Hurt Vector - 01 . Meeting
Title: 01 . Meeting
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG+
Warnings: Lots of Star Wars cursing
Words: ~5000
Fandom: Star Wars
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: It starts with an exit from a hovel filled with newly-made corpses, to a meeting with a beautiful woman, and a hunt that could force Yain to travel across the galaxy.
::EDITED FROM THE ORIGINAL::
(Fanfiction List)
[16:09:29]
one hundred eight days post Order 66
Streams of information whirl before my eyes as my visor adjusts to the sudden change in light. Damp earth squelches beneath my boots as I step out from the dimly lit hut onto open ground. Dark splotches obscure my T-visor’s vision, but I ignore the impulse to wipe them away. They’d only streak and stain and be that much harder to clean.
I have enough to worry about.
Far above me stretches the moon’s lavender atmosphere, the east horizon tainted with the curve of a rust red planet. The nameless satellite I’m walking on is populated with more Duros than I could’ve lived with seeing-and smelling. It orbits a planet with a name I can’t pronounce, uninhabitable unless you have the money and the means. I have neither. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have volunteered my credits to venture out so far in the Outer Rim.
No, I’d have settled on a populated planet well within our recently deceased Republic Space-now, it's the Empire or some shavit like that. But, anyway. I’d have been dead. So. Like I said. I have enough to worry about.
I flex my re-calibrated custom gauntlets and revel in the comfort of smooth cold metal pressing against the inside of my arms. Just a flick of either wrist can send a poisoned dart some unlucky sap’s way. Handy, accurate, exceedingly helpful. The most I could ever ask for, really. I’ll have to thank my sister, my vod’ika, for these someday.
Maybe. If I live long enough.
A clunky, still-steaming FC-1 launcher bounces in the holster against my back-plate. I can feel the heat of the barrel through my beskar’gam-signature Mandalorian armor-and two layers of fabric. Beside the launcher is my MMU, a personalized Mobile Medkit Unit, locked in a melt-proof package. The blaster against my thigh, secured to my hip in a double-strap holster, so far has remained untouched.
Messy work calls for the launcher. The MMU was for just-in-case.
As I march down the dirt path to return to Jate’kara, my ship, I narrow my focus to just breathing the air pumped out by my suit’s support systems. The moon's atmosphere is too thick with liquid for me to survive without adequate filtration, but filtration I have. My eyes flicker to the mini 360° window situated at the lower right corner of my visor's view-screen. I can see my displaced footprints left in the path, stained red and black from the blood still slicked against my soles. The wind begins to pick up, blowing dirt and earth and wet sand everywhere-but the footprints remain the same.
It’s funny how I left that flimsy hut in one piece, despite unloading my flechette launcher inside there. Or, you know, it might be-except that it isn’t.
Screaming in my speakers. Begging. Floating, glowing eyes. Flashes of blaster fire. Laser sights trained on my visor. Bolts ricocheting off my chest plates. Glints of a vibroblade in the dark.
The walls were painted red when I was done.
My stomach rolls. I pause to breathe and suck in warm, recycled air-reused air that smells and tastes of me. I try not to think about it.
Some healer I turned out to be. Instead of saving, I’m killing. My superiors would have been so proud… if they weren’t frozen and scattered in pieces, somewhere out in the other side of the galaxy.
Shab. Don’t think about it.
At least the credits are wired to my account. The credits are wired to my account. The credits are wired to my account.
The mantra repeats in my head as I resume walking. Tall, chipped duracrete walls of the spaceport entrance loom overhead. Red targets bounce across my screen as a dock worker emits a high-pitched squeal, bolts out of my way, and dives behind a stack of metal crates.
I ignore him.
Jate’kara’s metal ramp clicks under my boots as I lurch into my ship and slam my fist against a side panel. The durasteel cracks under my crush-gauntlet, but the ramp still slides into place as the airlock seals tight.
Now that I’m safe, I drop to my knees with a heavy sigh. The seal of my bucket pops open after a few clumsy attempts and I lay the buy’ce reverently on the grated floor in front of my bent knees. My eyes slide closed and the back of my head hits the hull with a not-so-silent thunk!
The sound of an aged repulsorlift engine is my only warning.
“Lorda Yonjori?! Chi sa yo nara? Chay ashka na awar pe uba.”
I glance up at the hovering blue-gray droid. There’s hair hanging in my face. I’ll have to chop everything off past chin length, later. After I clean everything. Everything.
“I’m fine. It’s not mine,” I reply tiredly and wave an open palm vaguely towards my blood-spattered armor. The droid bristles, letting out a few short beeps of irritation.
“Lontko un uba cho?” he asks.
Does it matter what I’m trying to do? It’s not like he’s mine, legally speaking, so what should a droid care? It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t.
“No, Nate,” I sigh. “I’m not trying to get myself killed. I just. This situation. I can't. I can't. I…”
I can’t get the words out, so I just stop talking. Nate hovers silently, glowing eyes focused on my face. He’s just a droid, statue-like and expressionless, yet…
Yet for a minute I thought I saw…
Never mind.
With a grunt, I haul my shebs back on my feet and trudge down the hall. I stop at the makeshift kitchen, the door of my quarters opposite and wide open. I take a sharp turn to the right, intending to grab a muja fruit or a fresh cup of caffa, and slam my hip into the corner of a bolted-down table. A half-filled can of lukewarm juice clatters to the floor, splashing pink liquid everywhere.
“Frack,” I curse.
I stumble back, breathe, take two steps forward, and put a dent in the table with my fist. My vision swims. I tear the kriffing crush-gaunt off and hurl it down the hall. There's a clang, followed close by the sound of shattering glass.
“Frack.”
My bucket flies through the open door to my quarters, slams into the wall and falls on my unkempt cot, followed by blood-smeared red, black, and gold armor plates. The rest of my kit clatters to the grated floor, my MMU popping open and spraying first aid supplies in every direction.
A rip echoes in the empty ship as I struggle out of my flightsuit.
“Gfersh.” I hiss, my voice increasing in volume with every curse. “Jactna. Hufgeb hsicl merht verre d'n nocka!"
I tear off the top half of my suit and drop it behind me. The bottom half comes loose at my hips, the ties meant to keep it tight to my body flapping noisily as I viciously grab my gear off the floor and stomp the fallen can flat. I leave the scattered medkit supplies, forget about the damn fruit, and the caffa, and my rolling stomach.
“Lorda…?” Nate blips.
