Hurt Vector - 08 . Discourse
Title: 08part . Discourse
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: SWy cursing
Words: 4760~
Fandom: Star Wars
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: My shoulder cracks against the Protocol Droid. The sound of plated metal clattering heavily against the ground echoes, slightly muffled, in my ears. My HUD winks to life in time for me to jam the wall panel, force the door to cycle open, and exit.
What a great day it's been.
Author's Notes: Fuck you, Writer's Block.
(Fan Fiction List)
08part.Discourse
[16:10:12]
122 Days Post Order 66
The travel pack hits the ground with a thump. A small cylinder stuffed with reddish orange dust rolls out, bouncing softly over the grated floor before coming to a stop at the foot of the lavender Twi’lek. She plucks the container from the ground and languidly raises it above her head. The enormous blue-green Hutt seated on his hovering dais behind her accepts the cylinder, and pops the pressure-sealed top.
Cujo the Hutt sniffs the contents and then passes the container over to the Bimm standing beside him. The small sentient pinches a bit of sand between his fingers and gingerly tastes the contraband. His long, floppy ears twitch.
“Spice?” the Bimm asks. “We no longer deal in this trade. State your business.”
I smack the under-rim of my helmet and pop the seal keeping my helmet in place. The bucket slides off my head, letting loose my jaw-length messy hair to fall around my ears and chin. I hook the bucket to my belt and drop my hands at my sides.
“The bounty,” I snap, and point to the discarded pack on the ground. “Good quality contraband. It covers more than double the price you put on my head.”
“Oshi Yain. Ji wampada chuba ut kido,” Hutt Cujo murmurs absently, the edges of his enormous mouth curved upwards in a sneer-a Hutt's version of a smile.
Daughter? Delusional overgrown slug...
“I am not your oshi.” I make a rude gesture with my hands that even an overgrown slug can understand.
Cujo the Hutt only laughs.
His bondmate Bimm, however, regards me through slitted eyes as he strokes the blue Twi’lek napping at his feet. The blue slave yawns, loudly smacking her lips together as her hands stretch out over her head and one lekku falls over her shoulder.
“You cut your hair,” Bimm Cujo states finally. “A shame.”
I grit my teeth stare at the space between the two sentients named Cujo. The rest of the underground arena is empty, save for two Gamorrean guards pacing the wide circle at the other end of the room, and several cleaning service droids.
“Thalia,” the Bimm says, and snaps his fingers at the lavender Twi’lek. “The bag, if you please.”
The other slave rises fluidly to her feet and takes slow, deliberate steps to the pack. She bends over, grasps the heavy canvas pack with one hand, and lifts it without complaint.
That’s not normal.
She gently places the bag down at the Bimm’s feet. The Twi’lek towers over the sentient, her second master. I know size isn’t everything, but with strength like that, she could easily overpower him. But then, if she did, what next? Many slaves have explosive implants in their skulls or chest, or in plain sight on the collar around their necks. Step too far from their master, and pop! Nothing left, except a few teeth and maybe the slave’s shoes.
Bimm Cujo sifts through the bag, mumbling incoherently. While he does that, I stare at Hutt Cujo. His slimy head angles slightly to the left as he stares at me with compressed lips. His wrinkled, obese body rises and falls with every breath, eyes unblinking and curious-almost as if he intends to ask a question, but instead waits for an appropriate moment to do so.
“She’s telling the truth. There’s nearly triple the amount in here,” Bimm Cujo announces.
Hutt Cujo blinks for the first time in the past long minutes, and then lets out a long, guttural laugh that shakes my eardrums.
“Pi’mandie ne ushakur,” Hutt Cujo comments.
The Bimm sighs, tugging on the end of one of his ears.
“Yes,” Bimm Cujo agrees. “Not very clever. I suppose we can pawn off the excess. Credits are credits.”
I clench and unclench one fist at my side.
“The additional spice is to cover the price of… information.” I let out a controlled breath. “Unless you intend to off me now with the prize in hand.”
“Ji kilia chuba?” Hutt Cujo asks. “Wanta ji kilia chuba?”
That’s an odd question.
“The bounty is for my head,” I reply stiffly. “That usually indicates you want the head separated from the body.”
Hutt Cujo’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, and lets out a long, dry, chuckle. Bimm Cujo doesn’t seem to share his amusement, instead pressing a palm to his forehead.
“Chuba nekoza kong?” Hutt Cujo asks. “Newata, bato yana?”
Um. What?
“I…” I trail off, struggling to keep my hands steady at my sides. “I don’t understand your question. I am here. I am making business.”
“Tirin ne nararini.” Hutt Cujo laughs. “Chuba tinka jiji naga kilia chuba? Makan, jiji naga kilia chuba, kilia malia titoki saru.”
“I don’t understand,” I repeat. “Bounties are expensive, and so are Bounty Hunters. Not to sound ungrateful for the odd koochu you’ve sent after me, but if you didn’t want me dead-”
“Work for us,” Bimm Cujo interrupts. “Again.”
What.
What?
“No,” I hiss. My teeth creak inside my mouth from how hard I'm grinding them. “No. Ne. Wanchi paa.”
“Why not?” Bimm Cujo asks, eyes slightly wider than before.
Excuse me? Oh, I don't know. Where do I begin? The slavery, maybe? The spice trade? The bounty on my head? An indecisive Hutt who wants blood, but doesn't? The manipulation and underhanded grabs for territory? Never again.
“Is that a serious question?” I ask.
“You're here, aren't you?” the Bimm explains slowly, taking the time to enunciate each word as if speaking to a Weequay with a concussion. “Or are you not aware of how your mind works? You approached us for a business meeting. You did not do like any other sane sentient would, and either go into hiding, or find a way to exact leverage. Instead you come down for a chat, and throw a bag of spice at us.”
He pauses to shake his head and tug on one ear. “That doesn't indicate fear. That indicates anger. Betrayal.”
I should've kept my helmet on. It's getting hard to breathe around my rage. “I didn't come here for a psychoanalysis.”
“Maybe not,” the small sentient shrugs. “But think, for a moment. How else would we have... convinced you to come back? What other incentive could we have given you?”
I don't have an answer to that question, so I ask one instead. “Why me?”
Bimm Cujo shakes his head. “We knew you would come here. You're predictable, and that makes you reliable, to a degree.”
“So instead of fulfilling a bounty to kill me, you just wanted me to be your newest enforcer?” The words sound ridiculous, even to me.
