Hurt Vector - 03 . Coincidence
Title: 03 . Coincidence
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG+
Warnings: Star Wars cursing
Words: ~4600
Fandom: Star Wars
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: A flashback and a bar crawl. Yain's never felt more at home.
::EDITED FROM ORIGINAL::
(Fan Fiction List)
I stepped around the small, circular plastisteel table and leaned against the kitchen counter. A cup of stimcaf sat in my bare hands and a conversation moved speedily along in the small rest lounge. I scratched my nose and filtered out the voices. The Kel Dor twins were 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. Nearly froze my fingers off trying to harvest some salt crystals before the storm got worse.
It’s like a never-ending whirlwind of ice and snow on the planet. Why did I get transferred there?
“Jayn, you’re doing it again.”
I looked up from the lightly swirling brew of caffa in my favorite mug. The closest twin, a slight shade of orange lighter than his brother, poked me in the leg. The mask and goggles blocked his features, but for some reason I could still make out their expressions pretty well. Must be a gift, I guess.
“No I’m not.” I took a sip of my too-hot drink and winced as the just-made caffa burned its way down my esophagus.
The other twin laughed-an odd, wheezing sound garbled further by the mask.
“Then answer the question,” the first twin prodded.
I took another sip and rolled the caf around my tongue, savoring the intensely painful burning sensation. I wouldn’t be able to taste anything for a week, at least, but that was probably a good thing, since the food there wasn’t fit enough to feed a starved bantha.
Maybe it was my attitude. Was that why I got transferred there?
“Okay,” I admitted. “I was spacing out again.”
The second twin shook his head. “Ha, I knew it.”
“Yeah, me too.” The first twin giggled, an oddly effeminate sound for a very male Kel Dor.
“Well,” I asked, trying and failing to keep the exasperation from my voice, “What was the question?”
“Do you believe in coincidence?” The second twin asked.
I considered it. “Well,” I thought 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 remarked.
I blinked. It was subtle, but the color of his skin was changing. Odd.
“No, I suppose you didn’t.”
“Well,” the first twin urged. He raised a hand to point at me, fingers suddenly blue.
“Well what? You two got here from the same place I did. Too many padawans. Not enough masters.” I took another sip.
A shiver ran down my spine. Was the heating system malfunctioning?
“That’s not an answer, Jayn.” The second twin shook his head.
As if watching a holo on slow-motion, his goggles slowly peeled away from his face and fell out of sight. His skin turned several shades of ice-white. His mask fell to reveal the pronged mouth of the Kel Dor.
“What are you staring at?” he asked as clumps of skin turned from white to black. Portions of his face bloated as liquid gathered beneath the skin and promptly froze.
My stomach flipped as my medical training kicked in-signs of advanced frostbite. I looked to the other twin. Blisters and sores began to open over his pale skin. The flaps of mouth around his prongs were purple and gathered small ice crystals.
“Coincidence, Jayn,” he said as one of the prongs fell away from his agape mouth. “Did it all happen for a reason?”
Or was it just bad luck?
[16:10:05]
one hundred fifteen days post Order 66
“You’re small for a Mandalorian.”
Inside the security of my helmet, I gasp. My eyes swivel in and out of focus. My face feels damp, but I’m in no position to take off my bucket and check what’s wrong.
I've almost forgotten where I am.
My HUD's targeting zooms in on the face of the Mirialan space easing into the seat across from mine, and prompts my data-stream to feed: Mirialan - a species of near-Humans whose appearance varies in yellow-green skin and paler. A unique, often geometrically repeated tattoo is placed on their faces and hands to signify that they have completed a certain test or task, or achieved sufficient adeptness at a certain skill. The number of tattoos often acts as a good indicator of maturity.
This one I recognize: 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 nestling 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 facial 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 look to the tiny dot in the top right corner of my HUD and flick off the data-stream, then request a weak stimulant. My suit’s systems automatically tap into my spine and inject the chemicals directly into my bloodstream. A heated sensation travels down to the center of my back and blossoms outward. My eyes zero-in on two ornery looking red-skinned reptilian near-humans guarding the back room of this crowded cantina. Between me and them sit several Sabacc card tables, all occupied and surrounded by a crowd of buzzed patrons.