“No, Nate.” I sigh. “No. I’ll clean it. Just…”
Leaving a trail of blood droplets and pink juice leading to my room, I toss my gear across the few meters between me and the cot. Then I near-break my bare fist on the door panel to the ‘fresher. This close to tearing my hair out, I look back at the floating droid in the doorway.
“Just get us in the air."
“…Yes, Master.” He disappears from sight.
The door to the 'fresher hisses shut and it takes two seconds too long for it to sink it that Nate just spoke Basic. For the first time since… since…
I can't remember.
I delicately curl my swollen hands around the edges of my sink and stare hard at my reflection. To put it lightly, I look like hell. My stomach flips and a strangled giggle escapes my mouth. I bite down hard and try to breathe, but the giggles mushroom into full-on hysterical laughter between grinding teeth. Pain spikes up my arms, my palms clenching tight around the sharp edges of the sink, and I laugh my face into the drain.
The ship jerks on take-off. My stomach rolls, then rolls again, and suddenly the little bit of breakfast I consumed earlier takes a one-way trip to sink heaven.
Drops of condensed water trickle down the steam-fogged mirror, cutting solid boundaries over my obscured reflection. The mirror hangs ajar, the door’s hinges holding it open as I fish out thin bandages pre-soaked in kolto. It’s archaic in comparison to the ever-popular bacta, but with the price bacta seems to be catching these days… well. Wasn’t a tough choice.
I shut the mirror and stare at the bandages in my hands. The knuckles of my left hand are swollen and purpling. The fingers of my right are bruised, covered in slow healing blisters. I set down the loose bandages at the side of my sink, squirt some self-made herbal solution onto my palms, and rub the foul smelling amber liquid into my skin. It burns and cools at the same time, a sign that the medicinal properties are already beginning to work.
With a heavily practiced ease I wrap my hands with the bandages, tight enough to stay on and offer support to my wrists, but not to the point of blocking circulation. I wipe down the mirror with a spare hand-towel and glance at my reflection, taking just enough time to ascertain that my broken nose is healing straight…
...before the ship suddenly jerks and I smash my face into the mirror.
Stars explode behind my eyes. My aching left hand grips the sharp edge of the sink while my right cups my nose.
“Son of a sith harlot,” I gasp.
I can feel a migraine coming on.
The ship jerks again. I narrowly avoid breaking my nose a third time and slam my palm against the door panel. I stagger into my personal living quarters, close up the rest of my flight suit, and snap shut the neck guard around my throat. Scattered across the room are my assorted beskar armor plates, still spattered with dried blood.
I lean over and hit the button to activate the ship-wide comm. “Nate!”
The ship trembles violently, as if it’s being dragged kicking and screaming out of the original flight trajectory... or as if a lazy droid pilot felt the need to disregard the common flight protocol for when humans are on-board. As if in agreement, the ship jerks again. I stumble over to my cot and gather up my armor, attaching the pieces to my suit as I hurl down the narrow corridors of Jate’kara.
“Nate!” I shout down the hall. “Droyk it, you shiny floating piece of skrag.”
I turn sharply onto the bridge. The narrow space quickly widens out into the cockpit. Half the ceiling is arched smooth, reinforced transparisteel, and the curved window only slightly warps the view, which does nothing to diminish the intimidating space station looming in the distance.
Nasaur Station, home to the richer populace of the rust red planet it orbits. A floating 2 kilometer wide disk with a tall central spire, it serves as a small refueling and armory exchange trading hub for the system. The weapons they deal are below average, which is far better quality than I expected from some backwater station. But while I might refuel and restock supplies here, I would not spend a night.
I grab hold of the doorjamb as Jate’kara goes through another series of rumbles. Nate hovers calmly over the co-pilot’s chair, occasionally pressing one flashing button or another. A chord trailing away from his mid-back connects him to my ship’s mainframe, the plugged tool in the socket rotating clockwise.
I clear my throat. His head swivels on his square shoulders to face me.
“Oh, hello Master,” he tones pleasantly. “It seems we are soon to be guests of two powerful crime lords.”
“We?” I tighten my grip on the frame. “There won’t be a ‘we’ if you keep up this osik.”
I stare at the space station, dimly aware that I’m still missing my armored back-plate, my medical supplies, and my helmet. The ship rumbles. On the nav-system embedded in the wall to my left, I can see Jate’kara slowly evening out of the original zigzagging trajectory and onto a straight beeline, heading for one of the many docking bays of the orbital space station.
Nate emits an odd, slightly off-tune melody. “We are in for a smooth landing now, Master.”
Now? As if we weren’t before?
I resist the urge to blast my droid into scrap-heap.
“Well. Wonderful news.” I readjust my utility belt. “Be sure to transmit our docking codes. And don’t forget to ping the Hangar Officer's personal system. Repeatedly, if he doesn’t respond right away this time. I don’t want to be welcomed by a team from Nau-Sec Security. Again.”
“But the Hangar Officer has a dislike for droids, Master.”
I step forward to tap Nate on his metal head. “Then be sure to ping him after he responds as well. I’d like if you reminded him why he shouldn't offend irritated droids with malfunctioning personality matrices.”
Nate’s eyes glow intensely before quickly fading back to their usual half-powered sheen. “I would enjoy that as well, Master,” he beeps as his head swivels back to face the flight control panel.
I exit the cockpit to retrieve the rest of my gear from my living quarters. I didn’t get a chance to clean off the blood splatter, but to hell with appearances-I don’t have enough energy to waste on caring about whether or not I look presentable to a pair of overpaid criminal corporate leaders.
The ship-wide comm system crackles to life.
“Jate’kara docking in two minutes, Master.”
After exiting my quarters, I veer into the makeshift medbay-which was, at one point, an oversized food storage closet-grab an extra tube of kolto gel, and smear some over my aching nose before donning my helmet.
I stare into total darkness for a few seconds as my buy’ce synchronizes its frequency with Jate’kara. Its systems whine as it takes into account security parameters, previously stored notes on Nasaur Station’s cam system, sealed-off construction areas, differentially acquired security codes that would, hopefully, open a few doors in the event of an emergency, and loads a semi-complete blueprint of the station's layout. My suit notes several weaknesses in my armor-damages I hadn’t had time to patch up since my last engagement-and pleasantly informs me via data-stream that survival to deep-space exposure has dropped to a maximum of five minutes.
If I take a trip with jettisoned cargo, five minutes or five hours wouldn’t make much of a difference. Still, it's good to know, I guess.
I relax in the medbay and check over my supplies, running my gloved fingers over the assorted chems I keep stored in my belt pouches and the ammo supply of my gauntlet-mounted dart launcher. I’m leaving the big guns with Nate, but I don’t exactly need them to make a mess.