“Essentially, yes. You're efficient. Familiar. And while you were away Cujo's made... quite a few nuisances out of some less-than-satisfied bureaucrats. Better to hire someone we know, than any mercenary off the street. And as you well know, there are so many left over from the war. Any random street scum just won't do.”
“Of course not." Something in me snaps. "Hey, you know what? You can take your offer... and shove it up your collective shebse. Send your hunters after me. I don't answer to you. Not anymore.”
I unhook my helmet and slam it down over my head. I spin on my heel and march away, barely able to contain the bubbling cloud of heat in the center of my chest.
“You chose this life,” the Bimm calls to my retreating back. “No one hunts others unwillingly.”
I stop.
“If you intend to stay in this profession,” the small sentient continues, “A reputation is necessary... or you will never be taken seriously.”
It takes some effort to unclench my fists and relax my hands. With a few blinks, I amp up the volume of helmet's outbound speakers.
“It was a mistake coming here,” I say. “You've made that clear, you couple of dini'la indecisive sleemo. Kill me or don't, but don't think you can drag me into your power plays and mind games.” I resume marching away.
“We do not play games, youngling,” Bimm Cujo's gravelly voice echoes softly in the cavernous arena room.
My boots click against the floor. One of the pacing Gamorrean guards snorts in my direction as he brushes past me. But aside from that, I reach the door unmolested. I pause with my hand on the wall panel, and glance at my HUD's panoramic viewscreen. I see the Bimm busy himself with the pack of spice, and realize I didn't get so much as a word of information.
I'm a kriffing idiot. Too late now.
“Chuba ux kido.” Cujo the Hutt calls, his deep voice radiating unwavering self-assurance. “Chuba ux puna tagwa.”
I highly doubt that, Hutt.
The door cycles open. I leave the arena with a sick feeling at the base of my stomach. I scroll through my personal selection of pharmaceuticals, browsing for a fast acting hit to soothe my nausea, as I set out for my next destination.
The air is sticky with sweat and antiseptic. I slide my gloved fingers under the collar of my suit and scrape the damp skin underneath. The rest of my body benefits from a regulated personal atmosphere, but with my helmet off it feels like the heat is creeping through my armor and spreading out to uncomfortable places.
Machines incredibly familiar to me beep quietly in the background. The walls and floor are white-washed durasteel, pockmarked with dark scratches and dents of various sizes. An occupied medical bed sits in the middle of the room, foot facing the opposite wall, with various datascreens secured above to monitor the patient. A medical droid sits idle in the far corner, appearing to all the galaxy as if it's deactivated.
I'm pretty sure it isn't. The thing is capable of quickly and efficiently ending the life of any being that may pose a threat to the patient, so I don't feel like finding out for sure.
I pull my hand away from my neck and tug the glove off, tucking the beaten bantha-hide into my back pouch. I take two steps forward, unclip my helmet from my belt to set it on the floor, and then lower myself onto the bed-side stool.
The gray-green skinned Mirialan smuggler lays there staring at the ceiling, with his right hand open, empty, and resting on top of the bleached white bedsheets bunched around his waist. His left arm stops just above the elbow.
Bacta-soaked cream colored bandages speckled with thin streaks of red cover most of his chest. They're holding the recently cleaned and stitched slashes closed, and keeping the set dissoluble bacta patches in place. A cloud of black diamond tattoos twist down his right side, stretching under the bandages, and continues over his bare hip to disappear under the sheets.
I close my eyes. Breathe.
“You again,” he croaks with a strained half smile.
My throat feels dry. “Me again.”
I open my eyes and examine his arm, not bothering to hide my stare. If I wanted to be discreet, I'd have kept my helmet on.
It's an old wound. A semi-mangled stump of thick, knotted scar tissue. My hands itch. I want to touch it, feel the unnatural indents of skin and muscle and bone, and the black, complex series of jacks jutting out of his skin to connect the cybernetic arm's complex receivers to his nervous system.
I ignore the compulsion.
“Forgot this place feels like a sauna.” The chuckle he forces sounds more like a shallow cough, and causes his eyes to pinch from some unseen pain. He angles his head towards me. “Why are you here?”
I wanted to make sure you're still alive.
“I had some free time.” I shrug. A spike of pain shoots through my left shoulder.
Silence. The uncomfortable kind, thick with all the things we want to say but can't be bothered to. Conversations are complicated, and usually beyond my capacity to maintain. I would say that I don't have much to say, but that's not true. I guess the imminent threat of confirming things I don't want to know are too hard for me. Things like I'm impulsive. Like I act without thinking. Like I get other people killed.
That last one is a fact.
I screwed up. What am I doing here?
My throat clenches, swallows air, as I shift on the stool to touch one foot to the floor and place the other on a low rung. The stool's legs are uneven, a side-effect of cheap furniture and even cheaper Hutts, and clank noisily against the tiled floor. The medical droid whistles softly from the corner, but doesn't move.
Vicler turns his head back towards the metal-plated ceiling.
I feel blank. Empty. Suddenly out of fuel. As if I dumped myself in a walk-in freezer and came out after all my nerves went dead.
It comes out before I can stop myself. “I'm sorry.”
I don't know what I'm apologizing for. We're not friends. Not really. I don't owe him anything.
“The arm is re-attachable, remember? One of the droids took it off for repairs.”
“Vic. That's not. Erm.”
“Yain.”
The bedsheets crunch-loud enough to send my sensitive ears ringing-as his abdominal muscles flex and he rises up to a seated position on the medical bed. He angles his body to look me dead in the eye. A flap of bandage peels slowly away from his upper right shoulder and floats down between us.
His eyes widen a fraction. His jaw twitches. His pupils dilate. He blinks twice, swings his feet off the edge of the medical bed, and tugs just enough of the sheet over his lap to stay barely decent. His knees knock against mine.
My teeth grind inside my mouth. Eyes on his face, Yain. Eyes on his face.
“You don't work for him. For Cujo. How did.” Pause. “How did you? Why were? Uh.” I can't articulate the question, so I stop talking. I think about punching myself in the mouth.
“Didn't. Do now. Or did. Do?” he says. His shoulders twitch a fraction. He winces before he can manage the full shrug. “It's hot in here. Are you hot? You must be.”
“No,” I say as I intercept his hand before it reaches my face.
“No?” A brow quirks. His words slur together as he rubs his upper lip. “No. No touching. Right.”
