” He paused, faintly uncertain. “Just, er, let me know, okay, kid?” and with that, he moved across the room to the office in the back, not waiting for a reply, the sound of his boots dulled against the dust-covered floor.

This place was a wonderland to a kid that had spent most of his life sliding down scrap heaps and salvaging derelicts. Zane observed the way that Jet seemed to look over the place, like he was seeing ghosts of a life long past phasing in and out of the walls. This place must have been an important part of the grizzled spacer’s past. The way he spoke of it, and the slight hint of irreverence for its contents made Zane wonder what exactly could have taken place within these walls that had Jet acting so uneasy.

Still, the kid wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to scavenge. From everything that he’d seen, this place was quite the aurodium mine. He spent the next long while carefully going through the shelves and tables, each and every level, trying to figure out what would be all right to get his hands on without making it seem like he was being greedy. He had an idea of what he was looking for, but wasn’t sure in what capacity he was going to come across it, if it was even here.

As Jet stepped into the office, the door sealed shut behind him with a hiss. The light in here flickered once, then steadied, just enough to see by. Dust blanketed every surface, same as in the main shop. He crossed to the corner where the wall safe sat, half-concealed behind a crooked vent panel. No scanner, no retinal reader, just a half-busted mechanical dial. With a flick of memory, he turned the same code Nova constantly ribbed him for never changing. The safe clanged open, coughing a puff of stale dust from its edges.

Inside sat a dark, weather-worn duffel. Heavy and, thankfully, untouched. He slung it up onto the desk with a grunt, unzipping it just far enough to peek inside. The contents were all there, just as he left them. He gave a quiet, hollow smile. A soft breath through the nose, and he zipped it shut again, slinging it over his shoulder.

Across the room stood an old storage locker, two, in fact, one his, and one Nova’s. Hers still had this cheap slap-on sticker that said “KEEP OUT” in deep, faded red. She had plastered it there back when she was just getting clever with boundaries. He opened it gently.

All her old stuff was there, relatively clean. Boots, tools, a few boxes labeled in her always-rushed handwriting. Taped to the inside of the locker door was a photo: Jet and Nova, shoulder to shoulder, grease-smeared and grinning like idiots. He remembered the moment, taken right after she’d finished her first job without his ‘interference,’ as she called it. He stared at it for a long moment before peeling it free, gently. A sad smile crept in as he tucked it safely into the inside pocket of his jacket, patting it flat with his palm.

As he went to close the locker, something caught his eye: Nova’s old tooldeck. He hesitated for a moment. Nova used to wear it like it was part of her, snapping tools into place like it was second nature, muttering to it like it might work faster if it liked her. Jet had tried it once but could never get used to it. It was too fussy, too automated, but Nova had built it to last.

Lying next to it was its slim visual display, barely more than a lens and a tiny arc of metal that hooked just above the temple and over the ear. Nova had always called it her ‘Eye’, Jet had joked it was her ‘Gremlin Eye’ more than once, but the name never took. He picked up both and turned towards the door.

When he stepped back into the main shop, he found Zane busying himself with scavenging the place. The sight brought a wry smile to Jet’s face. Anyone else caught doing this would have had a blaster bolt, but Jet was too busy reminiscing on how he first met Nova herself rummaging through his shop to even consider it.

”Hey.” Jet’s voice cut through the quiet without sharpness. He walked over and held out the tooldeck and Eye for Zane. ”My apprentice built this for herself. Wouldn’t ever work without it, swore by it.” He paused, just long enough to carry the weight of it. ”I’m lendin’ it to you. Now, you treat it right, and you bring it back when she’s home, okay, kid?”

Looking the tooldeck and the small contraption over, Zane accepted them both into his hands with a smile. ”Thanks, Jet. I’ll take really good care of it, promise!” He looked back over his shoulder at the collection of tables ringing the shop. ”Hey, any chance there’s some stuff in here that’ll give me some general knowledge about being a techie? Or maybe even somethin’ for this E-11? I wanna start puttin’ in some hours maintaining this thing, see if I can make it any better…”

Jet nodded toward the far workbench. ”Bottom drawer, left side. Bunch of old manuals, schematics, toolcharts.. Whatever else is in there, too. Feel free to see what you can find, some might be useful. Nova probably scribbled in them to update them as she saw fit, I’d follow her advice if you find it in there.”

He pumped his shoulder once, resettling the shifting duffel on his back and then turned away, walking towards a half-hidden door behind a lift gantry. “Join me up here when you’re done, let’s see if we can’t get you some of my old gear.”

