Hurt Vector - 03 . Coincidence
Title: 03part . Coincidence
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG+
Warnings: Lots of Star Warsy cursing
Words: 4,117
Fandom: Star Wars
Beta: None
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: A flashback and a bar crawl. What could feel more like home?
Author's Notes: Not exactly new per se, but an update to something I was working on in the past. I'm hoping to convert this into an actual background story that I might finish at some point.
EDITED: 08.05.2009 13.06.2009
(Fan Fiction List)
03part.Coincidence
I step around the small, circular plastisteel table and lean against the kitchen counter. There’s a cup of stimcaf in my bare hands and a conversation moving speedily along in this small rest lounge. I scratch my nose and filter out the voices. The Kel Dor twins are back again, sitting at the table I just passed by and chatting up a storm.
Speaking of which, there’s a blizzard outside. I know there is because I was just there. Outside. Freezing my fingers off trying to quickly harvest some salt crystals before the storm got worse.
It’s like a never-ending whirlwind of ice and snow on this planet. Why did I get transferred here?
“Jayn, you’re doing it again.”
I look up from the lightly swirling brew of caffa in my favorite mug. The closest twin, a slight shade lighter than his brother, pokes me in the leg. The mask and goggles are blocking his features, but for some reason I can still make out their expressions pretty well. Must be a gift, I guess.
“No I’m not.” I take a sip of my too-hot drink and wince as the just-made caffa burns its way down my esophagus.
The other twin laughs-an odd, wheezing sound garbled further by the mask.
“Then answer the question,” the first twin prods.
I take another sip and roll the caf around my tongue, savoring the intensely painful burning sensation. I won’t be able to taste anything for a week, at least. That’s probably a good thing, as the food here isn’t fit enough to feed a starved bantha.
Maybe it was my attitude. Is that why I got transferred here?
“Okay,” I admit. “I was spacing out again.”
The second twin shakes his head. “Haha, I knew it.”
“Yeah, me too.” The first twin giggles, an oddly effeminate sound coming from a very male Kel Dor
“Well,” I ask, trying and failing to keep the exasperation from my voice, “What was the question?”
“Do you believe in coincidence?” The second twin asks.
I consider it. “Well,” I think out loud. “The Jedi don’t believe in coincidence. They believe in the Force. The Force guides us. There are no accidental events. Everything happens for a reason.”
“But we didn’t ask what the Jedi thought,” the second twin remarks.
I blink. It’s subtle, but the color of his skin is changing. Odd.
“No, I suppose you didn’t.”
“Well,” the first twin urges. He raises a hand to point at me. His fingers are blue.
“Well what? You two got here from the same place I did. Too many padawans. Not enough masters.” I take another sip.
A shiver runs down my spine. Is the heating system malfunctioning?
“That’s not an answer, Jayn.” The second twin shakes his head.
As if watching a holo on slow-motion, his goggles slowly peel away from his face and fall out of sight. His skin turns several shades of ice-white. His mask falls to reveal the pronged mouth of the Kel Dor. “What are you staring at,” he asks as clumps of skin turn from white to black. Portions of his face bloat as liquid gathers beneath the skin and promptly freezes.
My stomach flips as my medical training kicks in-signs of advanced frostbite.
I look to the other twin. Blisters and sores begin to open over his pale skin. The flaps of mouth around his prongs are purple, gathering small ice crystals.
“Coincidence, Jayn,” he says as one of the prongs falls away from his agape mouth. “Did it all happen for a reason?”
Or was it just bad luck?
[16:10:05]
115 Days Post Order 66
“You’re small for a Mandalorian.”
I gasp within the secure confines of my helmet, choking down air and blinking rapidly. My face feels damp, but I’m in no position to take off my bucket and check what’s wrong. My eyes swivel in and out of focus.
I almost forgot where I am.
Got lost in a different time. When my name was something different than what it is-Yain. Not Jayn. Or Jin. Or any variation of the aforementioned. When I was capable of following an actual schedule. Wake up at dawn. Shower. Work. Eat. Sleep. Do it again. And again.
I look to the tiny dot in the top right corner of my HUD and request a weak adrenal stimulant. It'll wake me up, some. I can reminisce when I'm done with this job. My suit automatically injects the chemicals directly into my bloodstream.
A sweet sting at the back of my neck. Cold down my spine. I can feel the stim traverse my system and reach my heart. It's like a cup of stimcaf, but better. I blink, and force my tired eyes to focus. I zero-in on the speaker, a Mirialan spacer, and balk-a luxury a faceless mask like my helmet offers.
Vicler Merson, smuggler and picture perfect example of the scum of the galaxy. His green-tinged skin is a little on the gray side, probably from heavy exposure to suns different than the one in his home planet’s system. A suspiciously steamy drink nestled between his heavily tattooed hands spews gray fog over the grime-encrusted table of the booth we’re in.
Unlike most Mirialan I’ve encountered in the past, Vicler’s face tattoos are asymmetrical, with an extra row of diamonds above his left brow than his right. Short, unkempt dark hair sits atop his head. A lightly faded scar cuts horizontally across his face, from one cheekbone, across the bridge of his nose, to the other cheekbone.
I contemplate giving him an additional scar.
“You’re gray for a Mirialan,” I reply instead.
The spacer breaks out into a grin. He downs the steaming drink in one shot, slapping the glass down noisily on the table.
“I thought it was you,” he says.
Though my visor’s focused on Vicler, I glance at the two ornery looking red-skinned reptilian near-humans guarding the back room of this crowded cantina. Two Nikto is overkill, and it's clear they both know it. The one on the left sways slightly as he brings an unlabeled bottle to his mouth. Alcohol spills over the side of his scaled mouth and down his chin, while the one beside him busies himself with the attentions of a Twi'lek. Unprofessional. I subdue the urge to show them just why you're not supposed to drink on the job.
I return my attention to the Mirialan. “I thought all Mandalorians look the same?”