I sigh. “It's warm in here, but I'm not hot,” I correct.
“Maybe not hot.” He jerks his chin down slightly, brows raised as a tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “Cute, though.”
I roll my eyes. “Vic-”
“Hit a rough patch,” he interrupts. He glances off to the left, over my shoulder as if to idly examine the wall behind me. “Not long after... Would've expected things to be better, you know? Renewed government structure. Tougher law enforcement across systems. Army everywhere. Minimal chaos in spite of the sudden end to the galactic scale war. It was pretty smooth. The transition, I mean. From Republic to Empire.”
He pauses to shake his head. “Things go south. That's just what happens. But you know all about that, though, don't you?”
Of course I do.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Maybe,” he echoes with a soft laugh, and scratches the back of his neck. “Hey. So. I lied to you.”
He angles his head towards the ceiling, eyes wide. He points, his fist hovering not far from my right ear. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. “These painkillers they've got me on are doing wonders. Do you see that girl standing there? I think she's into you. She's got horns and hair and everything.”
“Uh.” Wait. Backtrack. “Lied to me? About what?”
Vicler frowns slightly as his eyes squint at a space just past my right shoulder. “She looks upset now. Like she's about to cry. Uh. I don't-”
“Vicler.” I snap my fingers in front of his eyes. “Hello. Focus. Lied about what?”
His eyes drag slowly away from the figment of his imagination to land on my face. His lips tighten and he moves his hands to grip his knees.
“The Iridonian,” he states with irritation, as if I'm incapable of following his train of thought. “The reason why you left? The. Iridonian. I found him. What was left of him. You did a real number on that guy. Must've really had something in for him.”
The Mirialan smiles fondly at me. His hand moves towards my face again, and I don't bother to stop him this time. He pats my cheeks and his smile widens, though his lips are still tightly pressed together. His hand feels warm, but no warmer than the rest of this room.
There's a tightness in my chest I'm familiar with-the kind that precedes some kind of emotional fit. I swallow it down and keep my eyes trained on his face, tracing the asymmetrical pattern of tattoos over his brows and cheekbones. A trill of pain runs up my spine, probably caused by the rigid posture I'm keeping.
I didn't come here to talk about things long dead.
“You're not feverish,” I say. “That's a good sign.”
“Yeah.” Vicler's smile slowly drops from his expression. “I'm okay. Who was he?”
“Nobody,” I say.
“With the way you left him, I don't think he was a nobody.”
“Uh.” A sharp flash of pain springs between my eyes. The memories come flooding back and I can't stop them, can't fight them, so I don't try.
Sensed him before I saw him. Before he was inside. Through the window I left open.
The filter screen blew off the window frame. My alarms didn’t flash like I had set them up to do. I jumped out of bed and reached for my blaster. My gauntlets slowed my reaction time. I always slept with my gauntlets on, after the war ended the way it did.
A hiss of air cut the silence. A dart hit my neck. In the back of my mind, I traced the drug as a dull pink light spreading through my insides. An overdose. Double the normal injection.
Go to sleep, he said. Relax, he said. Give in. Don’t fight, they’ll pay extra for undamaged goods. The creds I’ll get from you Sensitives will buy me a nice new ship. New weapons mods. A luxury condo on a second-rate vacation planet.
My first shot pinged the wall just above the window. Missed. He was inside. Moved too fast. Slammed me into the wall my cot was pushed up against. A metal shelf bit into my lower back. I grabbed his wrist with my left arm and noticed the rubbled metal glinting from the back of my left hand-my crush-gaunt. Before I could snap his wrist like a twig, he kneed me. Hard.
The air left my lungs in a woosh. The drug rushed in, faster than I anticipated. My vision blurred.
And then I could see again. But I didn’t really see. A red cloud of hatred hung over me-clearer than I’ve ever seen before. I felt a surge of strength outside my body. I jerked my left hand and snapped his wrist. He yelped, and backhanded me across the face. I fell. Clawed the ground and wondered which direction was up.
A fist in my hair yanked me off the floor. Something hit me. Blood in my mouth. Pain between my eyes. Split lip and the taste of copper at the back of my throat. My right gauntlet shu-shunked as I ejected the vibroblade. I spun around in a sea of white, and stabbed the red cloud. A hot spray hit me in the face as I twisted and tore my fist free.
I reared back, and then stabbed the red cloud again. And again. And again. And a few more times until I couldn't do more than pass out, land in a puddle of something sickly wet and hot and smelled like copper, and sleep.
“Yain?”
My name pulls me back to the present. I shake off the memory.
His hand drops to gently cup the space where my shoulder meets my neck. My tongue feels dry. I shut my open mouth and stare at Vicler's neck, quietly tracing blue green and black bruises in the shape of a hand around his throat with my eyes. It probably hurts as bad as it looks. I drag my attention back to his face.
“Nobody,” I repeat. “Was nobody.”
“Yeah?” he looks me over as he withdraws his hand to his lap. The Mirialan smuggler chews his bottom lip as his stare darts across my face and treads south. And then he shakes his head.
“Don't worry,” he says. “I made sure Nobody was dead. That many holes in him, he had to be, but I shot him a few times in the cranium before the dumpyards' incinerators got to him. Just in case. And hey. Did you cut your hair?”
I blink a few times. “Yes. I did.”
“It looked better long.”
A warm, bubbly, light feeling trickles through my chest. I recognize it as giddy, near-hysterical relief. I clamp my teeth down on my tongue. The resulting pain helps to focus me. It's not enough, but without my helmet I can't quite tap into my lucrative collection of stims, so for now it'll have to do.
I shrug. “All male sentients with hair say that.”
“Doesn't mean it isn't true.”
It isn't true.
“How did you find him?” I blurt out. “I didn't... leave any evidence behind.”
“You didn't. Not really. But I asked around. No one saw anything, 'cept for one kid. But the kid wouldn't talk to anybody.”
I think about it. “Why?”
“Why wouldn't the kid talk?”
“No.” I frown. “Why did you come looking for me?”
“I don't remember. I think you owed me something, but you were late on the delivery. I broke into your apartment.”
What. “You did what?”
“Hey.” He holds one hand up. “Hey. It wasn't like you were home.”
“But I could have been. I could have been. I never broke into your place of residence.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Vicler snorts. “Your place was like I saw it before. Felt empty. You didn't keep a whole lot of … stuff so it was hard to tell at first, but when I checked your room I knew.”