The kid nodded energetically, moving over toward the place Jet had indicated. He watched the older spacer disappear behind the gantry and then began trying to outfit himself with the tooldeck on his left arm. It functioned like a gauntlet, and held multiple small, hand-held tools along the forearm. Zane supposed that the eyelet he had was used to interface with it, and it was possibly voice-activated? He carefully placed the eyelet into his upper chest pocket, compacting it down so it wouldn’t be at risk of being bent out of shape. Adjusting the gloved portion of the device by flexing his hands, the kid noticed a small inscription on the side of the gauntlet - an acronym, labeled “F.E.T.C.H.” He wondered what the whole thing stood for - probably something he’d want to ask Jet about in a bit. The next step was to start rummaging through the aforementioned drawer. Zane was eager to see what sort of forgotten treasures he would find there.

He slid the drawer out of its compacted position with a little difficulty, the metals protesting by way of a slight groan from lack of maintenance and underuse. Zane’s eyes widened unexpectedly when he looked down into what was the most interesting pile of unused tech he’d ever laid eyes on. Several small datapads with tiny printed labels on them - everything from “general tech” to “hyperdrive basics”. He went through them one by one, making sure the ones he had his eye on were still functioning before placing them on top of the workbench. There were even actual manuals printed on flimsi, and one of them just so happened to be a basic education manual on blasters.

”Thank you Jet…” the kid whispered to himself as he took the manual in hand and placed it on top of the workbench with the other materials. He also found the toolcharts Jet had mentioned, as well as a larger datapad with the label “schematics”. Nodding to himself that he’d probably gotten most of what he would ever need as far as technical aids were concerned, he carefully stacked the materials together on top of the flimsi manual he’d acquired before grabbing up the whole stack and walking carefully over to where he’d seen Jet disappearing into the shop.

The stairs creaked under Jet’s weight as he made his way up the grated walkway. The mezzanine hadn’t changed - just a bolted catwalk hugging the wall, leading to the narrow loft space above. Years ago, it had just been his breakroom, a cramped cot and a caf unit that barely worked. But after Nova started staying, he’d expanded it just enough to hold two. Added a privacy curtain, and an extra sleeping mat, small comforts crammed in hard corners.

He stepped into the loft and moved to his old locker first, easier task, easier mind. It opened with a metallic scream that hurt his ears, the hinges stiff with disuse. Inside hung old work jackets, utility vests, long sleeved tunics, all in neutral tones, breathable fabric, and nothing flashy. Jet sifted through them without thinking, pulling out anything that looked like it might fit the kid. A few lightweight coats, a few shirts, one of his old utility belts with a holster still clipped to its side.

He tossed each item onto his own bunk, building a small pile. Only when he was sure he’d done right by Zane did his shoulders sag slightly. Then, he closed the door, turning his head to avoid the same scream, and took a deep breath. Time for what he’d really come up here to do.

He stared at the lockers for a long second. Two broad metal bodies, scuffed with age and use. With a grunt, he grabbed the edge of Nova’s locker and dragged it aside. The screech of metal legs echoed like a dying Bantha. Behind it, half-hidden and flush with the wall, was a recessed panel, seam barely visible beneath the thick layer of gathered dust.

He knelt in front of it and slammed his fist along the panel's edge. It wasn’t meant to be opened again, not without a fight. The seam bent outwards just enough for him to wedge his fingers inside and pry it loose. The metal clattered to the floor with a dull thud. Inside, something lay wrapped in stained but airtight canvas.

He hauled it slowly, setting the bundle atop the bunk with more care than its weight demanded. He traced the fabrics edge until he found its tie, and then peeled it back. The dull, matte plating stared up at him: his old Republic field armour. Chestpiece, bracers, shoulder guards, all of it. The insignia burned at him, a stern reminder of a better time, but one full of horror and torment.

He sat still for a moment and let the canvas fall away to the floor. This was what he’d come for. That’s what he had told himself since Nar’ first came into view from the UA. The duffel, and this, his armour.

But as he stared at it, all laid out like it had been waiting, he felt it in his chest, the real reason. The stupid, impossible reason he’d actually come back here. The hope that Nova would be here. That somehow, by coming home, she would be, too. Waiting with her goggles pushed up, hands greasy, grin crooked. He clenched his jaw and rubbed the side of his face like he could wipe away the thought.

”Idiot.” He muttered, not sure if he meant the word for himself, or for the hope.

The chestplate still bore a carbon streak from the ambush on Felucia. He meant to fix it but never found the time. He ran his fingers down the armour's spine ridge. Cold, solid, but still serviceable. He’d need to retrofit it for the Helix job, hide the shape, change the colour, fit it to his shape now. Hide in plain sight under the guise of a bounty hunter, maybe. But it still had a job to do, and so did he.