The Mirialan laughs. “I’d be hard pressed to find one smaller than you.”
I shake my head with a hidden smile and glance at my HUD’s 360° view of the cantina.
A yellow tinted cloud of smoke, spice, and deathsticks colors the low-ceilinged sub-level cantina aptly titled The Stuck Sorrusian. Circular in layout as opposed to rectangular, a round bar sits at the center with a human tending the front half facing the steep staircase leading to the exit while a MixRMastR robo-bartender serves the other half. The droid faces the entertainment area where a Bith Band holo-recording plays yet another generic song to lighten the mood.
Between customers, the human bartender occasionally glances in my direction with a scowl. Probably trying to decide between pestering me to purchase a drink or to leave me be.
Preferably the latter. I’m not feeling all too thirsty.
From the gambling section I’m currently sitting in, stuffed past capacity with Sabacc card tables and twice as many inebriated players, I have a good view of all the exits and entrances. No windows though, since this place happens to be underground to maintain a cooler atmosphere-perfect for the less than savory interactions taking place directly across the cantina. My view of the Dancers’ area is blocked by the central bar, but I can still see the occasional stray lekku of one of the slave girls as they dance the poles. Unless I absolutely have to, I’d prefer to avoid swinging by that side of the cantina.
“Been a while since I last saw you Y-”
“Jin,” I interrupt.
“…Jin,” he concludes, arching an indelicate eyebrow.
I shrug. “Indulge me, will you? And fancy meeting you here. Had I known you were in town, I’d have given you a call.”
“Liar.” He rests both arms on the table and leans towards me. “You vanished. Poof. Gone. In one night. If you meant to contact anyone, someone in our circle would’ve heard about it. Jin.”
I slam shut the memories of that night, and instead mull over how much is pertinent to reveal for his peace of mind. I’m going to go with… uh. Nothing.
“Something came up.”
“Yeah. I bet.” He frowns, pausing to pinch his chin in irritation. His fingers obscure the column of diamonds that trail from his lip straight down to his chin in a pseudo goatee. He adds: “And your old boss? Cujo? He isn’t too happy with you leaving like that.”
Thank you for your input, Captain Obvious.
“Mmm…” I hum noncommittally. “I haven’t run into any hunters yet, so he can’t be as angry as you say.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Vicler shrugs and signals the human bartender for another round of drinks. “Could be they’re just avoiding you.”
I wish that were the case. “Yeah? And why would they do that?”
The Mirialan arches one eyebrow as he reclines further into his seat and lazily points at the beskar plate over my abdomen. “I know what those stripes are for, Jin.”
No. You don’t.
I roll my shoulders back slowly, achieving a resounding crack from my spine loud enough to be heard over the noise. “Could be those,” I say. “Or it could be the nice weapon or two that found their way into many a hunter’s hands, through me.”
“Don’t give yourself too much credit. It’s not like you were in charge of any deals made back then.”
I laugh. “Luck, Vic. Luck and good timing.”
A second MixRMastR equipped with a repulsorlift glides to our booth and sets down two drinks similar to the first one the spacer brought with him.
“Took you long enough, tin can,” the Mirialan snaps as he plucks the closest shot glass from the table and swishes the liquid within it in front of his face.
The droid let’s loose a quick apology and floats away.
Vicler nudges one of the glasses towards me. A quick rundown of the chemicals in the weak stimulant I just injected into myself not two minutes ago runs through my mind. I compare them to the contents of the drink, which I recognize on sight. Two years of working in a cantina, and a lifetime of medical service, all collide to this one moment-determining if this one highly insignificant alcoholic beverage is going to knock me off my toes.
Time well spent.
I pop the seal on my helmet, easing it off my head and setting it down on my lap. My braids fall over my shoulders, just long enough to graze the top edge of my collar plate.
I reach forward and grab the shot glass, holding it in front of my nose. It smells foul, with a hint of a spicy undertone. I take a second sniff, conclude it won’t kill me, and then down the drink. Vicler follows suit and our glasses hit the table at the same time.
“So tell me, from one sleemo to another,” he says as an easy grin spreads across his lips. “What are you doing on this backrocket planet?”
I look to the side and strum my gloved fingers over the table as I watch the Sabacc players.
“Sifting the noise for breadcrumbs,” I tell him as I shift to the side and pull out a personalized datapad from my hip pouch. The pad details my target, from the basic appearance down to his specific medical skills-though his unusual extracurricular talents are nowhere to be found. I tap the datapad on and hand it to him.
This could go bad. Things can always go bad. And when I’m in the picture, they usually do.
But even after all this time, I still kind of trust this chakaar.
Vicler briefly skims over the information. “Hmmm… A Cathar, huh. ”
“I’m not in the circles now. I only hear so much, and shaking down the locals only gets me so far.” I suppress the urge to stare and get a touch on what he’s feeling.
Oblivious, he nods and returns the datapad to my side of the table. “I’ll look into it. But it’s gonna cost you.”
“Nothing comes free.” I shrug my bucket back over my head and reseal it shut. My HUD flashes a few times before buzzing back to life.
“Except that drink,” Vicler says with a half smile and claps his hands. “There’s a reason I’m here, though bumping into you was a pleasant surprise.”
“Is that so? I can’t imagine a smuggler like you doing business in a place like this,” I deadpan.
He ignores my jibe. “I landed in one of the northern ports a few days ago. Pad ML-262. Unfortunately my ship’s been having some… trouble with the transponder codes lately. Usually mismatching codes don’t cause the local syndicates to bat an eye, but with the Imperial regiment moving in…”
I’m not sure I like where this is going.
“…well, I’m locked dirt-side.”
I nod. “So, you’re still flying that YG series hunk’o’junk.”
“Hey, hey. Don’t go calling Yun’Puna a hunk of junk. She’s my hunk of junk.” He shook his head. “Anyway. Lucky for me, most of my cargo switched hands by the time the locals caught wind of my little situation.”