He pauses. I wait.
“I checked your 'fresher. All that fancy soap was gone. I knew you must have left.”
Had I been drinking something, I would have spurted it out all over the place in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“Joke. Joke." He raises empty palms in front of me. "Blood leaves stains, even after a thorough cleaning. And I don't think you had spent that much time bleaching your room. Anyway. A week's supply of food and a space-heater was a good enough bribe for the kid with a sick mom.”
I resist the urge to hit him. “Whatever.”
“So dismissive.” He leans back on one arm; the medical bed's mattress creaks in complaint under him. “That's okay. I have news for you.”
“News?”
“You asked me to find something out about a Cathar. Well, before Cujo had his goons pick me up for a... stern talking to... I managed to confirm a lead to your missing feline friend. But you're not going to like it.”
“I don't like most things.”
Vicler seems to take a while to digest my words. A dark emotion flickers behind his eyes. The smile he flashes doesn't quite shine like his others. I guess this is going to be less than pleasant.
“He. Uh. They asked me what you were doing back in Hutt territory.” Vic swallows as he cranes to look over his shoulder, and then moves to rise from the bed. I touch my hand to his chest and stop him.
“Hutt territory doesn't extend outside of Hutt Space.”
“Not officially, no.” He looks down at my hand as if examining a bug that's landed on his clothes. “But if there's a Hutt with any kind of power in a system, then that system is theirs, at least partially. That includes the Tatoo system.”
Tatoo? “You reported seeing me in Mos Eisley to Cujo?”
“No.”
“You didn't?” I pull my hand away. “Why?”
He blinks a few times. His eyes glance away to look just past me, to the right, again. Nothing. He's got nothing to say.
If he didn't, then who? The amateur Rodian? But then he must have told Cujo that a certain green skin was with me. A green skin temporarily under his employ, who wasn't the first to report what had happened. Cujo wouldn't have liked that. And what does Cujo do with those he doesn't like?
I can't seem to swallow past the lump in my throat.
Di'kut. I thought you were a kriffing smuggler. Not loyal to anyone, much less a coward girl in borrowed armor pretending to be bigger than she is.
“Vic, I-”
“Don't,” he snaps. “To get in Cujo's good graces in the first place, I told them about the Iridonian. They know. So don't think you owe me or something.”
He slides off the edge of the bed, pushing past my second attempt to stop him. He wavers on his feet. The bed sheet hangs, abandoned, from the medical bed. He's naked, and he doesn't seem to notice, or care.
”And I had debts,” he continues irritably as he takes small steps to the far wall. A small cabinet sits in the corner, it's doors hanging half open. Inside, his clothes sit neatly folded, despite their ragged, torn up state. He slowly crouches down, slaps the doors open, and retrieves his stuff.
“I had lots of debts. They reeled me in for the stern talking, and when I said I didn't know what you were up to, they decided that they'd throw me to the others to collect. The Hutt's no super power, by any means, but he has enough pull on his own to keep the debt collectors off my back. So I caved. They know about the Cathar.”
“But what about?” I pause to avert my eyes as he stands again and tugs on a pair of pants. “What about... the spice?”
“What about it? That bag of processed orange powder cant cover a fraction of what I owe. Figured you could make better use of it.”
The single door I entered through hisses open. A rust red protocol droid wanders in, holding a cybernetic arm in its hands. The medical droid in the far corner hums to life, and marches over to us. I climb off the stool and push it to the side as Vicler returns, lying down to stare at the ceiling as the medical droid pours over the datascreens to check his vitals. The arm is left on the bed, just below the fleshy stump of his limb.
Once reattached, I won't be able to tell the difference between flesh and artificial, not without touching to feel where the natural softness becomes unforgiving and hard.
I want to say something, but nothing sounds right.
Vicler saves me the embarrassment. A datapad is thrust into my hands, much to the displeasure of the medical droid.
“Please refrain from moving, sir.”
The Mirialan ignores him. “All you need to know about the Cathar is on that pad. Good luck, and get the hell out.”
I take a step back, stopping only to pluck my helmet off the ground and slam it over my head. I turn, blind as my HUD takes a moment to adjust, and my shoulder cracks against the Protocol droid. The sound of plated metal clattering heavily against the ground echoes, slightly muffled, in my ears. My HUD winks to life in time for me to jam the wall panel, force the door to cycle open, and exit.
What a great day it's been.
( Previous) | (Next)
Possible Points of Interest
Bimm - diminutive humanoids from the planet Bimmisaari. The Bimms consisted of two species-one, a Near-Human race, the other a floppy-eared, furred humanoid species.
Cybernetic Replacement - any biomechanical device used to replace body parts ranging from internal organs to limbs. Prosthetic replacements were connected to organic tissue via a complex synthennet neural interface, which provided the recipient with control and sensation. External replacements were often covered by synthflesh to emulate actual organic tissue.
Hutt - a species of large gastropods with stubby arms, wide cavernous mouths and huge eyes, who controlled a large space empire in Hutt Space. The members of the species are often recognized as crime lords.
Hutt Space - a region of the galaxy on the border between the Mid Rim and the Outer Rim Territories, near the entrance to Wild Space.
Iridonian - a warrior people with a particularly bloodthirsty reputation.
Spice - slang for various mind-altering drugs. Varieties included ryll and the strongest (and most expensive), glitterstim.
Tatoo System - The Tatoo system, also known as the Tatooine system, contained the planet Tatooine, which orbited twin suns, Tatoo I and Tatoo II. It was located in Arkanis Sector.
Glossary
HUTTESE
Oshi Yain. Ji wampada chubut kido. - Daughter Yain. I hoped you (would) return.
Pi’mandie ne ushakur. - Tiny Mando not clever.
Ji kilia chuba? Wanta ji kilia chuba? - Me kill you? Why me kill you?
Chuba nekoza kong? Newata, bato yana? - You not living now? Not here, making business?
Tirin ne nararini. Chuba tinka jiji naga kilia chuba? Makan, jiji naga kilia chuba, kilia malia titoki saru. - Then no problem (pain'thought). You think we want kill you? If we want kill you, kill long time past.
Chubux kido. Chubux puna tagwa. - You will return. You will say yes.