Zane suddenly came around the corner, about to ask Jet if they were going to do some demolition (due to the absurd amount of noise coming from up here in the loft) when he noticed that the large-and-in-charge technician seemed to have begun doing so already. ”Ho-ly shaviit, bud! D’you need a hand here?!”

Jet glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Zane’s voice, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. ”Didn’t mean to sound like I was tearing the place down.” He tilted his head toward the bunk, flicking a thumb towards the pile he had made next to his armour. ”Pulled what I figured might fit. Nothin’ flashy but it’s a damn sight more than you got now.” He paused, ”Take what works, and there’s more in the locker if you wanna dig.”

The youth turned and took a gander at what was on the bed, walking over to the pile and picking up a couple of the articles of clothing. ”Whoa…thanks a ton, Jet! I was just gonna go buy something when we made our way back through the shopping district - although…” Zane paused as he considered something, ”...I’m actually a bit worried about trying to buy something from some of those stores. Most of the holodisplays showed clothes with more holes in them than a block of blue cheese.”

The smattering of different clothing had the kid grinning like an idiot. He hadn’t received any new clothes for at least four years now. The fact that most of his clothing had survived that long on Lotho and still managed to fit him through his growth spurts was incredible. He’d managed to steal quite a few hand-me-downs from some of the other locals sometimes, but for the most part, his stuff was “gently used” - except it was far from “gently”. As he continued looking, Zane glanced back down at the tooldeck and remembered what he wanted to ask. ”Oh, by the by…this deck you’re letting me borrow, it has a little acronym on it - ‘F.E.T.C.H.’? Any idea what that’s all about?”

Jet leaned back against the wall, his arms loosely crossed as he watched Zane sort through the clothes like he found creds in a junk pile. ”Yeah, Nar’s fashion scene ain’t what it used to be. Not unless you’re into shredded mesh and ‘expressive’ zippers.” He smirked faintly, then nodded toward the deck. ”FETCH, huh.” He huffed through his nose, almost a chuckle. ”That was Nova’s idea. ‘Fast Extraction Tool for Convenient Handling’. She slapped the acronym on it one night when she got tired of me calling it her damn wrist thing.” He pushed off the wall and gave a half-shrug. ”Does more than it looks like. You’ll get a feel for it soon enough. She built it smart, but the thing’s a little touchy.” He took a beat, his tone softened just slightly. ”She’d get a kick outta you usin’ it.”

Zane looked the device over once again, tracing the engraved letters with his fingertips, ”...That’s pretty wizard, not gonna lie.” The kid considered what the tool might be capable of. He supposed until he attempted to fire up the eyelet, he likely wouldn’t scratch the surface. There was something else that was also on his mind, but he wasn’t quite sure how to broach the topic. ”I hope this ain’t me pryin’, but I really don’t know a whole lot about you guys - an’ if you don’t wanna tell me, you ain’t gotta. But…would you mind tellin’ me more about you an’ Nova? Or just you in general. Like…what’s that armor about?”

Jet remained quiet for a beat, his eyes still on the armour laid out beside him. ”Armour’s from my time in the Republic,” he said finally, voice low but steady. ”Back when there was one, anyway. Before it all fell apart.”

He let that hang for a moment, no point trying to hide it from the kid. Hell, he was basically a fugitive now for his part back on the basilisk, no friend to the empire, at least. He brushed his fingers across the old insignia, wiping away a thin trail of dust like muscle memory. ”I wasn’t anyone special. Just another soldier who knew how to fix things.”

He sat back again, pressing his back to the cold wall, one boot braced on the bed's edge. ”After I left… Well, I landed here. Nar Shaddaa. Wasn’t much, but I could keep a shop running and stay out of the worst of the dirt. Then Nova came along, caught her trying to steal something from here, you know? Boy, did she think she was slick back then...” He chuckled once, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. ”I couldn’ve run her off. Maybe I ought to have, but she was sharp. Smart in a way you don’t learn in a classroom. So I let her stay, let her learn. Taught her how to do it right, y’know?” He glanced at Zane, the faintest tightness in his jaw. ”She ain’t mine by blood, but she’s family. She disappeared one day and I’m out there looking for her. That’s about as much as it is.”

The way the story was told to Zane had him enraptured by the time Jet had spoken the first word. Of course the kid knew about the Empire - it was all he had ever known. His father used to talk about them like they were the void itself; nightmarish stories that kept Zane up at night. Most of the kid’s life had been lived under the radar - he didn’t even have an Imperial chain ident code. Was born on a freighter, lived on it until his family hit Lotho - and like kriff the Imps were gonna come there and try to make sure everyone was “branded”.