Great. I lean forward to rest my elbows on the table. “Most?”
“Aha. This is where you come in.” He waggles a tattooed finger at me. “There’s an Aqualish who frequents this cantina. He holds the codes to the tractor beam keeping me landlocked. Get me the code and I’ll give you a slice of the last shipment of candy. Maybe let you know where to get some more… And I promise to give you a buzz if I hear anything about some wayward, pant-stitching Cathar.”
Pant-stitching? Huh.
Pressing my palms flat on the table, I rise from my seat. “Where is he?”
Vicler points to the cluster of Sabacc tables. I scan the dense crowd and see nothing but a solid mass of tentacles, head tails, and fur. A moment passes before I spot the single Aqualish in the midst of the gambling section.
I look back to Vicler. “If I wasn’t here…”
He smiles. “I can do my own dirty work fine, I just prefer to get someone else to do it for me… preferably someone with armor.”
Ah. “That’s comforting.”
I ease out of the booth, pausing at the end of my table to knock the toes of my right boot against the back of my left, and then repeat the motion with the other leg. Have to make sure my legs won’t buckle from lack of proper circulation, after all. No amount of stims will help me if I fall from my own stupidity.
As I slowly pace around the gambling section, I observe the cluster of Sabacc tables. It doesn’t take a Lorrdian to sense the tension in the crowd. I can feel it in the air, like a chord of a gasan string drum pulled too tight. It’s a familiar feeling, one that reminds me of the time I spent in Nar Shaddaa.
It briefly occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t have left. Too late now.
The deeper into the cluster of tables, the more crowded it seems to be, with at least five spectators shouting their approval just around the Aqualish. I adjust my position to get a better look, and note he’s playing with a male Twi’lek. Their table is cluttered with cards and jawa juice bottles, with barely enough room for the rapidly growing pile of Outer Rim currency in the center.
The Aqualish certainly looks ready to fall out of his chair at the slightest distraction, and the Twi’lek doesn’t look far behind him on the inebriated scale.
An idea comes to mind.
I prep my dart launcher, discreetly switching out the darts for small, translucent pebble-like ammo. The projectiles are soft enough to avoid shattering glass, but strong enough to give a good wallop to anything it collides with.
I position myself somewhere behind the Twi’lek player, waiting for the right moment… There. As he lays down his cards with a flourish, I fire the shot.
My gauntlet bobs lightly from the recoil. The Aqualish suddenly lets loose a roar of drunken fury and leaps from his seat, his lower body clearly soaked in the alcoholic beverage previously sitting closest to him on the table. Obscenities are hurled like party favors. In under a second the otherwise calm crowd warps into a blur of movement, violence, and screaming.
I approach the crowd, only to be blocked by one of the pair of Red Nikto I was observing before. This one’s only got a single blaster out, and he looks barely capable of standing on his own two feet. Red Nikto sneers at my visor, though his skittish, wandering eyes belay his nerves. He jams the blaster against one of my chest plates, knocking hard against the metal armor.
He hisses. “Ki uba naga?”
“Step aside.” I state.
“Ne buda sleemo.”
“Last chance.”
“Tah-koh tee womp rat e’nachu.”
“Womp rat food, huh.”
In the space of a second I twist the Nikto’s wrist, forcing him to drop the blaster, and then slam my knee between his legs. He let’s loose a high-pitched, utterly agonized sound that, despite the padding lining the inside of my bucket, still manages to resonate inside my skull. I let go of the broken wrist and drop him to the floor, careful to step around his whimpering form.
A Weequay appears from the edge of the crowd, arms wind milling as he rages and swings a metal rod around as a weapon. He catches sight of me and hurtles forward, spit flying from his open mouth and oily braids whipping about his head. I step into the lunge, knock the metal rod uselessly to the side, and punch him once in the face. Blood explodes from the broken nose, spraying my visor and the curious spectators around me, as his head snaps back and he falls to the ground.
The dust settles in a few moments.
The other Red Nikto is still standing by the door, armor in disarray and two blasters out-one of them smoking so heavily I doubt it would be able to fire anything but more black smoke. Most of the Sabacc tables have been knocked over, with cards and gambler droids littering the floor in pieces. Seats are overturned, a few bodies lie on the ground, and whatever card players left behind are busy scooping up gold-rimmed currency chips from the floor.
It’s just like Nar Shaddaa. Cantinas really are one of the only reliable constants in the known universe. After death, and taxes, of course.
I step over the unconscious Weequay at my feet, intending to locate the Aqualish. Luckily for me, I don’t have to go far. His back faces me and he’s swaying side to side.
I tap the Aqualish on the shoulder. His growls are slurred and less intimidating than those from a toothless baby strill, despite coming from a pissed off bald-headed long-tusked Aqualish like himself. He peers over his shoulder at me, beady eyes squinting in the low light.
“Hi chuba da naga, mando?” he angrily slurs in Huttese.
“You head of security detail of Northern Landing Pad ML-262?”
He scratches his head, heavily wrinkled face flushing two shades darker than what he’s supposed to be. “Tagwa,” he grunts in the affirmative.
“Good.” I shove him, hard, in the back.
He stumbles, rights himself, and then spins around with a roar. I register the glint of a vibroblade a split second after I react. I sidestep, dodging the uncoordinated assault, and then step forward to slam my helmet into the Aqualish’s face. I hear a loud crack. He crumples to the floor.
I kneel down to do a quick search of his pockets. I pull out a small pouch holding about a handful of wupiupi, a datapad, and a few small caps of what looks like illegally smuggled Ryll tablets.
There’s an unidentified smear on the left side of my visor. Cleaning this is going to be a pain in the shebs.
The rest of the arguing patrons avoid looking directly at me as I navigate the mess back to Vicler. He’s still in the same booth, legs propped up on the extended cushioned seat, with his hands behind his head in an utterly relaxed position. I toss the datapad on the table, the codes blinking clearly in the dark atmosphere.