Expletives
di'kut - (Mando'a) idiot
dini'la - (Mando'a) crazy/insane/eccentric
koochu - (Huttese) idiot
kriffing - expletive modifier
sleemo - (Huttese) slimeball
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG-13
Warning: SWy cursing
Words: 4760~
Fandom: Star Wars
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: My shoulder cracks against the Protocol Droid. The sound of plated metal clattering heavily against the ground echoes, slightly muffled, in my ears. My HUD winks to life in time for me to jam the wall panel, force the door to cycle open, and exit.
What a great day it's been.
Author's Notes: Fuck you, Writer's Block.
(Fan Fiction List)
08part.Discourse
[16:10:12]
122 Days Post Order 66
The travel pack hits the ground with a thump. A small cylinder stuffed with reddish orange dust rolls out, bouncing softly over the grated floor before coming to a stop at the foot of the lavender Twi’lek. She plucks the container from the ground and languidly raises it above her head. The enormous blue-green Hutt seated on his hovering dais behind her accepts the cylinder, and pops the pressure-sealed top.
Cujo the Hutt sniffs the contents and then passes the container over to the Bimm standing beside him. The small sentient pinches a bit of sand between his fingers and gingerly tastes the contraband. His long, floppy ears twitch.
“Spice?” the Bimm asks. “We no longer deal in this trade. State your business.”
I smack the under-rim of my helmet and pop the seal keeping my helmet in place. The bucket slides off my head, letting loose my jaw-length messy hair to fall around my ears and chin. I hook the bucket to my belt and drop my hands at my sides.
“The bounty,” I snap, and point to the discarded pack on the ground. “Good quality contraband. It covers more than double the price you put on my head.”
“Oshi Yain. Ji wampada chuba ut kido,” Hutt Cujo murmurs absently, the edges of his enormous mouth curved upwards in a sneer-a Hutt's version of a smile.
Daughter? Delusional overgrown slug...
“I am not your oshi.” I make a rude gesture with my hands that even an overgrown slug can understand.
Cujo the Hutt only laughs.
His bondmate Bimm, however, regards me through slitted eyes as he strokes the blue Twi’lek napping at his feet. The blue slave yawns, loudly smacking her lips together as her hands stretch out over her head and one lekku falls over her shoulder.
“You cut your hair,” Bimm Cujo states finally. “A shame.”
I grit my teeth stare at the space between the two sentients named Cujo. The rest of the underground arena is empty, save for two Gamorrean guards pacing the wide circle at the other end of the room, and several cleaning service droids.
“Thalia,” the Bimm says, and snaps his fingers at the lavender Twi’lek. “The bag, if you please.”
The other slave rises fluidly to her feet and takes slow, deliberate steps to the pack. She bends over, grasps the heavy canvas pack with one hand, and lifts it without complaint.
That’s not normal.
She gently places the bag down at the Bimm’s feet. The Twi’lek towers over the sentient, her second master. I know size isn’t everything, but with strength like that, she could easily overpower him. But then, if she did, what next? Many slaves have explosive implants in their skulls or chest, or in plain sight on the collar around their necks. Step too far from their master, and pop! Nothing left, except a few teeth and maybe the slave’s shoes.
Bimm Cujo sifts through the bag, mumbling incoherently. While he does that, I stare at Hutt Cujo. His slimy head angles slightly to the left as he stares at me with compressed lips. His wrinkled, obese body rises and falls with every breath, eyes unblinking and curious-almost as if he intends to ask a question, but instead waits for an appropriate moment to do so.
“She’s telling the truth. There’s nearly triple the amount in here,” Bimm Cujo announces.
Hutt Cujo blinks for the first time in the past long minutes, and then lets out a long, guttural laugh that shakes my eardrums.
“Pi’mandie ne ushakur,” Hutt Cujo comments.
The Bimm sighs, tugging on the end of one of his ears.
“Yes,” Bimm Cujo agrees. “Not very clever. I suppose we can pawn off the excess. Credits are credits.”
I clench and unclench one fist at my side.
“The additional spice is to cover the price of… information.” I let out a controlled breath. “Unless you intend to off me now with the prize in hand.”
“Ji kilia chuba?” Hutt Cujo asks. “Wanta ji kilia chuba?”
That’s an odd question.
“The bounty is for my head,” I reply stiffly. “That usually indicates you want the head separated from the body.”
Hutt Cujo’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, and lets out a long, dry, chuckle. Bimm Cujo doesn’t seem to share his amusement, instead pressing a palm to his forehead.
“Chuba nekoza kong?” Hutt Cujo asks. “Newata, bato yana?”
Um. What?
“I…” I trail off, struggling to keep my hands steady at my sides. “I don’t understand your question. I am here. I am making business.”
“Tirin ne nararini.” Hutt Cujo laughs. “Chuba tinka jiji naga kilia chuba? Makan, jiji naga kilia chuba, kilia malia titoki saru.”
“I don’t understand,” I repeat. “Bounties are expensive, and so are Bounty Hunters. Not to sound ungrateful for the odd koochu you’ve sent after me, but if you didn’t want me dead-”
“Work for us,” Bimm Cujo interrupts. “Again.”
What.
What?
“No,” I hiss. My teeth creak inside my mouth from how hard I'm grinding them. “No. Ne. Wanchi paa.”
“Why not?” Bimm Cujo asks, eyes slightly wider than before.
Excuse me? Oh, I don't know. Where do I begin? The slavery, maybe? The spice trade? The bounty on my head? An indecisive Hutt who wants blood, but doesn't? The manipulation and underhanded grabs for territory? Never again.
“Is that a serious question?” I ask.
“You're here, aren't you?” the Bimm explains slowly, taking the time to enunciate each word as if speaking to a Weequay with a concussion. “Or are you not aware of how your mind works? You approached us for a business meeting. You did not do like any other sane sentient would, and either go into hiding, or find a way to exact leverage. Instead you come down for a chat, and throw a bag of spice at us.”
He pauses to shake his head and tug on one ear. “That doesn't indicate fear. That indicates anger. Betrayal.”
I should've kept my helmet on. It's getting hard to breathe around my rage. “I didn't come here for a psychoanalysis.”
“Maybe not,” the small sentient shrugs. “But think, for a moment. How else would we have... convinced you to come back? What other incentive could we have given you?”
I don't have an answer to that question, so I ask one instead. “Why me?”
Bimm Cujo shakes his head. “We knew you would come here. You're predictable, and that makes you reliable, to a degree.”
“So instead of fulfilling a bounty to kill me, you just wanted me to be your newest enforcer?” The words sound ridiculous, even to me.