Zane pulled himself from his moment of reverie and forced himself to have a weak smile, ”She sounds like quite the handful. Almost like my brother Marcus. He’s always been the clever one, ever since he could crawl.” He parsed through the rest of the pile of clothes in front of him, trying to decide what was the most practical, what would help him survive. Coats were good, cargo pants were better. And socks…void knows that those things were like diamonds on Lotho - everyone needed them, and they were in short supply. He began to stack them from left to right in order of importance as he continued his talk about Marcus, ”One time, I caught him scrambling out of his crib. He’d literally stacked his toys just right against the wall of it and used them to climb up. ‘Nother time, when he was older, we had to get away from a group of rowdy kids trying to jump us. Marcus took them on such a merry chase ‘round the town that they gave up out of sheer exhaustion. Parlo scolded us somethin’ fierce when we’d made it back - always told us ‘We gotta be civil ‘round here, and here you are just makin’ everythin’ worse!’” He did his best to make his voice sound deep and gruff as he imitated his caretaker. His voice trailed off for a moment, before his eyes darkened a bit, ”I really hope they’re both okay…if I brought the Imps down on ‘em, I don’t know what I’d–...”

The kid’s words caught in his throat, and he felt his eyes beginning to well up. He closed them hard - you couldn’t waste water on tears. Had other body parts that needed it more.

Jet listened, his expression unreadable at first, but his eyes stayed locked on the kid. Not many people got to talk that long without someone cutting in. Zane’s voice dipped near the end, the emotion pulling taut beneath the words, and Jet recognised it, not just the weight, but the effort it took to keep it together.

”Sounds like your brother’s got grit. And you do too.” He paused, just a second. ”You didn’t bring anything down on ‘em, kid. That blame game? It never ends. You run yourself in circles thinkin’ what you could’ve done. But truth is, sometimes we just end up where we end up, and it’s up to us what we do with it.”

He looked down briefly, then back up with a quiet sincerity. ”We’ll get word. One way or another. And when we do, you’ll be ready. Smarter, tougher, better equipped. That’s the whole reason we’re out here.”

Jet reached over and clapped him gently on the shoulder, just enough to be grounding, not crushing. ”Now grab your haul. Time we got back.”

Closing up the workshop was quieter than Jet expected. Bittersweet, maybe, but mostly just still. He took one last glance around the place, flicked off the lights, and sealed the shutter with the same grumbling groan it had always made. It echoed longer than he had liked.

The walk back was uneventful. Nar’s streets buzzed as they always did, noise and neon and never enough air. Jet led the way in silence, not rushing, but not dragging either. The city didn’t press in as hard this time. Maybe because they had what they came for. Maybe because leaving was easier.

By the time the UA came back into view, nestled quiet on the landing pad like it was doing it’s darndest not to be noticed, Jet felt the weight of the duffel a little more than he had before, but also the sense that something, however small, had been put back into place.

He hit the ramp controls, and the old bird let them back in with a hiss and a hum, like it hadn’t even noticed they’d left.

Wrench wheeled up to the Dejarik table, bumping his nose-wheel into the bench, waking Fel from a light, image-filled slumber (his mind turning in circles about the heist, as it had been ever since opening the wave from Abilene… Fel was aware that this couldn’t continue, not if he wanted to be at his best for the most important job they were likely to ever pull off.) The Astro droid bleeped and whirred that they had a full house, and Fel thanked his dented, multicoloured copilot, rising from his seat, cursing that he’d let his head hang down as he snoozed, rubbing at the new knot in his neck. He slapped the droid on part of his sparsely-painted, green radome, rubbing at some carbon scoring and chipped, missing paint, showing the unadorned duralumin beneath. “Mebbe time for a new coat of paint, tin man… How do you feel about orange?” Wrench replied that he was fine just the way he was, and that orange was reserved for reactor droids. The binary came out with an inflection that made it seem like he was judging Fel’s terrible, derisive choice. In reality, Fel just thought Wrench would look good in a burnt orange, and that he hadn’t seen too many Astro droids in that colour …now he knew why. “You’re right, ‘Co.’ You’re just fine the way you are. Prep us for liftoff, Wrench. We’re heading across this moon to get a passenger, soon as we’re able.” Wrench acknowledged, and spun off for the bridge.