“I was always jealous of you,” he says with a boyish smile, cheeks dimpling and eyes squinted in pure, unadulterated pleasure.
“Yeah.” I pinch one of the Ryll tablets between my fingers and hold it out for him to see. “This wouldn’t be the stuff from your ship, would it?”
His boots hit the floor and he leans forward to analyze the tablet without taking it from my hand. Smart man.
“Negative,” he responds after a few seconds of rubbing his chin. “But if you’re willing to swing by the hangar, I can get you more of the special quality stuff. I’m sure someone in Nar Shaddaa will pay a pretty penny for it. And that’s where you’re headed next, isn’t it?”
“Seems like the smart thing to do.”
He climbs out of the boot, tucks the datapad into his vest, and pauses to stare at my visor. His lips make a little ‘o’ shape as he adjusts his hair.
I slap him upside the head. “Di’kut.”
Instead of retaliating, he just laughs. “All right, all right. Impatient not-male female. Follow me.”
[16:10:05]
Four Hours Later
“Welcome back, master. You’re home.”
I step into the cockpit and set my helmet down on the flight console as I drop bodily into the chair. I briefly take in the blood red sunset sky of Tatooine through the transparisteel windows before looking over at Nate.
“Home?” I ask as I lean forward to switch on Jate’kara’s engines. The ship rumbles to life, causing the many lights of the console to flash in accordance. Everything looks settled and good to go.
“Yes, master. You sleep, eat, and spend ninety percent of your free time within Jate’kara, despite informing me many a time that she is haunted.”
The repulsors make a heady noise. Even from here I can hear the power couplings shaking in the engine room. Below us, Mos Eisley spaceport shrinks steadily as we gain distance.
“Astute observation, Nate.”
“Thank you, master.”
Jate’kara breaches the atmosphere easily enough, and soon we’re drifting in orbit around the planet. It’s nearly the same sight as when we first arrived, with one sun blocked out by the planet while the other shone bright red.
I hurt in all the wrong places.
“Nate, set up a course for hyperspace. I want to be landing in Nar Shaddaa within the week.”
I kick my boots up onto the flight console, nimbly avoiding the mistake of accidentally pressing a wrong button, and settle back in the pilot’s chair. The old cushions creak noisily as the chair bends backwards to compensate for my position.
Nate beeps a soft melody as he takes control of the ship. Between us, the comm unit begins to flash. I lean forward and press the button to accept the call. Vicler’s form, comfortably reclined in a pilot’s chair of the YG series variety, shimmers vibrantly on my flight console beside my boots.
“Thanks for the help, Jin-Yain.”
“My name will do, on secure frequencies.” I roll my eyes. “And no problem… just one thing.”
“What? Don’t tell anyone?”
“…yeah.” My right hand aches.
He frowns, brows creasing slightly and warping the diamond tattoos over his brows. “Kind of hard to keep a Mandalorian sighting quiet.”
“A Mandalorian ransacking a cantina isn’t unusual, Vic. And in the long run, we really do look all the same. It’s an advantage.” The glove of my right hand takes some effort to pull off, and once it does I can see why. I grit my teeth as I massage my bruised and swollen knuckles. “Besides. No one would admit to getting flattened out by someone my size. It’ll be exaggerated. I’m not worried.”
Vic presses his lips in a thin line as he leans forward to tamper with the out-of-sight controls of his ship, silent. The moment stretches on.
I stare at the back of my fist. It’s a mess of black, blue, purple and red, but otherwise fine. Nothing’s broken, so a bacta bandage should do the trick. That’s the last time I hit a near-human square in the face.
Vic sighs. “What are you running from?”
A soft hiss escapes me as I rub the point between my first and second fingers. I shift in my seat to slightly lift one leg and cross my ankles on top of the console, and then lean back to stare at the wiring peeking out from between the loose panels of the ceiling.
“Ghosts,” I say. “Contact me if you hear anything. And remember, not a word to anyone. Not anyone.”
“Not a soul, Yain,” he concedes. "Not a soul."
The comm signal dies and the hologram fizzes out.
I interlace my fingers over my stomach, settle my head in the special-made rest attached to the chair for this very reason, and promptly fall asleep.
( Previous) | ( Next)
Possible Points of Interest
Sabacc - a popular card game
Kel Dor - a species hailing from the technological planet Dorin. They required masks to protect them when in oxygen-rich atmospheres
Mirialan - a species of near-Humans native to the planet Mirial who had greenish-yellow skin
Nikto - a reptilian humanoid species from the planet Kintan in the Si'Klaata Cluster with many subspecies
Lorrdian - a Human culture from the planet Lorrd in the Kanz Sector, who can interpret the body language of others to determine their emotional state and intentions with uncanny accuracy
Aqualish - tusked bipeds from the planet Ando whose appearance combined aspects of arachnids and pinniped aquatic mammals
Weequay - a race of humanoids who came from the Outer Rim planet of Sriluur, near Hutt Space
Mos Eisley - a large spaceport town on the planet Tatooine. It was the largest settlement on the planet and generally known as the "armpit of the galaxy"
Jawa Juice - a popular alcoholic beverage made by the Ardees Beverage Company, nicknamed Jawa juice by many who consumed it
YG Series - a line of light freighters manufactured by the Corellian Engineering Corporation centuries before the Battle of Yavin
Ryll - a relatively weak form of spice used to create a number of medicines
Strill - highly intelligent six-legged carnivorous Mandalorian hunting animals.
Glossary
Ki uba naga? - What you want?
Hi chuba da naga, mando? - What do you want, mando?
Ne buda sleemo. - Not happen, slimeball.
Tah-koh tee womp rat e’nachu. Jiwa. - You’ll end up womp rat food. Leave.
Tagwa. - Yes.
Yun'Puna - First Class
Expletives
Sleemo - a Huttese insult meaning slimeball.