There was a time when meeting Vic in a cantina was something to look forward to, sharing drinks between friends after a long day. Seeing him now? Well... it rings more than a few alarm bells.
I push those thoughts to the back of my mind and try to keep it light. “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 take in 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, 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 mixed expression. 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, directly across the cantina is the Dancers’ area. Though the view is blocked by the central bar, I can 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.”
“Fancy meeting you here, too.” I shrug. “Had I known you were in town, I’d have given you a call.”
“You're a damned liar, Jin Tamor.” He drags my assumed name over his tongue, and rests both arms on the table to lean towards me. “You vanished. Poof. Gone. In one night. If you meant to contact anyone, someone in our circle would’ve heard about it.”
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. Absolutely nothing.
“Something came up.” Or someone. Through my kriffing window.
“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.
“Could be those,” I say, and roll my shoulders back slowly until I achieve a resounding crack from my spine, loud enough to be heard over the noise. “Or it could be the nice weapon or two that found their way into many hunters' 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 snort. “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 and a slight gray flush reaches his cheeks. “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 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-2625b. 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.”
Well. 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 final 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.
“This... candy you're talking about. What kind is this?”
He taps his lips with the finger he just used to point at me. “The good quality kind. The kind that glitters in certain kinds of light, if you get my meaning.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in.
Glitterstim. Variant of spice. One of the most dangerously addictive hallucinogens this side of the galaxy.
“How the. Why?” Just how badly does he need to get off this planet? “How the ever-loving Hell did you get your hands on a shipment of gli-”
Vicler cuts me off with a sharp glare, his hand snapping up and scuffing the edge of my helmet.
“Luck, Jin,” he grits out between smiling clenched teeth. “Luck and good timing.”
“Fine.” Something tells me he doesn't want to talk about it. That's fine. I won't push the issue. Pressing my palms flat on the table, I rise from my seat. “Where is he?”
He 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. Wouldn't want to embarrass myself with my legs buckling from lack of proper circulation, of all things. No amount of stims will help me if I fall from my own utter stupidity.
As I slowly pace around the gambling section, I observe the cluster of Sabacc tables. There's a thin line of 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. But it's too late now.
The deeper I wander into the cluster of tables, the more crowded it seems to be. At least five spectators shout their approval around the Aqualish; arms, elbows, horns, and tentacles jostling one another for space. I adjust my position to get a better look, and note that 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, judging from the sluggish movements and slurred words both are hurling.
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. Then, I position myself somewhere behind the Twi’lek player, waiting for the right moment…
There.
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 observed from 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 nose of 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 span of a few seconds, I twist the Nikto’s wrist and force him to drop the blaster, then slam my armored knee between his legs. He let’s loose a high-pitched, utterly agonized sound that, despite the padding that lines 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 explodes from the edge of the crowd, arms windmilling 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 slams backwards into the ground.
The dust settles in a few moments.
Red Nikto Number Two still stands 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 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.
Heh. It’s just like Nar Shaddaa. I guess 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, miraculously still on his feet. I stand and stare for a moment, patiently waiting for him to turn around. Several minutes pass, and all he's managed to do is just barely keep himself from falling.
So, I tap him on the shoulder. His growls are slurred and far 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-2625b?”
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 one-handed, hard, in the back.
He stumbles, rights himself, and then spins around with a roar. I register the glint of a vibroblade. Sidestep, dodge 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, the weapon tumbling out of his hand and out of sight.
I kneel down to do a quick search of his pockets, and 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 squinting 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. I freeze, about to ask him what he's doing, when his lips make a little ‘o’ shape as he adjusts his hair.
I bristle, and slap him upside the head. “Di’kut.”
“Whoa!” He laughs. “All right, all right. Impatient not-male female. Follow me.”
[16:10:05]
Four Hours Later
“Welcome back, Master. You’re home early.”