“Essentially, yes. You're efficient. Familiar. And while you were away Cujo's made... quite a few nuisances out of some less-than-satisfied bureaucrats. Better to hire someone we know, than any mercenary off the street. And as you well know, there are so many left over from the war. Any random street scum just won't do.”
“Of course not." Something in me snaps. "Hey, you know what? You can take your offer... and shove it up your collective shebse. Send your hunters after me. I don't answer to you. Not anymore.”
I unhook my helmet and slam it down over my head. I spin on my heel and march away, barely able to contain the bubbling cloud of heat in the center of my chest.
“You chose this life,” the Bimm calls to my retreating back. “No one hunts others unwillingly.”
I stop.
“If you intend to stay in this profession,” the small sentient continues, “A reputation is necessary... or you will never be taken seriously.”
It takes some effort to unclench my fists and relax my hands. With a few blinks, I amp up the volume of helmet's outbound speakers.
“It was a mistake coming here,” I say. “You've made that clear, you couple of dini'la indecisive sleemo. Kill me or don't, but don't think you can drag me into your power plays and mind games.” I resume marching away.
“We do not play games, youngling,” Bimm Cujo's gravelly voice echoes softly in the cavernous arena room.
My boots click against the floor. One of the pacing Gamorrean guards snorts in my direction as he brushes past me. But aside from that, I reach the door unmolested. I pause with my hand on the wall panel, and glance at my HUD's panoramic viewscreen. I see the Bimm busy himself with the pack of spice, and realize I didn't get so much as a word of information.
I'm a kriffing idiot. Too late now.
“Chuba ux kido.” Cujo the Hutt calls, his deep voice radiating unwavering self-assurance. “Chuba ux puna tagwa.”
I highly doubt that, Hutt.
The door cycles open. I leave the arena with a sick feeling at the base of my stomach. I scroll through my personal selection of pharmaceuticals, browsing for a fast acting hit to soothe my nausea, as I set out for my next destination.
The air is sticky with sweat and antiseptic. I slide my gloved fingers under the collar of my suit and scrape the damp skin underneath. The rest of my body benefits from a regulated personal atmosphere, but with my helmet off it feels like the heat is creeping through my armor and spreading out to uncomfortable places.
Machines incredibly familiar to me beep quietly in the background. The walls and floor are white-washed durasteel, pockmarked with dark scratches and dents of various sizes. An occupied medical bed sits in the middle of the room, foot facing the opposite wall, with various datascreens secured above to monitor the patient. A medical droid sits idle in the far corner, appearing to all the galaxy as if it's deactivated.
I'm pretty sure it isn't. The thing is capable of quickly and efficiently ending the life of any being that may pose a threat to the patient, so I don't feel like finding out for sure.
I pull my hand away from my neck and tug the glove off, tucking the beaten bantha-hide into my back pouch. I take two steps forward, unclip my helmet from my belt to set it on the floor, and then lower myself onto the bed-side stool.
The gray-green skinned Mirialan smuggler lays there staring at the ceiling, with his right hand open, empty, and resting on top of the bleached white bedsheets bunched around his waist. His left arm stops just above the elbow.
Bacta-soaked cream colored bandages speckled with thin streaks of red cover most of his chest. They're holding the recently cleaned and stitched slashes closed, and keeping the set dissoluble bacta patches in place. A cloud of black diamond tattoos twist down his right side, stretching under the bandages, and continues over his bare hip to disappear under the sheets.
I close my eyes. Breathe.
“You again,” he croaks with a strained half smile.
My throat feels dry. “Me again.”
I open my eyes and examine his arm, not bothering to hide my stare. If I wanted to be discreet, I'd have kept my helmet on.
It's an old wound. A semi-mangled stump of thick, knotted scar tissue. My hands itch. I want to touch it, feel the unnatural indents of skin and muscle and bone, and the black, complex series of jacks jutting out of his skin to connect the cybernetic arm's complex receivers to his nervous system.
I ignore the compulsion.
“Forgot this place feels like a sauna.” The chuckle he forces sounds more like a shallow cough, and causes his eyes to pinch from some unseen pain. He angles his head towards me. “Why are you here?”
I wanted to make sure you're still alive.
“I had some free time.” I shrug. A spike of pain shoots through my left shoulder.
Silence. The uncomfortable kind, thick with all the things we want to say but can't be bothered to. Conversations are complicated, and usually beyond my capacity to maintain. I would say that I don't have much to say, but that's not true. I guess the imminent threat of confirming things I don't want to know are too hard for me. Things like I'm impulsive. Like I act without thinking. Like I get other people killed.
That last one is a fact.
I screwed up. What am I doing here?
My throat clenches, swallows air, as I shift on the stool to touch one foot to the floor and place the other on a low rung. The stool's legs are uneven, a side-effect of cheap furniture and even cheaper Hutts, and clank noisily against the tiled floor. The medical droid whistles softly from the corner, but doesn't move.
Vicler turns his head back towards the metal-plated ceiling.
I feel blank. Empty. Suddenly out of fuel. As if I dumped myself in a walk-in freezer and came out after all my nerves went dead.
It comes out before I can stop myself. “I'm sorry.”
I don't know what I'm apologizing for. We're not friends. Not really. I don't owe him anything.
“The arm is re-attachable, remember? One of the droids took it off for repairs.”
“Vic. That's not. Erm.”
“Yain.”
The bedsheets crunch-loud enough to send my sensitive ears ringing-as his abdominal muscles flex and he rises up to a seated position on the medical bed. He angles his body to look me dead in the eye. A flap of bandage peels slowly away from his upper right shoulder and floats down between us.
His eyes widen a fraction. His jaw twitches. His pupils dilate. He blinks twice, swings his feet off the edge of the medical bed, and tugs just enough of the sheet over his lap to stay barely decent. His knees knock against mine.
My teeth grind inside my mouth. Eyes on his face, Yain. Eyes on his face.
“You don't work for him. For Cujo. How did.” Pause. “How did you? Why were? Uh.” I can't articulate the question, so I stop talking. I think about punching myself in the mouth.
“Didn't. Do now. Or did. Do?” he says. His shoulders twitch a fraction. He winces before he can manage the full shrug. “It's hot in here. Are you hot? You must be.”
“No,” I say as I intercept his hand before it reaches my face.
“No?” A brow quirks. His words slur together as he rubs his upper lip. “No. No touching. Right.”