Shebs - Mando'a for backside, rear
Di'kut - Mandalorian insult meaning idiot
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG+
Warnings: Lots of Star Warsy cursing
Words: 4,117
Fandom: Star Wars
Beta: None
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: A flashback and a bar crawl. What could feel more like home?
Author's Notes: Not exactly new per se, but an update to something I was working on in the past. I'm hoping to convert this into an actual background story that I might finish at some point.
EDITED: 08.05.2009 13.06.2009
(Fan Fiction List)
03part.Coincidence
I step around the small, circular plastisteel table and lean against the kitchen counter. There’s a cup of stimcaf in my bare hands and a conversation moving speedily along in this small rest lounge. I scratch my nose and filter out the voices. The Kel Dor twins are back again, sitting at the table I just passed by and chatting up a storm.
Speaking of which, there’s a blizzard outside. I know there is because I was just there. Outside. Freezing my fingers off trying to quickly harvest some salt crystals before the storm got worse.
It’s like a never-ending whirlwind of ice and snow on this planet. Why did I get transferred here?
“Jayn, you’re doing it again.”
I look up from the lightly swirling brew of caffa in my favorite mug. The closest twin, a slight shade lighter than his brother, pokes me in the leg. The mask and goggles are blocking his features, but for some reason I can still make out their expressions pretty well. Must be a gift, I guess.
“No I’m not.” I take a sip of my too-hot drink and wince as the just-made caffa burns its way down my esophagus.
The other twin laughs-an odd, wheezing sound garbled further by the mask.
“Then answer the question,” the first twin prods.
I take another sip and roll the caf around my tongue, savoring the intensely painful burning sensation. I won’t be able to taste anything for a week, at least. That’s probably a good thing, as the food here isn’t fit enough to feed a starved bantha.
Maybe it was my attitude. Is that why I got transferred here?
“Okay,” I admit. “I was spacing out again.”
The second twin shakes his head. “Haha, I knew it.”
“Yeah, me too.” The first twin giggles, an oddly effeminate sound coming from a very male Kel Dor
“Well,” I ask, trying and failing to keep the exasperation from my voice, “What was the question?”
“Do you believe in coincidence?” The second twin asks.
I consider it. “Well,” I think out loud. “The Jedi don’t believe in coincidence. They believe in the Force. The Force guides us. There are no accidental events. Everything happens for a reason.”
“But we didn’t ask what the Jedi thought,” the second twin remarks.
I blink. It’s subtle, but the color of his skin is changing. Odd.
“No, I suppose you didn’t.”
“Well,” the first twin urges. He raises a hand to point at me. His fingers are blue.
“Well what? You two got here from the same place I did. Too many padawans. Not enough masters.” I take another sip.
A shiver runs down my spine. Is the heating system malfunctioning?
“That’s not an answer, Jayn.” The second twin shakes his head.
As if watching a holo on slow-motion, his goggles slowly peel away from his face and fall out of sight. His skin turns several shades of ice-white. His mask falls to reveal the pronged mouth of the Kel Dor. “What are you staring at,” he asks as clumps of skin turn from white to black. Portions of his face bloat as liquid gathers beneath the skin and promptly freezes.
My stomach flips as my medical training kicks in-signs of advanced frostbite.
I look to the other twin. Blisters and sores begin to open over his pale skin. The flaps of mouth around his prongs are purple, gathering small ice crystals.
“Coincidence, Jayn,” he says as one of the prongs falls away from his agape mouth. “Did it all happen for a reason?”
Or was it just bad luck?
[16:10:05]
115 Days Post Order 66
“You’re small for a Mandalorian.”
I gasp within the secure confines of my helmet, choking down air and blinking rapidly. My face feels damp, but I’m in no position to take off my bucket and check what’s wrong. My eyes swivel in and out of focus.
I almost forgot where I am.
Got lost in a different time. When my name was something different than what it is-Yain. Not Jayn. Or Jin. Or any variation of the aforementioned. When I was capable of following an actual schedule. Wake up at dawn. Shower. Work. Eat. Sleep. Do it again. And again.
I look to the tiny dot in the top right corner of my HUD and request a weak adrenal stimulant. It'll wake me up, some. I can reminisce when I'm done with this job. My suit automatically injects the chemicals directly into my bloodstream.
A sweet sting at the back of my neck. Cold down my spine. I can feel the stim traverse my system and reach my heart. It's like a cup of stimcaf, but better. I blink, and force my tired eyes to focus. I zero-in on the speaker, a Mirialan spacer, and balk-a luxury a faceless mask like my helmet offers.
Vicler Merson, smuggler and picture perfect example of the scum of the galaxy. His green-tinged skin is a little on the gray side, probably from heavy exposure to suns different than the one in his home planet’s system. A suspiciously steamy drink nestled between his heavily tattooed hands spews gray fog over the grime-encrusted table of the booth we’re in.
Unlike most Mirialan I’ve encountered in the past, Vicler’s face tattoos are asymmetrical, with an extra row of diamonds above his left brow than his right. Short, unkempt dark hair sits atop his head. A lightly faded scar cuts horizontally across his face, from one cheekbone, across the bridge of his nose, to the other cheekbone.
I contemplate giving him an additional scar.
“You’re gray for a Mirialan,” I reply instead.
The spacer breaks out into a grin. He downs the steaming drink in one shot, slapping the glass down noisily on the table.
“I thought it was you,” he says.
Though my visor’s focused on Vicler, I glance at the two ornery looking red-skinned reptilian near-humans guarding the back room of this crowded cantina. Two Nikto is overkill, and it's clear they both know it. The one on the left sways slightly as he brings an unlabeled bottle to his mouth. Alcohol spills over the side of his scaled mouth and down his chin, while the one beside him busies himself with the attentions of a Twi'lek. Unprofessional. I subdue the urge to show them just why you're not supposed to drink on the job.
I return my attention to the Mirialan. “I thought all Mandalorians look the same?”
The Mirialan laughs. “I’d be hard pressed to find one smaller than you.”