Hell, I could probably go in there shebs-naked and be reasonably confident of leaving with all of my parts intact.
Well. Mostly intact.
It’s not like I can’t put myself back together, anyway.
Medkit? Check. Holdout Blaster? Check.
Two heavily armed Gamorrean escorts? Check check.
I follow the two obscenely round aliens down extravagant halls and into an oversized repulsorlift. I recognize the song playing softly in the background as we zip down twenty levels. It’s an old gliz song, focused around unhappy political discourse from maybe ten standard years ago.
Funny how time flies.
We come to a stop on an unlabeled sub-level. The doors cycle open to perfumed air and gaudy light strips following the curved ceiling of the hall. The colors are bright and ugly, neon yellow clashing with deep purple and pastel blue. The light fixtures look like they’re accented with gold, though I can’t really be bothered to stare long enough into the neon lights to be sure.
Before my visor can auto-adjust, I’m herded into the nearest room. The door hisses shut once I pass the threshold and emits a soft clicking sound. I don’t need to test the doors to know they’re locked, so I take a look around.
The wall furthest from the door isn’t so much a wall as a solid transparisteel curved window, with a perfect view of the planet below. From here, the swirling rust red atmosphere almost looks beautiful. It almost looks as if it isn’t a floating cesspool of fire and acid soaked mining colonies. Almost as if it isn’t a death trap for all the slaves and indentured servants shipped there with a one-way ticket.
Almost.
A long couch clearly meant for lounging-and perhaps other activities requiring an individual to lie on their back-sits positioned at an angle for a good view of both the door and the sight presented by the window. A semi-circle shaped desk sits facing the door, the embedded datascreen in the surface flashing information up towards the ceiling. Behind the desk is a large cushioned chair, its back facing me.
The sheer size of the chair nearly blocks me from seeing the sparsely dressed Cathar female dancing to the sensual music playing in the background. Her pale gold fur is enhanced by the silky white fabric of her dress. The loose fabric covers all the essential bits-but only just. Long platinum blond hair falls from a tight high ponytail, swishing about her body in time with her dancing.
A being with a lesser mind might have been entranced, maybe even hypnotized.
I can’t quite say I’m not, at the moment.
The Cathar female’s eyes open to reveal frighteningly pale blue irises. They focus on me, pupils widening, and flicker behind rapid blinks. Her hands fall to her sides, the dance ceasing mid-motion.
“Oh!” Mistress Patra purrs. “Our guest has returned.”
The chair swivels around to reveal Master Lirra, a burly Cathar male. The white scruff around his chin and neck clashes with the dark tan fur of the rest of him. His formal vest hangs open, revealing a bare chest pockmarked with white fur-less lines of old scars. His red eyes focus on me, pointed ears twitching forward in interest. He smiles, baring a few canines.
A red warning pops up on my view-screen, analyzing the Cathar male and accessing the holo-net. The data-stream along the bottom flashes the following: Cathar - a race of humanoid, feline bipeds. Their civilization’s history is tainted heavily with the enslavement of their people. Gestures harmless between humans can be found offensive when interacting with these natural predators and provoke attack. Baring of the teeth is a signal of hostility or warning. Showing fear or weakness of any kind is an invitation for attack. Treat with extreme caution.
I’ve seen one of the females rip a human to shreds in the space of a couple of seconds. It was an interesting sight. I can't say I would go toe-to-toe with one unless I'm backed into a corner, and even then... well, I don't think a full-grown male could slash through my beskar, but I'm not too keen to test that theory. So. I keep my hands steady and loose at my sides and rigidly focus my T-visor on the male. Behind him, the female purrs loudly and glides forward to drape herself over her mate's shoulders.
“There she is,” she murmurs. “There she is, love.”
The male nods his head once and rises from his chair. He steps around the desk, moving in my direction.
I can’t sense any undue hostile intent so I leave my hands where they are. The male steps past me without so much as a glance over his shoulder, taps his claws against the door panel. The sequence of buttons flash twice and the door cycles open. He steps out into the hall. The doors glide shut and I’m left alone with the female.
My buy-ce's rear-cam records the action and files the video away for later review.
I note the obvious. “It seems Master Lirra is happy to see me.”
The female rolls her head back and lets out a scratchy breath, her mouth hanging open and her tongue lolling out between sharp canines in the Cathar version of a laugh. It’s a simple gesture, but the baring of her neck shows that she either doesn’t consider me to be a threat, or holds me in high enough regard to assume I wouldn’t try anything.
I hope it’s the latter.
“My mate did not agree with my demanding to hire you, man-do. He did not think I was in the right. A poor choice, said he. Untrustworthy. Kung de nishkung.” She smiles, the glint of fangs peeking out beneath curved, painted lips. Her dress barely whisks against the floor as she glides around the desk. “But ah. But ah. Here you are. Here you are. Delicious, little, angry fe-male man-dee.”
Uncomfortable is an understatement, but I can't think of a better word to describe it. I fight against the urge to fidget as she pauses by the right-most edge of the desk and leans down to key in a code on a side panel, baring a good amount of leg for my viewing pleasure. A portion of the desk opens up, and what looks to be highly expensive drinks rise to just above waist-level. She plucks a half-filled liquor glass and daintily tastes the violet liquid held within.
My stomach flops. That body… I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Focus. Idiot.
“Mmm. Yes.” She taps the edge of her glass softly against her teeth. “Little, angry, fe-male who eradicated the Duros Mideer family not a many standard hours ago.”
Whispers ring in my ears. Glowing eyes in the dark dance in my vision. A small door within my mind slams shut on everything not pertaining to business and professionalism.
“There was a bounty. I was paid in full,” I reply, failing to mention and a little extra.
“Yes.” She laughs in the strange, breathy way of the Cathar. “Yes. You were. I filed one bounty, as you well know. Though the bonus assignment.” She pauses to arch a slender eyebrow and take a lazy sip of her drink.
I don't like where this is going.
Her right ear twitches forward. “That was not from me. I did not expect for it to be fulfilled. And I did not expect it, not from you, fe-male.”
And there it is. A little extra.
I think about it. The bonus assignment. Record images of the… job. Relay them, in real-time, to the Quarren whom lorded over the list of privately posted system-wide bounties. I don’t know what he wants with the recording. What he plans to do. Or why.
It's not my problem. Dead is dead.
Dead is dead.
I want to say I don't have the luxury to put ethics over practicality. I want to say You shouldn't rely on baseless expectations. I want to say Well you can go to kriffing Hell for asking.
Instead I shrug. “Credits don’t grow in space-able greenhouses.”