I step into the cockpit and set my helmet down on the flight console. The shipment of glitterstim tucked away in the cargohold, safely hidden in a compartment beside the light fixtures within the ceiling, I drop bodily into the chair and let out a long sigh. The transparisteel windows of the cockpit allow for a beautiful view of the blood red sunset tainting Tatooine's sky, and cast over everything in here with a dull orange-red. I look over to Nate, and admire the fact that he appears to be covered in a set of single-colored plates, instead of the disorganized mess that makes up his actual frame.
When I have time... I'll have to make that a reality. Rusted-red looks good on him.
“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.”
My ship's 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 shines bright red.
I hurt in all the wrong places.
“Nate, set up a jump 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.”
“Yain will do.” 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 so 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.
“Yain.” He 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 upwards, tracing with my eyes the wires that peek out from between the loose panels of the ceiling.
“Ghosts,” I say. Ghosts.
A silence falls between us. My ship rumbles and shakes, the noises of the ship as it readies for hyperspace drowning out the lull in conversation.
I sit up. My boots clang against the floor and I lean forward to clap my hand on the comm-unit, fingers grazing over the 'off' button. I look Vicler's miniature hologram directly in the eye.
“Contact me if you hear anything.” My voice is hoarse. I don't know why. “And remember. Remember. Not a word to anyone. Not anyone.”
“Not a soul,” he concedes.
The comm signal dies and the hologram fizzes out. I shut off the comm-unit, and kick my legs back up on the console. Settling my head in the special-made rest attached to the chair for this very reason, I interlace my fingers over my stomach, 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
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
Strill - highly intelligent six-legged carnivorous Mandalorian hunting animals.
Ryll - a relatively weak form of spice used to create a number of medicines
Spice - slang for various mind-altering drugs.
Glitterstim - the name of a potent variety of the drug family "spice" mined on Kessel. It gave the user a brief, yet pleasurable telepathic boost and heightened mental state. It was a very valuable kind of spice, and tightly controlled by the Galactic Empire.
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
Chakaar - Mandalorian insult
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG+
Warnings: Star Wars cursing
Words: ~4600
Fandom: Star Wars
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: A flashback and a bar crawl. Yain's never felt more at home.
::EDITED FROM ORIGINAL::
(Fan Fiction List)
I stepped around the small, circular plastisteel table and leaned against the kitchen counter. A cup of stimcaf sat in my bare hands and a conversation moved speedily along in the small rest lounge. I scratched my nose and filtered out the voices. The Kel Dor twins were 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. Nearly froze my fingers off trying to harvest some salt crystals before the storm got worse.
It’s like a never-ending whirlwind of ice and snow on the planet. Why did I get transferred there?
“Jayn, you’re doing it again.”
I looked up from the lightly swirling brew of caffa in my favorite mug. The closest twin, a slight shade of orange lighter than his brother, poked me in the leg. The mask and goggles blocked his features, but for some reason I could still make out their expressions pretty well. Must be a gift, I guess.
“No I’m not.” I took a sip of my too-hot drink and winced as the just-made caffa burned its way down my esophagus.
The other twin laughed-an odd, wheezing sound garbled further by the mask.
“Then answer the question,” the first twin prodded.
I took another sip and rolled the caf around my tongue, savoring the intensely painful burning sensation. I wouldn’t be able to taste anything for a week, at least, but that was probably a good thing, since the food there wasn’t fit enough to feed a starved bantha.
Maybe it was my attitude. Was that why I got transferred there?
“Okay,” I admitted. “I was spacing out again.”
The second twin shook his head. “Ha, I knew it.”
“Yeah, me too.” The first twin giggled, an oddly effeminate sound for a very male Kel Dor.
“Well,” I asked, trying and failing to keep the exasperation from my voice, “What was the question?”
“Do you believe in coincidence?” The second twin asked.
I considered it. “Well,” I thought 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 remarked.
I blinked. It was subtle, but the color of his skin was changing. Odd.
“No, I suppose you didn’t.”