I sigh. “It's warm in here, but I'm not hot,” I correct.
“Maybe not hot.” He jerks his chin down slightly, brows raised as a tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “Cute, though.”
I roll my eyes. “Vic-”
“Hit a rough patch,” he interrupts. He glances off to the left, over my shoulder as if to idly examine the wall behind me. “Not long after... Would've expected things to be better, you know? Renewed government structure. Tougher law enforcement across systems. Army everywhere. Minimal chaos in spite of the sudden end to the galactic scale war. It was pretty smooth. The transition, I mean. From Republic to Empire.”
He pauses to shake his head. “Things go south. That's just what happens. But you know all about that, though, don't you?”
Of course I do.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Maybe,” he echoes with a soft laugh, and scratches the back of his neck. “Hey. So. I lied to you.”
He angles his head towards the ceiling, eyes wide. He points, his fist hovering not far from my right ear. I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. “These painkillers they've got me on are doing wonders. Do you see that girl standing there? I think she's into you. She's got horns and hair and everything.”
“Uh.” Wait. Backtrack. “Lied to me? About what?”
Vicler frowns slightly as his eyes squint at a space just past my right shoulder. “She looks upset now. Like she's about to cry. Uh. I don't-”
“Vicler.” I snap my fingers in front of his eyes. “Hello. Focus. Lied about what?”
His eyes drag slowly away from the figment of his imagination to land on my face. His lips tighten and he moves his hands to grip his knees.
“The Iridonian,” he states with irritation, as if I'm incapable of following his train of thought. “The reason why you left? The. Iridonian. I found him. What was left of him. You did a real number on that guy. Must've really had something in for him.”
The Mirialan smiles fondly at me. His hand moves towards my face again, and I don't bother to stop him this time. He pats my cheeks and his smile widens, though his lips are still tightly pressed together. His hand feels warm, but no warmer than the rest of this room.
There's a tightness in my chest I'm familiar with-the kind that precedes some kind of emotional fit. I swallow it down and keep my eyes trained on his face, tracing the asymmetrical pattern of tattoos over his brows and cheekbones. A trill of pain runs up my spine, probably caused by the rigid posture I'm keeping.
I didn't come here to talk about things long dead.
“You're not feverish,” I say. “That's a good sign.”
“Yeah.” Vicler's smile slowly drops from his expression. “I'm okay. Who was he?”
“Nobody,” I say.
“With the way you left him, I don't think he was a nobody.”
“Uh.” A sharp flash of pain springs between my eyes. The memories come flooding back and I can't stop them, can't fight them, so I don't try.
Sensed him before I saw him. Before he was inside. Through the window I left open.
The filter screen blew off the window frame. My alarms didn’t flash like I had set them up to do. I jumped out of bed and reached for my blaster. My gauntlets slowed my reaction time. I always slept with my gauntlets on, after the war ended the way it did.
A hiss of air cut the silence. A dart hit my neck. In the back of my mind, I traced the drug as a dull pink light spreading through my insides. An overdose. Double the normal injection.
Go to sleep, he said. Relax, he said. Give in. Don’t fight, they’ll pay extra for undamaged goods. The creds I’ll get from you Sensitives will buy me a nice new ship. New weapons mods. A luxury condo on a second-rate vacation planet.
My first shot pinged the wall just above the window. Missed. He was inside. Moved too fast. Slammed me into the wall my cot was pushed up against. A metal shelf bit into my lower back. I grabbed his wrist with my left arm and noticed the rubbled metal glinting from the back of my left hand-my crush-gaunt. Before I could snap his wrist like a twig, he kneed me. Hard.
The air left my lungs in a woosh. The drug rushed in, faster than I anticipated. My vision blurred.
And then I could see again. But I didn’t really see. A red cloud of hatred hung over me-clearer than I’ve ever seen before. I felt a surge of strength outside my body. I jerked my left hand and snapped his wrist. He yelped, and backhanded me across the face. I fell. Clawed the ground and wondered which direction was up.
A fist in my hair yanked me off the floor. Something hit me. Blood in my mouth. Pain between my eyes. Split lip and the taste of copper at the back of my throat. My right gauntlet shu-shunked as I ejected the vibroblade. I spun around in a sea of white, and stabbed the red cloud. A hot spray hit me in the face as I twisted and tore my fist free.
I reared back, and then stabbed the red cloud again. And again. And again. And a few more times until I couldn't do more than pass out, land in a puddle of something sickly wet and hot and smelled like copper, and sleep.
“Yain?”
My name pulls me back to the present. I shake off the memory.
His hand drops to gently cup the space where my shoulder meets my neck. My tongue feels dry. I shut my open mouth and stare at Vicler's neck, quietly tracing blue green and black bruises in the shape of a hand around his throat with my eyes. It probably hurts as bad as it looks. I drag my attention back to his face.
“Nobody,” I repeat. “Was nobody.”
“Yeah?” he looks me over as he withdraws his hand to his lap. The Mirialan smuggler chews his bottom lip as his stare darts across my face and treads south. And then he shakes his head.
“Don't worry,” he says. “I made sure Nobody was dead. That many holes in him, he had to be, but I shot him a few times in the cranium before the dumpyards' incinerators got to him. Just in case. And hey. Did you cut your hair?”
I blink a few times. “Yes. I did.”
“It looked better long.”
A warm, bubbly, light feeling trickles through my chest. I recognize it as giddy, near-hysterical relief. I clamp my teeth down on my tongue. The resulting pain helps to focus me. It's not enough, but without my helmet I can't quite tap into my lucrative collection of stims, so for now it'll have to do.
I shrug. “All male sentients with hair say that.”
“Doesn't mean it isn't true.”
It isn't true.
“How did you find him?” I blurt out. “I didn't... leave any evidence behind.”
“You didn't. Not really. But I asked around. No one saw anything, 'cept for one kid. But the kid wouldn't talk to anybody.”
I think about it. “Why?”
“Why wouldn't the kid talk?”
“No.” I frown. “Why did you come looking for me?”
“I don't remember. I think you owed me something, but you were late on the delivery. I broke into your apartment.”
What. “You did what?”
“Hey.” He holds one hand up. “Hey. It wasn't like you were home.”
“But I could have been. I could have been. I never broke into your place of residence.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Vicler snorts. “Your place was like I saw it before. Felt empty. You didn't keep a whole lot of … stuff so it was hard to tell at first, but when I checked your room I knew.”