The Cathar female gapes, a look of surprise flickering over her face for less than half a second before disappearing behind the facade of a gentle smile. If I wasn't looking for it, I wouldn't have caught it.
But I did.
She lowers her chin slightly as she angles her head to the side. I don’t recognize the gesture. “Is that not the galaxy-knowing truth,” she states absently as she downs the rest of her drink. The glass clinks softly on the surface of the desk.
I flex and un-flex my still-aching fists. “With all due respect, Mistress Patra, despite the lock on the bay holding my ship, I remain here of my own will. I returned on time, like you asked. I have removed the Duros, again as you asked. Your border dispute is no more. If you intend to remind me of my moral ineptitude…” I bow my head slightly. “If you intend to continue to dance around the next job, I would like to return to the hangar so I can restock my armory while you blow more smoke.”
Again, she laughs. “Feisty, feisty. I like it. You could have made a beautiful Cathar.”
I roll my shoulders back in an exaggerated shrug, a gesture I picked up off a friend just over a standard year ago... and suddenly I find myself thinking about him. About how simple life was. About how much I like blue-milk. And uj-cake.
I need to get out of here.
“Yes,” the mistress continues. “Blow smoke. I will stop, my dear. What I want is simple.”
And she’s directly in front of me, a clawed hand pressing gently against the center of my chest. “I want my son. I want him home, man-do. It should not be hard. It should not. I have heard many things, many things, about your kind. Apprehending a young man should not be hard. Even if he has had… an unorthodox raising in the hands of heretics.”
My inability to track her speed is startling. However, I’m not dead. Focusing on that pleasant thought, I take a breath and lay a gloved hand over the clawed one on my chest.
“I’ll need his name, and a picture.”
Her pale stare flickers over several spots on my visor, as if looking for my eyes, and then stops to focus on a point slightly too high. The corners of her lips curve downward as she extracts her hand from mine and turns away. The open dress she wears billows softly with the sudden movement, dancing across the floor and against my pants. She steps over to the desk, pulls on a storage panel out of my line of sight, and extracts a top-of-the-line datapad. Her perfectly manicured claws hold out the active pad.
I take it.
Moving a wire from my left gauntlet, I upload the information to my suit’s system and transfer the readout to my helmet’s HUD. A young face flashes in front of my eyes, smiling, with a set of stats listed to the left:
Name: JORAN PATTAR
Current Age: 21 yrs
Species: Cathar
Height: ~1.7 m
Weight: 200 lbs
Distinguishing features: Flavescent fur, patches of blond and white around scruff, mane, and paws.
JEDI SENTINEL :: PROCEED WITH CAUTION
Beneath that is a credit sum equal to what the new Empire is currently offering for Jedi, ex-Jedi, and Jedi-affiliates delivered into their… open arms, dead or alive.
His name, his face, ring a bell in my memory. I stop and stare and slowly realize that I recognize him. And then recognition turns to dread.
I know him.
Suddenly, this is personal. Suddenly, I’m angry. My paranoia flares, screaming in my head. Does she know? How can she know? How did she find out? With complete disregard to the fact that I’m in a room with a client, and a particularly powerful, impressionable one, I tap into my gauntlet. My personalized system opens a selection of chems in my visor’s window. I select a custom mixture on the strong side. There's a pinch at the back of my neck. A shock of cold down my spine follows close. The chem cocktail flutters through my bloodstream and takes instant affect, slowing my heart rate and forcing a sense of placidity over me. My rage is effectively neutralized before it opens a floodgate of relatively bad ideas.
Like killing the Cathar. Loose ends need to be tied up, after all.
But that’s way, way more than just a relatively bad idea.
Mistress Patra doesn’t seem to notice my dilemma. “…and so, you must do this.”
Apparently she’s been talking. I don’t need to know what she’s said. It’s not hard to understand. A criminal 'Power Couple' lording over a system I’ve chosen to reside in for some time asks me to do a job. I do it. Say no, and I force some potentially dangerous outcomes to hunt down and cash in on my shebs.
I don’t need more demons on my tail than I have already. But I do have a question.
“Why hire me? Why not place an open bounty?”
She looks up from her open palm and focuses her eyes slightly too high on my visor. “Oh. Oh my dear. And advertise that we are somehow affiliated with Jedi?” She pauses, eyes drooping closed as she allows a portion of her fatigue to slip through. The feeling of pure exhaustion hits me like a det-blast, rolling over me and causing my skin to tingle. “It’s dangerous enough to be Cathar.”
Her eyes open and her weariness is all but a memory. She turns and retreats to the lounge chair, wilting over the cushions in a lazy, relaxed, yet completely controlled gesture. She raises the back of her hand to her forehead and mewls blissfully as she reclines her head onto the cushion specially designed to support her neck. Purring softly, she rolls onto her side, exposing her back to me.
I’m more and more convinced that she views me as completely nonthreatening.
“Besides…” she murmurs, “You and him have history.”
Well. That answers my unsaid questions. Maybe I should kill her.
She waves a hand dismissively. The doors behind me hiss open. In steps Master Lirra, followed closely by my two Gamorrean escorts from earlier, their blasters in hand and grunting distinctly in my direction. I turn on my heel and step out of the room, resisting every urge to run full tilt to my ship and blast out of here like a mynock out of hell.
Why can’t life just be simple?
( Next )
End Note: Yonjori is a play on her name, Yain Juuri. Yonjori, in huttese, roughly translates to "Black Son." "Black Son" can also refer to "Black Nerf," or "Black Sheep," and all related connotations.
Huttese Translations
Lorda Yonjori?! Chi sa yo nara? Chay ashka na awar pe uba. - Master Yonjori? Do you have pain? There much is blood on you.
Lontko un uba cho? - Trying are you to die?
Kung de nishkung. - Scum of the (many)scum.
Expletives And Slang As Follows
Hurt Vector - a person who seems to attract misfortune to themselves and/or others around them
Shavit - an expletive used by the farmers on Pakrik Minor
Shab - Mandalorian expletive
Shebs - Mandalorian term for behind/bottom/ass (depending on context)
Kriffing - modifier
Vapin' - modifier
Frack - expletive
Gfersh - a Rodian expletive
Verre D'n Nocka - a Kerestian curse
Jactna - A Rodian expletive
Hufgeb Hsicl Merht - Dug expletive phrase
Frink - a Corellian curse
Son of a sith harlot - the equivalent of son of a bitch
Droyk it - a Corellian curse
Skrag - a Corellian curse
Osik - Mandalorian expletive
Series: Hurt Vector
Character(s): OC - Yain S. Juuri (Mandalorian)
Rating: PG+
Warnings: Lots of Star Wars cursing
Words: ~5000
Fandom: Star Wars
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars, or anything in that universe. I'm not making money.