I shake my head with a hidden smile and glance at my HUD’s 360° view of the cantina.
A yellow tinted cloud of smoke, spice, and deathsticks colors the low-ceilinged sub-level cantina aptly titled The Stuck Sorrusian. Circular in layout as opposed to rectangular, a round bar sits at the center with a human tending the front half facing the steep staircase leading to the exit while a MixRMastR robo-bartender serves the other half. The droid faces the entertainment area where a Bith Band holo-recording plays yet another generic song to lighten the mood.
Between customers, the human bartender occasionally glances in my direction with a scowl. Probably trying to decide between pestering me to purchase a drink or to leave me be.
Preferably the latter. I’m not feeling all too thirsty.
From the gambling section I’m currently sitting in, stuffed past capacity with Sabacc card tables and twice as many inebriated players, I have a good view of all the exits and entrances. No windows though, since this place happens to be underground to maintain a cooler atmosphere-perfect for the less than savory interactions taking place directly across the cantina. My view of the Dancers’ area is blocked by the central bar, but I can still see the occasional stray lekku of one of the slave girls as they dance the poles. Unless I absolutely have to, I’d prefer to avoid swinging by that side of the cantina.
“Been a while since I last saw you Y-”
“Jin,” I interrupt.
“…Jin,” he concludes, arching an indelicate eyebrow.
I shrug. “Indulge me, will you? And fancy meeting you here. Had I known you were in town, I’d have given you a call.”
“Liar.” He rests both arms on the table and leans towards me. “You vanished. Poof. Gone. In one night. If you meant to contact anyone, someone in our circle would’ve heard about it. Jin.”
I slam shut the memories of that night, and instead mull over how much is pertinent to reveal for his peace of mind. I’m going to go with… uh. Nothing.
“Something came up.”
“Yeah. I bet.” He frowns, pausing to pinch his chin in irritation. His fingers obscure the column of diamonds that trail from his lip straight down to his chin in a pseudo goatee. He adds: “And your old boss? Cujo? He isn’t too happy with you leaving like that.”
Thank you for your input, Captain Obvious.
“Mmm…” I hum noncommittally. “I haven’t run into any hunters yet, so he can’t be as angry as you say.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Vicler shrugs and signals the human bartender for another round of drinks. “Could be they’re just avoiding you.”
I wish that were the case. “Yeah? And why would they do that?”
The Mirialan arches one eyebrow as he reclines further into his seat and lazily points at the beskar plate over my abdomen. “I know what those stripes are for, Jin.”
No. You don’t.
I roll my shoulders back slowly, achieving a resounding crack from my spine loud enough to be heard over the noise. “Could be those,” I say. “Or it could be the nice weapon or two that found their way into many a hunter’s hands, through me.”
“Don’t give yourself too much credit. It’s not like you were in charge of any deals made back then.”
I laugh. “Luck, Vic. Luck and good timing.”
A second MixRMastR equipped with a repulsorlift glides to our booth and sets down two drinks similar to the first one the spacer brought with him.
“Took you long enough, tin can,” the Mirialan snaps as he plucks the closest shot glass from the table and swishes the liquid within it in front of his face.
The droid let’s loose a quick apology and floats away.
Vicler nudges one of the glasses towards me. A quick rundown of the chemicals in the weak stimulant I just injected into myself not two minutes ago runs through my mind. I compare them to the contents of the drink, which I recognize on sight. Two years of working in a cantina, and a lifetime of medical service, all collide to this one moment-determining if this one highly insignificant alcoholic beverage is going to knock me off my toes.
Time well spent.
I pop the seal on my helmet, easing it off my head and setting it down on my lap. My braids fall over my shoulders, just long enough to graze the top edge of my collar plate.
I reach forward and grab the shot glass, holding it in front of my nose. It smells foul, with a hint of a spicy undertone. I take a second sniff, conclude it won’t kill me, and then down the drink. Vicler follows suit and our glasses hit the table at the same time.
“So tell me, from one sleemo to another,” he says as an easy grin spreads across his lips. “What are you doing on this backrocket planet?”
I look to the side and strum my gloved fingers over the table as I watch the Sabacc players.
“Sifting the noise for breadcrumbs,” I tell him as I shift to the side and pull out a personalized datapad from my hip pouch. The pad details my target, from the basic appearance down to his specific medical skills-though his unusual extracurricular talents are nowhere to be found. I tap the datapad on and hand it to him.
This could go bad. Things can always go bad. And when I’m in the picture, they usually do.
But even after all this time, I still kind of trust this chakaar.
Vicler briefly skims over the information. “Hmmm… A Cathar, huh. ”
“I’m not in the circles now. I only hear so much, and shaking down the locals only gets me so far.” I suppress the urge to stare and get a touch on what he’s feeling.
Oblivious, he nods and returns the datapad to my side of the table. “I’ll look into it. But it’s gonna cost you.”
“Nothing comes free.” I shrug my bucket back over my head and reseal it shut. My HUD flashes a few times before buzzing back to life.
“Except that drink,” Vicler says with a half smile and claps his hands. “There’s a reason I’m here, though bumping into you was a pleasant surprise.”
“Is that so? I can’t imagine a smuggler like you doing business in a place like this,” I deadpan.
He ignores my jibe. “I landed in one of the northern ports a few days ago. Pad ML-262. Unfortunately my ship’s been having some… trouble with the transponder codes lately. Usually mismatching codes don’t cause the local syndicates to bat an eye, but with the Imperial regiment moving in…”
I’m not sure I like where this is going.
“…well, I’m locked dirt-side.”
I nod. “So, you’re still flying that YG series hunk’o’junk.”
“Hey, hey. Don’t go calling Yun’Puna a hunk of junk. She’s my hunk of junk.” He shook his head. “Anyway. Lucky for me, most of my cargo switched hands by the time the locals caught wind of my little situation.”
