Fel moved about the UA, performing his rendition of 'routine maintenance.' Which occasionally involved actual maintenance, and also, sometimes, just involved placing a hand here or there, or feeling the vibe of a space he had known so well, for so long. He could often walk around his craft and simply tell if something was off, before the computers or (less reassuringly) the claxons and red warning lights informed you. Sometimes all you had to do was listen. This drove Wrench, Fel's trusty / rusty old R2 unit, crazy, as there was no scientific or contextual reason why any of what the man said (and Fel had attempted to explain, many times) should work. But it did, and so Wrench followed Galdaart wherever he moved.

The Pilot had Wrench's astromech socket (a custom unit built as much by the droid itself as any parts manufacturer) taken apart to suss out a bug in the system which the old R2 swore was causing an unacceptable latency in making calculations and communicating with different systems aboard-ship. Fel thought the little droid was imagining things. "Maybe it's finally time for a memory wipe, Tin-Man..." he teased, his eyes square from passing a tester from wire to wire, searching for inconsistencies. Wrench informed him that in no uncertain terms there would be an airlock in his immediate future if a memory wipe was even discussed again, let alone attempted. Fel laughed. They often bantered like this. For a score of years, Wrench was Fel's only travel companion. They had covered a lot of space and time together.

"I know, old buddy. I wouldn't dream of it." Wrench tooted that it would be awfully hard to dream in the vacuum of space. Fel chuckled again, and stood, stretching out his back. He looked out at the swirling mass of hyperspace, checked the navacomp readout. A little over two hours to Lotho. "Better get this back together, Rust-bucket. We might just need you..." Wrench whistled knowingly that there wasn't a standard day the went by that he wasn't needed. And that he deserved a raise. Twisting an electro-spanner, Fel belly-laughed once more. "A 25% increase of nothin's still nothin... co-pilot. Keep your servos from twistin' Wrench... I'll always see to it you get everything you need..."

Jet stood, his back cradled by the ship’s wall. The YG-4210’s engine compartment stretched around him—a cathedral of flickering lights and humming conduits. His boots clung to the durasteel floor, and he squinted at the hyperdrive motivator, its core pulsing like a distant quasar.

“Alright, old girl,” Jet murmured, wiping sweat from his brow. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

He reached for the datapad strapped to his thigh. The hyperdrive casing was scarred, as if etched with each jump. First, he checked the ion flow regulators. They were like stubborn droids—prone to tantrums. Jet took note of their alignment, whispering encouragement. Next, the plasma injectors. Carbon deposits clung to their nozzles, like barnacles on a forgotten asteroid. Jet traced the power conduits, following their intricate dance. He would need to recalibrate the gravitic stabilizers. Finally, the backup class 12 hyperdrive—the ship’s safety net. Jet tapped its control panel, half expecting it to groan in protest. “You’re like an old spacer’s lucky charm,” he chuckled shortly. As he tucked away his datapad, Jet stood still, listening. The YG-4210 hummed—a cosmic symphony of machinery, hope, and duct tape. The hyperdrive’s glow casting shadows on his grease-streaked face.

“'ight!” he exclaimed, wiping his hands futilely on his trousers. With the grace of a seasoned pro, he climbed out of the engine bay, boots echoing on the durasteel floor plates. The ship’s curved corridors guided him toward the cockpit. As the doors slid open, he leaned against the frame, eyeing the newest ‘stowaway’ in the co-pilot seat. Wrench wouldn’t be pleased.

His gaze shifted to Fel, the ship’s pilot. His voice, a gravelly symphony, made the old metal groan slightly. “Power plant's lookin’ solid, but it’ll need a bit of TLC when we touch down,” Jet drawled. “That last hyperspace leap knocked the motivator around, but it ain’t nothin’ I can’t fix. Soon as I’m done, I'll have it humming like the rest.” He smirked.

Fel looked up as Jet entered the flight deck, His large frame filling much of the available space in the doorway. He nodded at the appraisal of their current situation, patting the blinking navacomp. Everywhere aboard the 'UA' there were wear marks, in some cases places on the duralumin floor grating that had been worn smooth from a hundred years of use. "Same same..." he concurred. "She'll be fine. Plenty to trade where we're going." Which brought him back around to Aellyn. His reply was neither hostile, nor dismissive. It merely was. "No, you're right. I don't recall mentioning Lotho when you approached us about passage offworld. But then, I seem to recall you were either desperate enough, or determined to keep a low enough profile that you chose this ship out of the Underworld, instead of some lux transport from the spires. You are the detour, Aellyn. Lotho was always the destination." He let that sink in for a moment, before continuing. He was glad Jet was in the doorway, because the look Aellyn gave him said she might have rather left the bridge, had his mechanic not been blocking her path. "I've got a job on Lotho. Worth good creds." He paused, regarding her, deep in thought, also shot a glance up at his mech. "Jet and I can do it ourselves, but you've been an asset so far, and those charts and codes are worth well more than passage offworld. If you're interested, I'd mebbe cut you in a share." he shrugged, noncommittal. "...give you some spending coin once you get where you're going. And... you help us with this job, you pick your destination. No extra charge."

It was -- he believed -- a fair offer. But the choice was Aellyn's. Some would want no part of what Fel was going to say. (most, truth go on ahead and be told.) And depending on her allegiances, she might decide it was too risky. But she'd be flying blind, because there was no way in the three suns he'd be telling her the plan before she opted in, or out. Looking back at Jet, Fel gave the most miniscule jerk of his head, letting the much larger man know he should move aside. If she wanted out, now was the time. He looked back to Aellyn, her face unreadable, and then to Wrench, raising an eyebrow. The little droid warbled mournfully.