He pauses. I wait.
“I checked your 'fresher. All that fancy soap was gone. I knew you must have left.”
Had I been drinking something, I would have spurted it out all over the place in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“Joke. Joke." He raises empty palms in front of me. "Blood leaves stains, even after a thorough cleaning. And I don't think you had spent that much time bleaching your room. Anyway. A week's supply of food and a space-heater was a good enough bribe for the kid with a sick mom.”
I resist the urge to hit him. “Whatever.”
“So dismissive.” He leans back on one arm; the medical bed's mattress creaks in complaint under him. “That's okay. I have news for you.”
“News?”
“You asked me to find something out about a Cathar. Well, before Cujo had his goons pick me up for a... stern talking to... I managed to confirm a lead to your missing feline friend. But you're not going to like it.”
“I don't like most things.”
Vicler seems to take a while to digest my words. A dark emotion flickers behind his eyes. The smile he flashes doesn't quite shine like his others. I guess this is going to be less than pleasant.
“He. Uh. They asked me what you were doing back in Hutt territory.” Vic swallows as he cranes to look over his shoulder, and then moves to rise from the bed. I touch my hand to his chest and stop him.
“Hutt territory doesn't extend outside of Hutt Space.”
“Not officially, no.” He looks down at my hand as if examining a bug that's landed on his clothes. “But if there's a Hutt with any kind of power in a system, then that system is theirs, at least partially. That includes the Tatoo system.”
Tatoo? “You reported seeing me in Mos Eisley to Cujo?”
“No.”
“You didn't?” I pull my hand away. “Why?”
He blinks a few times. His eyes glance away to look just past me, to the right, again. Nothing. He's got nothing to say.
If he didn't, then who? The amateur Rodian? But then he must have told Cujo that a certain green skin was with me. A green skin temporarily under his employ, who wasn't the first to report what had happened. Cujo wouldn't have liked that. And what does Cujo do with those he doesn't like?
I can't seem to swallow past the lump in my throat.
Di'kut. I thought you were a kriffing smuggler. Not loyal to anyone, much less a coward girl in borrowed armor pretending to be bigger than she is.
“Vic, I-”
“Don't,” he snaps. “To get in Cujo's good graces in the first place, I told them about the Iridonian. They know. So don't think you owe me or something.”
He slides off the edge of the bed, pushing past my second attempt to stop him. He wavers on his feet. The bed sheet hangs, abandoned, from the medical bed. He's naked, and he doesn't seem to notice, or care.
”And I had debts,” he continues irritably as he takes small steps to the far wall. A small cabinet sits in the corner, it's doors hanging half open. Inside, his clothes sit neatly folded, despite their ragged, torn up state. He slowly crouches down, slaps the doors open, and retrieves his stuff.
“I had lots of debts. They reeled me in for the stern talking, and when I said I didn't know what you were up to, they decided that they'd throw me to the others to collect. The Hutt's no super power, by any means, but he has enough pull on his own to keep the debt collectors off my back. So I caved. They know about the Cathar.”
“But what about?” I pause to avert my eyes as he stands again and tugs on a pair of pants. “What about... the spice?”
“What about it? That bag of processed orange powder cant cover a fraction of what I owe. Figured you could make better use of it.”
The single door I entered through hisses open. A rust red protocol droid wanders in, holding a cybernetic arm in its hands. The medical droid in the far corner hums to life, and marches over to us. I climb off the stool and push it to the side as Vicler returns, lying down to stare at the ceiling as the medical droid pours over the datascreens to check his vitals. The arm is left on the bed, just below the fleshy stump of his limb.
Once reattached, I won't be able to tell the difference between flesh and artificial, not without touching to feel where the natural softness becomes unforgiving and hard.
I want to say something, but nothing sounds right.
Vicler saves me the embarrassment. A datapad is thrust into my hands, much to the displeasure of the medical droid.
“Please refrain from moving, sir.”
The Mirialan ignores him. “All you need to know about the Cathar is on that pad. Good luck, and get the hell out.”
I take a step back, stopping only to pluck my helmet off the ground and slam it over my head. I turn, blind as my HUD takes a moment to adjust, and my shoulder cracks against the Protocol droid. The sound of plated metal clattering heavily against the ground echoes, slightly muffled, in my ears. My HUD winks to life in time for me to jam the wall panel, force the door to cycle open, and exit.
What a great day it's been.
( Previous) | (Next)
Possible Points of Interest
Bimm - diminutive humanoids from the planet Bimmisaari. The Bimms consisted of two species-one, a Near-Human race, the other a floppy-eared, furred humanoid species.
Cybernetic Replacement - any biomechanical device used to replace body parts ranging from internal organs to limbs. Prosthetic replacements were connected to organic tissue via a complex synthennet neural interface, which provided the recipient with control and sensation. External replacements were often covered by synthflesh to emulate actual organic tissue.
Hutt - a species of large gastropods with stubby arms, wide cavernous mouths and huge eyes, who controlled a large space empire in Hutt Space. The members of the species are often recognized as crime lords.
Hutt Space - a region of the galaxy on the border between the Mid Rim and the Outer Rim Territories, near the entrance to Wild Space.
Iridonian - a warrior people with a particularly bloodthirsty reputation.
Spice - slang for various mind-altering drugs. Varieties included ryll and the strongest (and most expensive), glitterstim.
Tatoo System - The Tatoo system, also known as the Tatooine system, contained the planet Tatooine, which orbited twin suns, Tatoo I and Tatoo II. It was located in Arkanis Sector.
Glossary
HUTTESE
Oshi Yain. Ji wampada chubut kido. - Daughter Yain. I hoped you (would) return.
Pi’mandie ne ushakur. - Tiny Mando not clever.
Ji kilia chuba? Wanta ji kilia chuba? - Me kill you? Why me kill you?
Chuba nekoza kong? Newata, bato yana? - You not living now? Not here, making business?
Tirin ne nararini. Chuba tinka jiji naga kilia chuba? Makan, jiji naga kilia chuba, kilia malia titoki saru. - Then no problem (pain'thought). You think we want kill you? If we want kill you, kill long time past.
Chubux kido. Chubux puna tagwa. - You will return. You will say yes.
Expletives
di'kut - (Mando'a) idiot
dini'la - (Mando'a) crazy/insane/eccentric
koochu - (Huttese) idiot
kriffing - expletive modifier
sleemo - (Huttese) slimeball