Great. I lean forward to rest my elbows on the table. “Most?”
“Aha. This is where you come in.” He waggles a tattooed finger at me. “There’s an Aqualish who frequents this cantina. He holds the codes to the tractor beam keeping me landlocked. Get me the code and I’ll give you a slice of the last shipment of candy. Maybe let you know where to get some more… And I promise to give you a buzz if I hear anything about some wayward, pant-stitching Cathar.”
Pant-stitching? Huh.
Pressing my palms flat on the table, I rise from my seat. “Where is he?”
Vicler points to the cluster of Sabacc tables. I scan the dense crowd and see nothing but a solid mass of tentacles, head tails, and fur. A moment passes before I spot the single Aqualish in the midst of the gambling section.
I look back to Vicler. “If I wasn’t here…”
He smiles. “I can do my own dirty work fine, I just prefer to get someone else to do it for me… preferably someone with armor.”
Ah. “That’s comforting.”
I ease out of the booth, pausing at the end of my table to knock the toes of my right boot against the back of my left, and then repeat the motion with the other leg. Have to make sure my legs won’t buckle from lack of proper circulation, after all. No amount of stims will help me if I fall from my own stupidity.
As I slowly pace around the gambling section, I observe the cluster of Sabacc tables. It doesn’t take a Lorrdian to sense the tension in the crowd. I can feel it in the air, like a chord of a gasan string drum pulled too tight. It’s a familiar feeling, one that reminds me of the time I spent in Nar Shaddaa.
It briefly occurs to me that maybe I shouldn’t have left. Too late now.
The deeper into the cluster of tables, the more crowded it seems to be, with at least five spectators shouting their approval just around the Aqualish. I adjust my position to get a better look, and note he’s playing with a male Twi’lek. Their table is cluttered with cards and jawa juice bottles, with barely enough room for the rapidly growing pile of Outer Rim currency in the center.
The Aqualish certainly looks ready to fall out of his chair at the slightest distraction, and the Twi’lek doesn’t look far behind him on the inebriated scale.
An idea comes to mind.
I prep my dart launcher, discreetly switching out the darts for small, translucent pebble-like ammo. The projectiles are soft enough to avoid shattering glass, but strong enough to give a good wallop to anything it collides with.
I position myself somewhere behind the Twi’lek player, waiting for the right moment… There. As he lays down his cards with a flourish, I fire the shot.
My gauntlet bobs lightly from the recoil. The Aqualish suddenly lets loose a roar of drunken fury and leaps from his seat, his lower body clearly soaked in the alcoholic beverage previously sitting closest to him on the table. Obscenities are hurled like party favors. In under a second the otherwise calm crowd warps into a blur of movement, violence, and screaming.
I approach the crowd, only to be blocked by one of the pair of Red Nikto I was observing before. This one’s only got a single blaster out, and he looks barely capable of standing on his own two feet. Red Nikto sneers at my visor, though his skittish, wandering eyes belay his nerves. He jams the blaster against one of my chest plates, knocking hard against the metal armor.
He hisses. “Ki uba naga?”
“Step aside.” I state.
“Ne buda sleemo.”
“Last chance.”
“Tah-koh tee womp rat e’nachu.”
“Womp rat food, huh.”
In the space of a second I twist the Nikto’s wrist, forcing him to drop the blaster, and then slam my knee between his legs. He let’s loose a high-pitched, utterly agonized sound that, despite the padding lining the inside of my bucket, still manages to resonate inside my skull. I let go of the broken wrist and drop him to the floor, careful to step around his whimpering form.
A Weequay appears from the edge of the crowd, arms wind milling as he rages and swings a metal rod around as a weapon. He catches sight of me and hurtles forward, spit flying from his open mouth and oily braids whipping about his head. I step into the lunge, knock the metal rod uselessly to the side, and punch him once in the face. Blood explodes from the broken nose, spraying my visor and the curious spectators around me, as his head snaps back and he falls to the ground.
The dust settles in a few moments.
The other Red Nikto is still standing by the door, armor in disarray and two blasters out-one of them smoking so heavily I doubt it would be able to fire anything but more black smoke. Most of the Sabacc tables have been knocked over, with cards and gambler droids littering the floor in pieces. Seats are overturned, a few bodies lie on the ground, and whatever card players left behind are busy scooping up gold-rimmed currency chips from the floor.
It’s just like Nar Shaddaa. Cantinas really are one of the only reliable constants in the known universe. After death, and taxes, of course.
I step over the unconscious Weequay at my feet, intending to locate the Aqualish. Luckily for me, I don’t have to go far. His back faces me and he’s swaying side to side.
I tap the Aqualish on the shoulder. His growls are slurred and less intimidating than those from a toothless baby strill, despite coming from a pissed off bald-headed long-tusked Aqualish like himself. He peers over his shoulder at me, beady eyes squinting in the low light.
“Hi chuba da naga, mando?” he angrily slurs in Huttese.
“You head of security detail of Northern Landing Pad ML-262?”
He scratches his head, heavily wrinkled face flushing two shades darker than what he’s supposed to be. “Tagwa,” he grunts in the affirmative.
“Good.” I shove him, hard, in the back.
He stumbles, rights himself, and then spins around with a roar. I register the glint of a vibroblade a split second after I react. I sidestep, dodging the uncoordinated assault, and then step forward to slam my helmet into the Aqualish’s face. I hear a loud crack. He crumples to the floor.
I kneel down to do a quick search of his pockets. I pull out a small pouch holding about a handful of wupiupi, a datapad, and a few small caps of what looks like illegally smuggled Ryll tablets.
There’s an unidentified smear on the left side of my visor. Cleaning this is going to be a pain in the shebs.
The rest of the arguing patrons avoid looking directly at me as I navigate the mess back to Vicler. He’s still in the same booth, legs propped up on the extended cushioned seat, with his hands behind his head in an utterly relaxed position. I toss the datapad on the table, the codes blinking clearly in the dark atmosphere.