Summary: It starts with an exit from a hovel filled with newly-made corpses, to a meeting with a beautiful woman, and a hunt that could force Yain to travel across the galaxy.
::EDITED FROM THE ORIGINAL::
(Fanfiction List)
[16:09:29]
one hundred eight days post Order 66
Streams of information whirl before my eyes as my visor adjusts to the sudden change in light. Damp earth squelches beneath my boots as I step out from the dimly lit hut onto open ground. Dark splotches obscure my T-visor’s vision, but I ignore the impulse to wipe them away. They’d only streak and stain and be that much harder to clean.
I have enough to worry about.
Far above me stretches the moon’s lavender atmosphere, the east horizon tainted with the curve of a rust red planet. The nameless satellite I’m walking on is populated with more Duros than I could’ve lived with seeing-and smelling. It orbits a planet with a name I can’t pronounce, uninhabitable unless you have the money and the means. I have neither. And even if I did, I wouldn’t have volunteered my credits to venture out so far in the Outer Rim.
No, I’d have settled on a populated planet well within our recently deceased Republic Space-now, it's the Empire or some shavit like that. But, anyway. I’d have been dead. So. Like I said. I have enough to worry about.
I flex my re-calibrated custom gauntlets and revel in the comfort of smooth cold metal pressing against the inside of my arms. Just a flick of either wrist can send a poisoned dart some unlucky sap’s way. Handy, accurate, exceedingly helpful. The most I could ever ask for, really. I’ll have to thank my sister, my vod’ika, for these someday.
Maybe. If I live long enough.
A clunky, still-steaming FC-1 launcher bounces in the holster against my back-plate. I can feel the heat of the barrel through my beskar’gam-signature Mandalorian armor-and two layers of fabric. Beside the launcher is my MMU, a personalized Mobile Medkit Unit, locked in a melt-proof package. The blaster against my thigh, secured to my hip in a double-strap holster, so far has remained untouched.
Messy work calls for the launcher. The MMU was for just-in-case.
As I march down the dirt path to return to Jate’kara, my ship, I narrow my focus to just breathing the air pumped out by my suit’s support systems. The moon's atmosphere is too thick with liquid for me to survive without adequate filtration, but filtration I have. My eyes flicker to the mini 360° window situated at the lower right corner of my visor's view-screen. I can see my displaced footprints left in the path, stained red and black from the blood still slicked against my soles. The wind begins to pick up, blowing dirt and earth and wet sand everywhere-but the footprints remain the same.
It’s funny how I left that flimsy hut in one piece, despite unloading my flechette launcher inside there. Or, you know, it might be-except that it isn’t.
Screaming in my speakers. Begging. Floating, glowing eyes. Flashes of blaster fire. Laser sights trained on my visor. Bolts ricocheting off my chest plates. Glints of a vibroblade in the dark.
The walls were painted red when I was done.
My stomach rolls. I pause to breathe and suck in warm, recycled air-reused air that smells and tastes of me. I try not to think about it.
Some healer I turned out to be. Instead of saving, I’m killing. My superiors would have been so proud… if they weren’t frozen and scattered in pieces, somewhere out in the other side of the galaxy.
Shab. Don’t think about it.
At least the credits are wired to my account. The credits are wired to my account. The credits are wired to my account.
The mantra repeats in my head as I resume walking. Tall, chipped duracrete walls of the spaceport entrance loom overhead. Red targets bounce across my screen as a dock worker emits a high-pitched squeal, bolts out of my way, and dives behind a stack of metal crates.
I ignore him.
Jate’kara’s metal ramp clicks under my boots as I lurch into my ship and slam my fist against a side panel. The durasteel cracks under my crush-gauntlet, but the ramp still slides into place as the airlock seals tight.
Now that I’m safe, I drop to my knees with a heavy sigh. The seal of my bucket pops open after a few clumsy attempts and I lay the buy’ce reverently on the grated floor in front of my bent knees. My eyes slide closed and the back of my head hits the hull with a not-so-silent thunk!
The sound of an aged repulsorlift engine is my only warning.
“Lorda Yonjori?! Chi sa yo nara? Chay ashka na awar pe uba.”
I glance up at the hovering blue-gray droid. There’s hair hanging in my face. I’ll have to chop everything off past chin length, later. After I clean everything. Everything.
“I’m fine. It’s not mine,” I reply tiredly and wave an open palm vaguely towards my blood-spattered armor. The droid bristles, letting out a few short beeps of irritation.
“Lontko un uba cho?” he asks.
Does it matter what I’m trying to do? It’s not like he’s mine, legally speaking, so what should a droid care? It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t.
“No, Nate,” I sigh. “I’m not trying to get myself killed. I just. This situation. I can't. I can't. I…”
I can’t get the words out, so I just stop talking. Nate hovers silently, glowing eyes focused on my face. He’s just a droid, statue-like and expressionless, yet…
Yet for a minute I thought I saw…
Never mind.
With a grunt, I haul my shebs back on my feet and trudge down the hall. I stop at the makeshift kitchen, the door of my quarters opposite and wide open. I take a sharp turn to the right, intending to grab a muja fruit or a fresh cup of caffa, and slam my hip into the corner of a bolted-down table. A half-filled can of lukewarm juice clatters to the floor, splashing pink liquid everywhere.
“Frack,” I curse.
I stumble back, breathe, take two steps forward, and put a dent in the table with my fist. My vision swims. I tear the kriffing crush-gaunt off and hurl it down the hall. There's a clang, followed close by the sound of shattering glass.
“Frack.”
My bucket flies through the open door to my quarters, slams into the wall and falls on my unkempt cot, followed by blood-smeared red, black, and gold armor plates. The rest of my kit clatters to the grated floor, my MMU popping open and spraying first aid supplies in every direction.
A rip echoes in the empty ship as I struggle out of my flightsuit.
“Gfersh.” I hiss, my voice increasing in volume with every curse. “Jactna. Hufgeb hsicl merht verre d'n nocka!"
I tear off the top half of my suit and drop it behind me. The bottom half comes loose at my hips, the ties meant to keep it tight to my body flapping noisily as I viciously grab my gear off the floor and stomp the fallen can flat. I leave the scattered medkit supplies, forget about the damn fruit, and the caffa, and my rolling stomach.
“Lorda…?” Nate blips.