He moved aft to the workshop, finding Jet and the Kid, squaring away their take. “Find everything?” he inquired. The question was simple enough, and there was more than enough gear here to indicate that they had indeed found all they needed, and more… but reading between the lines, Fel fixed Jet with a glance that said more than the words could. He was asking about something more personal than the workshop. He moved over toward Zane, running his fingers over the surface of the gauntlet. “This hers, partner? …you wear it well, Zane.” The pilot looked at the various tools and functions of the glove, seeing how it could be made to be modular. “...make this thing work for you, Kid. It’s only useful if it does what you need it to.” He cast a wan smile the Kid’s way, clapping him on the shoulder, before turning to Jet. “We’re going to gather up Morrik Venn.” Fel knew Jet would remember the gambler they once transported out of Toydaria. “Be on your guard. He’ll steal anything that isn’t bolted down, and as much as I’d rather cut his hands off for trying… we kind of need him.” Fel nodded at his old friend. He knew there was more that needed saying, but it wasn’t the time. As he made his way toward the Port hold, he mused to himself, just within earshot of the two men in the workshop, “Still… we pull off the heist, we could afford to cut off his hands, and just buy him replacements…”

He considered looking in on ‘the girls…’ but even the thought of referring to them as such made his skin crawl. The two of them were less ‘girls’ and more sabre-tooth cats... Something deadly, at any stretch. In any case, he knocked on Aellyn’s bunk door, calling through rather than waiting for permission to enter. “We’re taking off shortly. Not breaching atmo, just relocating so I can collect Venn. Anything you need to clear up before we’re airborne, now’s the time…” It wasn’t the clearest of instructions, not the most up-and-up method of passing on their itinerary… but it would do, until they had Venn aboard, there was no point in sitting down to discuss the finer points of their shitshow.

He returned to the flight deck in time for Wrench to tell him he’d taken far too long, and that they weren’t efficiently managing their time, to which Fel simply sighed. He lifted off, buttoning up the ship and pulling up the ‘gear. Flying across Nar Shaddaa was an exercise in focus. There was so much that could distract – even more than on Coruscant, in Fel’s estimation. “Just another pristine tower” only held his attention for so long. But the oddities of ‘Shaddaa, the abject poverty slammed up against the opulence, the violence and the excess. In a way it was a visual feast, but it was also a sad trainwreck that made simply being here, difficult and painful. Galdaart couldn’t imagine living here for any real length of time.

It took a little over a quarter of an hour to get to a landing pad in the Corellian Sector. He set down, dropping the ramp, and showing the dock-master the appropriate paperwork (for a ship called the Unita-7.) Credits changed hands. The UA would be fine for the hour he’d be gone, though the dock-master looked at the ship, and by extension, Fel, as something he might’ve stepped in.

Galdaart strapped his Power5 to his thigh, and disappeared into the crowd, turning up the collar of his jacket to the wind. He was inside the ‘Grinning Jackal’ a few minutes later, having joined the crowd that had gathered to see Morrik Venn play. By the looks of him, he was many, many hours into his session, hair touseled, eyes bleary behind his black-lensed glasses, no fewer than three empty glasses in front of him. It took some doing, but Fel moved around the table, moving amongst the crowd, to a place where Venn would be able to see him. Another few minutes passed, another hand won, before Venn took note of the spacer, nodding almost imperceptibly. He motioned to the pit boss, and asked for a recess to go to the ‘fresher. The crowd dissipated a little as the action slowed, Venn’s mountain of chips neatly stored away for “safe-keeping” while the card-sharp excused himself.

Fel stepped outside, leaning against a lamp-post across from the Grinning Jackal. The alarm went off a few moments later, but by that point, Venn had already appeared beside him, wearing a borrowed overcoat. Fel let him sweat a moment, in no rush to depart. ”Fierfek, Fel – If we’re going, let’s get gone, already!” The man was twitchy, and Fel smiled up at him. ”Not before you pay me back what you owe me, you dirty son of a bantha…” He was calm, collected, and worst of all – patient. Security was pouring out the front doors of the Jackal now, and Morrik Venn was no doubt feeling the squeeze. He handed over a bag, which Fel hefted, glanced into briefly. “Your chariot awaits, Mr. Venn…” he flourished an invitation to walk back toward the UA, which Venn all-too-hastily accepted. They walked away just as the authorities pulled up in front of the Jackal, blocking the main doors and running inside. Bystanders were taking note, and crowding around, just as Fel and Venn slipped away. ”Took you long enough, you bastard.” Fel smiled thinly, not bothering to look at the man sweating beside him. “How much did you take the place for?” They walked in silence for a bit, before Venn replied, under his breath, “Not nearly as much as we’re about to pull…”

They were back aboard the UA within the hour, and Fel lifted off, blasting offworld and into hyperspace, with Venn under lock and key (and the watchful eye of Jet.)