“Well,” the first twin urged. He raised a hand to point at me, fingers suddenly blue.
“Well what? You two got here from the same place I did. Too many padawans. Not enough masters.” I took another sip.
A shiver ran down my spine. Was the heating system malfunctioning?
“That’s not an answer, Jayn.” The second twin shook his head.
As if watching a holo on slow-motion, his goggles slowly peeled away from his face and fell out of sight. His skin turned several shades of ice-white. His mask fell to reveal the pronged mouth of the Kel Dor.
“What are you staring at?” he asked as clumps of skin turned from white to black. Portions of his face bloated as liquid gathered beneath the skin and promptly froze.
My stomach flipped as my medical training kicked in-signs of advanced frostbite. I looked to the other twin. Blisters and sores began to open over his pale skin. The flaps of mouth around his prongs were purple and gathered small ice crystals.
“Coincidence, Jayn,” he said as one of the prongs fell away from his agape mouth. “Did it all happen for a reason?”
Or was it just bad luck?
[16:10:05]
one hundred fifteen days post Order 66
“You’re small for a Mandalorian.”
Inside the security of my helmet, I gasp. My eyes swivel in and out of focus. My face feels damp, but I’m in no position to take off my bucket and check what’s wrong.
I've almost forgotten where I am.
My HUD's targeting zooms in on the face of the Mirialan space easing into the seat across from mine, and prompts my data-stream to feed: Mirialan - a species of near-Humans whose appearance varies in yellow-green skin and paler. A unique, often geometrically repeated tattoo is placed on their faces and hands to signify that they have completed a certain test or task, or achieved sufficient adeptness at a certain skill. The number of tattoos often acts as a good indicator of maturity.
This one I recognize: 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 nestling 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 facial 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 look to the tiny dot in the top right corner of my HUD and flick off the data-stream, then request a weak stimulant. My suit’s systems automatically tap into my spine and inject the chemicals directly into my bloodstream. A heated sensation travels down to the center of my back and blossoms outward. My eyes zero-in on two ornery looking red-skinned reptilian near-humans guarding the back room of this crowded cantina. Between me and them sit several Sabacc card tables, all occupied and surrounded by a crowd of buzzed patrons.
There was a time when meeting Vic in a cantina was something to look forward to, sharing drinks between friends after a long day. Seeing him now? Well... it rings more than a few alarm bells.
I push those thoughts to the back of my mind and try to keep it light. “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 take in 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, 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 mixed expression. 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, directly across the cantina is the Dancers’ area. Though the view is blocked by the central bar, I can 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.”
“Fancy meeting you here, too.” I shrug. “Had I known you were in town, I’d have given you a call.”
“You're a damned liar, Jin Tamor.” He drags my assumed name over his tongue, and rests both arms on the table to lean towards me. “You vanished. Poof. Gone. In one night. If you meant to contact anyone, someone in our circle would’ve heard about it.”
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. Absolutely nothing.
“Something came up.” Or someone. Through my kriffing window.
“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.
“Could be those,” I say, and roll my shoulders back slowly until I achieve a resounding crack from my spine, loud enough to be heard over the noise. “Or it could be the nice weapon or two that found their way into many hunters' 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 snort. “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 and a slight gray flush reaches his cheeks. “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 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-2625b. 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.”
Well. 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 final 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.
“This... candy you're talking about. What kind is this?”
He taps his lips with the finger he just used to point at me. “The good quality kind. The kind that glitters in certain kinds of light, if you get my meaning.”
It takes a moment for that to sink in.
Glitterstim. Variant of spice. One of the most dangerously addictive hallucinogens this side of the galaxy.
“How the. Why?” Just how badly does he need to get off this planet? “How the ever-loving Hell did you get your hands on a shipment of gli-”
Vicler cuts me off with a sharp glare, his hand snapping up and scuffing the edge of my helmet.
“Luck, Jin,” he grits out between smiling clenched teeth. “Luck and good timing.”
“Fine.” Something tells me he doesn't want to talk about it. That's fine. I won't push the issue. Pressing my palms flat on the table, I rise from my seat. “Where is he?”