“No, Nate.” I sigh. “No. I’ll clean it. Just…”
Leaving a trail of blood droplets and pink juice leading to my room, I toss my gear across the few meters between me and the cot. Then I near-break my bare fist on the door panel to the ‘fresher. This close to tearing my hair out, I look back at the floating droid in the doorway.
“Just get us in the air."
“…Yes, Master.” He disappears from sight.
The door to the 'fresher hisses shut and it takes two seconds too long for it to sink it that Nate just spoke Basic. For the first time since… since…
I can't remember.
I delicately curl my swollen hands around the edges of my sink and stare hard at my reflection. To put it lightly, I look like hell. My stomach flips and a strangled giggle escapes my mouth. I bite down hard and try to breathe, but the giggles mushroom into full-on hysterical laughter between grinding teeth. Pain spikes up my arms, my palms clenching tight around the sharp edges of the sink, and I laugh my face into the drain.
The ship jerks on take-off. My stomach rolls, then rolls again, and suddenly the little bit of breakfast I consumed earlier takes a one-way trip to sink heaven.
Drops of condensed water trickle down the steam-fogged mirror, cutting solid boundaries over my obscured reflection. The mirror hangs ajar, the door’s hinges holding it open as I fish out thin bandages pre-soaked in kolto. It’s archaic in comparison to the ever-popular bacta, but with the price bacta seems to be catching these days… well. Wasn’t a tough choice.
I shut the mirror and stare at the bandages in my hands. The knuckles of my left hand are swollen and purpling. The fingers of my right are bruised, covered in slow healing blisters. I set down the loose bandages at the side of my sink, squirt some self-made herbal solution onto my palms, and rub the foul smelling amber liquid into my skin. It burns and cools at the same time, a sign that the medicinal properties are already beginning to work.
With a heavily practiced ease I wrap my hands with the bandages, tight enough to stay on and offer support to my wrists, but not to the point of blocking circulation. I wipe down the mirror with a spare hand-towel and glance at my reflection, taking just enough time to ascertain that my broken nose is healing straight…
...before the ship suddenly jerks and I smash my face into the mirror.
Stars explode behind my eyes. My aching left hand grips the sharp edge of the sink while my right cups my nose.
“Son of a sith harlot,” I gasp.
I can feel a migraine coming on.
The ship jerks again. I narrowly avoid breaking my nose a third time and slam my palm against the door panel. I stagger into my personal living quarters, close up the rest of my flight suit, and snap shut the neck guard around my throat. Scattered across the room are my assorted beskar armor plates, still spattered with dried blood.
I lean over and hit the button to activate the ship-wide comm. “Nate!”
The ship trembles violently, as if it’s being dragged kicking and screaming out of the original flight trajectory... or as if a lazy droid pilot felt the need to disregard the common flight protocol for when humans are on-board. As if in agreement, the ship jerks again. I stumble over to my cot and gather up my armor, attaching the pieces to my suit as I hurl down the narrow corridors of Jate’kara.
“Nate!” I shout down the hall. “Droyk it, you shiny floating piece of skrag.”
I turn sharply onto the bridge. The narrow space quickly widens out into the cockpit. Half the ceiling is arched smooth, reinforced transparisteel, and the curved window only slightly warps the view, which does nothing to diminish the intimidating space station looming in the distance.
Nasaur Station, home to the richer populace of the rust red planet it orbits. A floating 2 kilometer wide disk with a tall central spire, it serves as a small refueling and armory exchange trading hub for the system. The weapons they deal are below average, which is far better quality than I expected from some backwater station. But while I might refuel and restock supplies here, I would not spend a night.
I grab hold of the doorjamb as Jate’kara goes through another series of rumbles. Nate hovers calmly over the co-pilot’s chair, occasionally pressing one flashing button or another. A chord trailing away from his mid-back connects him to my ship’s mainframe, the plugged tool in the socket rotating clockwise.
I clear my throat. His head swivels on his square shoulders to face me.
“Oh, hello Master,” he tones pleasantly. “It seems we are soon to be guests of two powerful crime lords.”
“We?” I tighten my grip on the frame. “There won’t be a ‘we’ if you keep up this osik.”
I stare at the space station, dimly aware that I’m still missing my armored back-plate, my medical supplies, and my helmet. The ship rumbles. On the nav-system embedded in the wall to my left, I can see Jate’kara slowly evening out of the original zigzagging trajectory and onto a straight beeline, heading for one of the many docking bays of the orbital space station.
Nate emits an odd, slightly off-tune melody. “We are in for a smooth landing now, Master.”
Now? As if we weren’t before?
I resist the urge to blast my droid into scrap-heap.
“Well. Wonderful news.” I readjust my utility belt. “Be sure to transmit our docking codes. And don’t forget to ping the Hangar Officer's personal system. Repeatedly, if he doesn’t respond right away this time. I don’t want to be welcomed by a team from Nau-Sec Security. Again.”
“But the Hangar Officer has a dislike for droids, Master.”
I step forward to tap Nate on his metal head. “Then be sure to ping him after he responds as well. I’d like if you reminded him why he shouldn't offend irritated droids with malfunctioning personality matrices.”
Nate’s eyes glow intensely before quickly fading back to their usual half-powered sheen. “I would enjoy that as well, Master,” he beeps as his head swivels back to face the flight control panel.
I exit the cockpit to retrieve the rest of my gear from my living quarters. I didn’t get a chance to clean off the blood splatter, but to hell with appearances-I don’t have enough energy to waste on caring about whether or not I look presentable to a pair of overpaid criminal corporate leaders.
The ship-wide comm system crackles to life.
“Jate’kara docking in two minutes, Master.”
After exiting my quarters, I veer into the makeshift medbay-which was, at one point, an oversized food storage closet-grab an extra tube of kolto gel, and smear some over my aching nose before donning my helmet.
I stare into total darkness for a few seconds as my buy’ce synchronizes its frequency with Jate’kara. Its systems whine as it takes into account security parameters, previously stored notes on Nasaur Station’s cam system, sealed-off construction areas, differentially acquired security codes that would, hopefully, open a few doors in the event of an emergency, and loads a semi-complete blueprint of the station's layout. My suit notes several weaknesses in my armor-damages I hadn’t had time to patch up since my last engagement-and pleasantly informs me via data-stream that survival to deep-space exposure has dropped to a maximum of five minutes.
If I take a trip with jettisoned cargo, five minutes or five hours wouldn’t make much of a difference. Still, it's good to know, I guess.
I relax in the medbay and check over my supplies, running my gloved fingers over the assorted chems I keep stored in my belt pouches and the ammo supply of my gauntlet-mounted dart launcher. I’m leaving the big guns with Nate, but I don’t exactly need them to make a mess.