“I was always jealous of you,” he says with a boyish smile, cheeks dimpling and eyes squinted in pure, unadulterated pleasure.
“Yeah.” I pinch one of the Ryll tablets between my fingers and hold it out for him to see. “This wouldn’t be the stuff from your ship, would it?”
His boots hit the floor and he leans forward to analyze the tablet without taking it from my hand. Smart man.
“Negative,” he responds after a few seconds of rubbing his chin. “But if you’re willing to swing by the hangar, I can get you more of the special quality stuff. I’m sure someone in Nar Shaddaa will pay a pretty penny for it. And that’s where you’re headed next, isn’t it?”
“Seems like the smart thing to do.”
He climbs out of the boot, tucks the datapad into his vest, and pauses to stare at my visor. His lips make a little ‘o’ shape as he adjusts his hair.
I slap him upside the head. “Di’kut.”
Instead of retaliating, he just laughs. “All right, all right. Impatient not-male female. Follow me.”
[16:10:05]
Four Hours Later
“Welcome back, master. You’re home.”
I step into the cockpit and set my helmet down on the flight console as I drop bodily into the chair. I briefly take in the blood red sunset sky of Tatooine through the transparisteel windows before looking over at Nate.
“Home?” I ask as I lean forward to switch on Jate’kara’s engines. The ship rumbles to life, causing the many lights of the console to flash in accordance. Everything looks settled and good to go.
“Yes, master. You sleep, eat, and spend ninety percent of your free time within Jate’kara, despite informing me many a time that she is haunted.”
The repulsors make a heady noise. Even from here I can hear the power couplings shaking in the engine room. Below us, Mos Eisley spaceport shrinks steadily as we gain distance.
“Astute observation, Nate.”
“Thank you, master.”
Jate’kara breaches the atmosphere easily enough, and soon we’re drifting in orbit around the planet. It’s nearly the same sight as when we first arrived, with one sun blocked out by the planet while the other shone bright red.
I hurt in all the wrong places.
“Nate, set up a course for hyperspace. I want to be landing in Nar Shaddaa within the week.”
I kick my boots up onto the flight console, nimbly avoiding the mistake of accidentally pressing a wrong button, and settle back in the pilot’s chair. The old cushions creak noisily as the chair bends backwards to compensate for my position.
Nate beeps a soft melody as he takes control of the ship. Between us, the comm unit begins to flash. I lean forward and press the button to accept the call. Vicler’s form, comfortably reclined in a pilot’s chair of the YG series variety, shimmers vibrantly on my flight console beside my boots.
“Thanks for the help, Jin-Yain.”
“My name will do, on secure frequencies.” I roll my eyes. “And no problem… just one thing.”
“What? Don’t tell anyone?”
“…yeah.” My right hand aches.
He frowns, brows creasing slightly and warping the diamond tattoos over his brows. “Kind of hard to keep a Mandalorian sighting quiet.”
“A Mandalorian ransacking a cantina isn’t unusual, Vic. And in the long run, we really do look all the same. It’s an advantage.” The glove of my right hand takes some effort to pull off, and once it does I can see why. I grit my teeth as I massage my bruised and swollen knuckles. “Besides. No one would admit to getting flattened out by someone my size. It’ll be exaggerated. I’m not worried.”
Vic presses his lips in a thin line as he leans forward to tamper with the out-of-sight controls of his ship, silent. The moment stretches on.
I stare at the back of my fist. It’s a mess of black, blue, purple and red, but otherwise fine. Nothing’s broken, so a bacta bandage should do the trick. That’s the last time I hit a near-human square in the face.
Vic sighs. “What are you running from?”
A soft hiss escapes me as I rub the point between my first and second fingers. I shift in my seat to slightly lift one leg and cross my ankles on top of the console, and then lean back to stare at the wiring peeking out from between the loose panels of the ceiling.
“Ghosts,” I say. “Contact me if you hear anything. And remember, not a word to anyone. Not anyone.”
“Not a soul, Yain,” he concedes. "Not a soul."
The comm signal dies and the hologram fizzes out.
I interlace my fingers over my stomach, settle my head in the special-made rest attached to the chair for this very reason, and promptly fall asleep.
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Possible Points of Interest
Sabacc - a popular card game
Kel Dor - a species hailing from the technological planet Dorin. They required masks to protect them when in oxygen-rich atmospheres
Mirialan - a species of near-Humans native to the planet Mirial who had greenish-yellow skin
Nikto - a reptilian humanoid species from the planet Kintan in the Si'Klaata Cluster with many subspecies
Lorrdian - a Human culture from the planet Lorrd in the Kanz Sector, who can interpret the body language of others to determine their emotional state and intentions with uncanny accuracy
Aqualish - tusked bipeds from the planet Ando whose appearance combined aspects of arachnids and pinniped aquatic mammals
Weequay - a race of humanoids who came from the Outer Rim planet of Sriluur, near Hutt Space
Mos Eisley - a large spaceport town on the planet Tatooine. It was the largest settlement on the planet and generally known as the "armpit of the galaxy"
Jawa Juice - a popular alcoholic beverage made by the Ardees Beverage Company, nicknamed Jawa juice by many who consumed it
YG Series - a line of light freighters manufactured by the Corellian Engineering Corporation centuries before the Battle of Yavin
Ryll - a relatively weak form of spice used to create a number of medicines
Strill - highly intelligent six-legged carnivorous Mandalorian hunting animals.
Glossary
Ki uba naga? - What you want?
Hi chuba da naga, mando? - What do you want, mando?
Ne buda sleemo. - Not happen, slimeball.
Tah-koh tee womp rat e’nachu. Jiwa. - You’ll end up womp rat food. Leave.
Tagwa. - Yes.
Yun'Puna - First Class
Expletives
Sleemo - a Huttese insult meaning slimeball.
Shebs - Mando'a for backside, rear
Di'kut - Mandalorian insult meaning idiot