He 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. Wouldn't want to embarrass myself with my legs buckling from lack of proper circulation, of all things. No amount of stims will help me if I fall from my own utter stupidity.
As I slowly pace around the gambling section, I observe the cluster of Sabacc tables. There's a thin line of 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. But it's too late now.
The deeper I wander into the cluster of tables, the more crowded it seems to be. At least five spectators shout their approval around the Aqualish; arms, elbows, horns, and tentacles jostling one another for space. I adjust my position to get a better look, and note that 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, judging from the sluggish movements and slurred words both are hurling.
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. Then, I position myself somewhere behind the Twi’lek player, waiting for the right moment…
There.
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 observed from 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 nose of 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 span of a few seconds, I twist the Nikto’s wrist and force him to drop the blaster, then slam my armored knee between his legs. He let’s loose a high-pitched, utterly agonized sound that, despite the padding that lines 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 explodes from the edge of the crowd, arms windmilling 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 slams backwards into the ground.
The dust settles in a few moments.
Red Nikto Number Two still stands 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 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.
Heh. It’s just like Nar Shaddaa. I guess 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, miraculously still on his feet. I stand and stare for a moment, patiently waiting for him to turn around. Several minutes pass, and all he's managed to do is just barely keep himself from falling.
So, I tap him on the shoulder. His growls are slurred and far 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-2625b?”
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 one-handed, hard, in the back.
He stumbles, rights himself, and then spins around with a roar. I register the glint of a vibroblade. Sidestep, dodge 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, the weapon tumbling out of his hand and out of sight.
I kneel down to do a quick search of his pockets, and 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 squinting 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. I freeze, about to ask him what he's doing, when his lips make a little ‘o’ shape as he adjusts his hair.
I bristle, and slap him upside the head. “Di’kut.”
“Whoa!” He laughs. “All right, all right. Impatient not-male female. Follow me.”
[16:10:05]
Four Hours Later
“Welcome back, Master. You’re home early.”
I step into the cockpit and set my helmet down on the flight console. The shipment of glitterstim tucked away in the cargohold, safely hidden in a compartment beside the light fixtures within the ceiling, I drop bodily into the chair and let out a long sigh. The transparisteel windows of the cockpit allow for a beautiful view of the blood red sunset tainting Tatooine's sky, and cast over everything in here with a dull orange-red. I look over to Nate, and admire the fact that he appears to be covered in a set of single-colored plates, instead of the disorganized mess that makes up his actual frame.
When I have time... I'll have to make that a reality. Rusted-red looks good on him.
“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.”
My ship's 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 shines bright red.
I hurt in all the wrong places.
“Nate, set up a jump 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.”
“Yain will do.” 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 so 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.
“Yain.” He 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 upwards, tracing with my eyes the wires that peek out from between the loose panels of the ceiling.
“Ghosts,” I say. Ghosts.
A silence falls between us. My ship rumbles and shakes, the noises of the ship as it readies for hyperspace drowning out the lull in conversation.
I sit up. My boots clang against the floor and I lean forward to clap my hand on the comm-unit, fingers grazing over the 'off' button. I look Vicler's miniature hologram directly in the eye.
“Contact me if you hear anything.” My voice is hoarse. I don't know why. “And remember. Remember. Not a word to anyone. Not anyone.”
“Not a soul,” he concedes.
The comm signal dies and the hologram fizzes out. I shut off the comm-unit, and kick my legs back up on the console. Settling my head in the special-made rest attached to the chair for this very reason, I interlace my fingers over my stomach, 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
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
Strill - highly intelligent six-legged carnivorous Mandalorian hunting animals.
Ryll - a relatively weak form of spice used to create a number of medicines
Spice - slang for various mind-altering drugs.
Glitterstim - the name of a potent variety of the drug family "spice" mined on Kessel. It gave the user a brief, yet pleasurable telepathic boost and heightened mental state. It was a very valuable kind of spice, and tightly controlled by the Galactic Empire.
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
Chakaar - Mandalorian insult