Hell, I could probably go in there shebs-naked and be reasonably confident of leaving with all of my parts intact.
Well. Mostly intact.
It’s not like I can’t put myself back together, anyway.
Medkit? Check. Holdout Blaster? Check.
Two heavily armed Gamorrean escorts? Check check.
I follow the two obscenely round aliens down extravagant halls and into an oversized repulsorlift. I recognize the song playing softly in the background as we zip down twenty levels. It’s an old gliz song, focused around unhappy political discourse from maybe ten standard years ago.
Funny how time flies.
We come to a stop on an unlabeled sub-level. The doors cycle open to perfumed air and gaudy light strips following the curved ceiling of the hall. The colors are bright and ugly, neon yellow clashing with deep purple and pastel blue. The light fixtures look like they’re accented with gold, though I can’t really be bothered to stare long enough into the neon lights to be sure.
Before my visor can auto-adjust, I’m herded into the nearest room. The door hisses shut once I pass the threshold and emits a soft clicking sound. I don’t need to test the doors to know they’re locked, so I take a look around.
The wall furthest from the door isn’t so much a wall as a solid transparisteel curved window, with a perfect view of the planet below. From here, the swirling rust red atmosphere almost looks beautiful. It almost looks as if it isn’t a floating cesspool of fire and acid soaked mining colonies. Almost as if it isn’t a death trap for all the slaves and indentured servants shipped there with a one-way ticket.
Almost.
A long couch clearly meant for lounging-and perhaps other activities requiring an individual to lie on their back-sits positioned at an angle for a good view of both the door and the sight presented by the window. A semi-circle shaped desk sits facing the door, the embedded datascreen in the surface flashing information up towards the ceiling. Behind the desk is a large cushioned chair, its back facing me.
The sheer size of the chair nearly blocks me from seeing the sparsely dressed Cathar female dancing to the sensual music playing in the background. Her pale gold fur is enhanced by the silky white fabric of her dress. The loose fabric covers all the essential bits-but only just. Long platinum blond hair falls from a tight high ponytail, swishing about her body in time with her dancing.
A being with a lesser mind might have been entranced, maybe even hypnotized.
I can’t quite say I’m not, at the moment.
The Cathar female’s eyes open to reveal frighteningly pale blue irises. They focus on me, pupils widening, and flicker behind rapid blinks. Her hands fall to her sides, the dance ceasing mid-motion.
“Oh!” Mistress Patra purrs. “Our guest has returned.”
The chair swivels around to reveal Master Lirra, a burly Cathar male. The white scruff around his chin and neck clashes with the dark tan fur of the rest of him. His formal vest hangs open, revealing a bare chest pockmarked with white fur-less lines of old scars. His red eyes focus on me, pointed ears twitching forward in interest. He smiles, baring a few canines.
A red warning pops up on my view-screen, analyzing the Cathar male and accessing the holo-net. The data-stream along the bottom flashes the following: Cathar - a race of humanoid, feline bipeds. Their civilization’s history is tainted heavily with the enslavement of their people. Gestures harmless between humans can be found offensive when interacting with these natural predators and provoke attack. Baring of the teeth is a signal of hostility or warning. Showing fear or weakness of any kind is an invitation for attack. Treat with extreme caution.
I’ve seen one of the females rip a human to shreds in the space of a couple of seconds. It was an interesting sight. I can't say I would go toe-to-toe with one unless I'm backed into a corner, and even then... well, I don't think a full-grown male could slash through my beskar, but I'm not too keen to test that theory. So. I keep my hands steady and loose at my sides and rigidly focus my T-visor on the male. Behind him, the female purrs loudly and glides forward to drape herself over her mate's shoulders.
“There she is,” she murmurs. “There she is, love.”
The male nods his head once and rises from his chair. He steps around the desk, moving in my direction.
I can’t sense any undue hostile intent so I leave my hands where they are. The male steps past me without so much as a glance over his shoulder, taps his claws against the door panel. The sequence of buttons flash twice and the door cycles open. He steps out into the hall. The doors glide shut and I’m left alone with the female.
My buy-ce's rear-cam records the action and files the video away for later review.
I note the obvious. “It seems Master Lirra is happy to see me.”
The female rolls her head back and lets out a scratchy breath, her mouth hanging open and her tongue lolling out between sharp canines in the Cathar version of a laugh. It’s a simple gesture, but the baring of her neck shows that she either doesn’t consider me to be a threat, or holds me in high enough regard to assume I wouldn’t try anything.
I hope it’s the latter.
“My mate did not agree with my demanding to hire you, man-do. He did not think I was in the right. A poor choice, said he. Untrustworthy. Kung de nishkung.” She smiles, the glint of fangs peeking out beneath curved, painted lips. Her dress barely whisks against the floor as she glides around the desk. “But ah. But ah. Here you are. Here you are. Delicious, little, angry fe-male man-dee.”
Uncomfortable is an understatement, but I can't think of a better word to describe it. I fight against the urge to fidget as she pauses by the right-most edge of the desk and leans down to key in a code on a side panel, baring a good amount of leg for my viewing pleasure. A portion of the desk opens up, and what looks to be highly expensive drinks rise to just above waist-level. She plucks a half-filled liquor glass and daintily tastes the violet liquid held within.
My stomach flops. That body… I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Focus. Idiot.
“Mmm. Yes.” She taps the edge of her glass softly against her teeth. “Little, angry, fe-male who eradicated the Duros Mideer family not a many standard hours ago.”
Whispers ring in my ears. Glowing eyes in the dark dance in my vision. A small door within my mind slams shut on everything not pertaining to business and professionalism.
“There was a bounty. I was paid in full,” I reply, failing to mention and a little extra.
“Yes.” She laughs in the strange, breathy way of the Cathar. “Yes. You were. I filed one bounty, as you well know. Though the bonus assignment.” She pauses to arch a slender eyebrow and take a lazy sip of her drink.
I don't like where this is going.
Her right ear twitches forward. “That was not from me. I did not expect for it to be fulfilled. And I did not expect it, not from you, fe-male.”
And there it is. A little extra.
I think about it. The bonus assignment. Record images of the… job. Relay them, in real-time, to the Quarren whom lorded over the list of privately posted system-wide bounties. I don’t know what he wants with the recording. What he plans to do. Or why.
It's not my problem. Dead is dead.
Dead is dead.
I want to say I don't have the luxury to put ethics over practicality. I want to say You shouldn't rely on baseless expectations. I want to say Well you can go to kriffing Hell for asking.
Instead I shrug. “Credits don’t grow in space-able greenhouses.”
The Cathar female gapes, a look of surprise flickering over her face for less than half a second before disappearing behind the facade of a gentle smile. If I wasn't looking for it, I wouldn't have caught it.
But I did.
She lowers her chin slightly as she angles her head to the side. I don’t recognize the gesture. “Is that not the galaxy-knowing truth,” she states absently as she downs the rest of her drink. The glass clinks softly on the surface of the desk.
I flex and un-flex my still-aching fists. “With all due respect, Mistress Patra, despite the lock on the bay holding my ship, I remain here of my own will. I returned on time, like you asked. I have removed the Duros, again as you asked. Your border dispute is no more. If you intend to remind me of my moral ineptitude…” I bow my head slightly. “If you intend to continue to dance around the next job, I would like to return to the hangar so I can restock my armory while you blow more smoke.”
Again, she laughs. “Feisty, feisty. I like it. You could have made a beautiful Cathar.”
I roll my shoulders back in an exaggerated shrug, a gesture I picked up off a friend just over a standard year ago... and suddenly I find myself thinking about him. About how simple life was. About how much I like blue-milk. And uj-cake.
I need to get out of here.
“Yes,” the mistress continues. “Blow smoke. I will stop, my dear. What I want is simple.”
And she’s directly in front of me, a clawed hand pressing gently against the center of my chest. “I want my son. I want him home, man-do. It should not be hard. It should not. I have heard many things, many things, about your kind. Apprehending a young man should not be hard. Even if he has had… an unorthodox raising in the hands of heretics.”
My inability to track her speed is startling. However, I’m not dead. Focusing on that pleasant thought, I take a breath and lay a gloved hand over the clawed one on my chest.
“I’ll need his name, and a picture.”
Her pale stare flickers over several spots on my visor, as if looking for my eyes, and then stops to focus on a point slightly too high. The corners of her lips curve downward as she extracts her hand from mine and turns away. The open dress she wears billows softly with the sudden movement, dancing across the floor and against my pants. She steps over to the desk, pulls on a storage panel out of my line of sight, and extracts a top-of-the-line datapad. Her perfectly manicured claws hold out the active pad.
I take it.
Moving a wire from my left gauntlet, I upload the information to my suit’s system and transfer the readout to my helmet’s HUD. A young face flashes in front of my eyes, smiling, with a set of stats listed to the left:
Name: JORAN PATTAR
Current Age: 21 yrs
Species: Cathar
Height: ~1.7 m
Weight: 200 lbs
Distinguishing features: Flavescent fur, patches of blond and white around scruff, mane, and paws.
JEDI SENTINEL :: PROCEED WITH CAUTION
Beneath that is a credit sum equal to what the new Empire is currently offering for Jedi, ex-Jedi, and Jedi-affiliates delivered into their… open arms, dead or alive.
His name, his face, ring a bell in my memory. I stop and stare and slowly realize that I recognize him. And then recognition turns to dread.
I know him.
Suddenly, this is personal. Suddenly, I’m angry. My paranoia flares, screaming in my head. Does she know? How can she know? How did she find out? With complete disregard to the fact that I’m in a room with a client, and a particularly powerful, impressionable one, I tap into my gauntlet. My personalized system opens a selection of chems in my visor’s window. I select a custom mixture on the strong side. There's a pinch at the back of my neck. A shock of cold down my spine follows close. The chem cocktail flutters through my bloodstream and takes instant affect, slowing my heart rate and forcing a sense of placidity over me. My rage is effectively neutralized before it opens a floodgate of relatively bad ideas.
Like killing the Cathar. Loose ends need to be tied up, after all.
But that’s way, way more than just a relatively bad idea.
Mistress Patra doesn’t seem to notice my dilemma. “…and so, you must do this.”
Apparently she’s been talking. I don’t need to know what she’s said. It’s not hard to understand. A criminal 'Power Couple' lording over a system I’ve chosen to reside in for some time asks me to do a job. I do it. Say no, and I force some potentially dangerous outcomes to hunt down and cash in on my shebs.
I don’t need more demons on my tail than I have already. But I do have a question.
“Why hire me? Why not place an open bounty?”
She looks up from her open palm and focuses her eyes slightly too high on my visor. “Oh. Oh my dear. And advertise that we are somehow affiliated with Jedi?” She pauses, eyes drooping closed as she allows a portion of her fatigue to slip through. The feeling of pure exhaustion hits me like a det-blast, rolling over me and causing my skin to tingle. “It’s dangerous enough to be Cathar.”
Her eyes open and her weariness is all but a memory. She turns and retreats to the lounge chair, wilting over the cushions in a lazy, relaxed, yet completely controlled gesture. She raises the back of her hand to her forehead and mewls blissfully as she reclines her head onto the cushion specially designed to support her neck. Purring softly, she rolls onto her side, exposing her back to me.
I’m more and more convinced that she views me as completely nonthreatening.
“Besides…” she murmurs, “You and him have history.”
Well. That answers my unsaid questions. Maybe I should kill her.
She waves a hand dismissively. The doors behind me hiss open. In steps Master Lirra, followed closely by my two Gamorrean escorts from earlier, their blasters in hand and grunting distinctly in my direction. I turn on my heel and step out of the room, resisting every urge to run full tilt to my ship and blast out of here like a mynock out of hell.
Why can’t life just be simple?
( Next )
End Note: Yonjori is a play on her name, Yain Juuri. Yonjori, in huttese, roughly translates to "Black Son." "Black Son" can also refer to "Black Nerf," or "Black Sheep," and all related connotations.
Huttese Translations
Lorda Yonjori?! Chi sa yo nara? Chay ashka na awar pe uba. - Master Yonjori? Do you have pain? There much is blood on you.
Lontko un uba cho? - Trying are you to die?
Kung de nishkung. - Scum of the (many)scum.
Expletives And Slang As Follows
Hurt Vector - a person who seems to attract misfortune to themselves and/or others around them
Shavit - an expletive used by the farmers on Pakrik Minor
Shab - Mandalorian expletive
Shebs - Mandalorian term for behind/bottom/ass (depending on context)
Kriffing - modifier
Vapin' - modifier
Frack - expletive
Gfersh - a Rodian expletive
Verre D'n Nocka - a Kerestian curse
Jactna - A Rodian expletive
Hufgeb Hsicl Merht - Dug expletive phrase
Frink - a Corellian curse
Son of a sith harlot - the equivalent of son of a bitch
Droyk it - a Corellian curse
Skrag - a Corellian curse
Osik - Mandalorian expletive