Jet slowly turned, his eyes tracking Aellyn as she glided past him, her footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit corridor. A slow, deliberate smirk crept across his face, the kind that hinted at a thousand untold stories. He glanced down, shaking his head softly, a chuckle rumbling in his chest as he watched her make her way down the narrow passageway, the flickering lights casting long shadows.

Then, he turned back to Fel, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “You know, I think I got a good feeling about this one.” he said, his voice carrying a rough edge, like gravel crunching underfoot.

“It’s been a while since we had someone with some real grit on board, especially stuck with the likes of us.” He paused, scratching his beard with his metallic hand, the sound of metal on stubble filling the silence like a familiar tune.

Jet leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “She’s got that fire in her eyes, the kind that says she’s ready for anything. Reminds me of the old days, full of reckless ambition.” He added with a wry smile, his gaze lingering on the spot where Aellyn had disappeared.

He then turned his attention back to Fel, his expression growing more serious. “we gotta be careful, though, kid. This ain’t for the faint-hearted. She might have the spark, but she ready for that fire?” Jet’s eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the possibilities.

The ship’s engines hummed softly in the background, a constant reminder of the journey ahead. Jet’s thoughts drifted back to Aellyn, her determined stride and the fire in her eyes. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was different, somehow.

“A Job…on a junk planet?” She scoffed. “You would have better luck selling this ship then find anything of worth down there. “ ... “If you could both do the job yourselves, then why offer me at all, seems like you both got it covered. Besides, I’m the one who doesn’t need spending coin. However, if you think you need me, my fee is fifty percent of the cut. If not, I’ll wait for triumphant return of goods.”

Fel stood, resting an arm heavily atop the radome of Wrench's lid, dented and chipped from age and lack of credits or care to do anything about it. His arm had rested there many times, to the point where resting an arm on R2-P47 was good as any La-z-boy. He hovered somewhere between bemused curiosity and mild insult. (but the curiosity was the far stronger of the two.) "Normally, I'd agree with you. Don't usually have much cause to be planetside on a junk world. 'cept today, we do." He casually sidestepped the dig about the ship - for the moment. "I mention it because a third would make the job easier. That's all." He stroked his scruffy, unkempt beard, deep in thought. "Fifty percent?" He squinted at her through barely-open eyes, appraising. "ok, fifty percent. Got yourself a deal."

She stepped toward the door of the cockpit, the mech was much larger than she remembered. “Someone is a bit grumpy looking…you should feed the big guy here?” Aellyn pointed to Jet as her head turned toward Fel. ”I’ll be in my room.” Stepping passed the large guy, she made the short walk back to the room she paid for.

Fel waited till Aellyn was long out of sight, and Jet had said his piece, up to his romantic gesture about reckless ambition. He chuckled, slapping Wrench on the lid playfully, as the Astromech added that her offer was especially kind, considering their planned payment for the job, then returning to re-wiring the droid socket behind the co-pilot's station, leaving Jet and Fel to speak. "Yeah... she's a fire-cracker, that one. All kinds of trouble there, that's for certain." Having watched Aellyn leave, Fel shook the image loose which rattled around in his brain-pan like a pebble in a tin can."My guess is that girl's got entirely too many brains to be possessed of an ass like that." He crossed his arms, sharing a laugh with his old friend and mech. He checked the navacomp once more, a nervous habit that he carried with him from his snub-jock days. Jet could read him like a book, and Fel knew it.

Jet's expression grew serious “...we gotta be careful, though, kid. This ain’t for the faint-hearted. She might have the spark, but she ready for that fire?” Jet’s eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the possibilities.

Fel nodded sagely, agreeing with his friend. "Yeah ...yeah. We'll go over the details once we land. If she wants out, I won't bicker none." He called up a few screens on his secure holonet, confirming what had been arranged. "Abelene promised only first rights of refusal on a well-paying job if we did this for her. We asked about coin, but in three subsequent waves she handily sidestepped that question..." he sighed heavily, closed the holo, and looked back over to Jet. "We've known Abelene a long while. She's been, what -- mayor? queen? of that backwater for a good number of years now. I have a better than average feeling she's gonna try and kill us." It wasn't said with malice, or like a great secret had been revealed. It simply was. Life was hard in the rim. Folks tended to do for themselves, and then for those who looked to them. If there was a way to cheat someone out of a handful of coins, Abelene would do it without question. It was their job to make sure she held to what was fair. He smiled at Jet. It was just part of the game.

"Sublight in ten. I'll start calculations for landing coordinates. Don't worry..." he glanced at Wrench "Somewhere safe." Looking back to Jet in the doorway, "we meet and gear up in the cargo bay in 3-0?"

Jet’s smirk vanished, replaced by a furrowed brow that betrayed his concern. The job Abelene might offer after this one weighed heavily on his mind. Sure, having the first refusal was a privilege, but it meant nothing if the mission was a suicide run. No amount of money could compensate for that. Jet’s anxiety wasn’t for himself; it was for his team. He had already lost so much and couldn’t bear the thought of losing more comrades. The memories of past losses haunted him, each face a reminder of the cost of their dangerous line of work.

He inhaled deeply, letting out a slow, measured sigh. “Abelene can be trusted, that’s for sure,” he said, his voice tinged with resignation. He paused, closing his eyes and leaning back against the doorframe. “Trusted to do whatever is in her best interests, everyone else be damned.” Jet straightened up, rubbing the back of his neck and rolling his head from side to side to ease the tension. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on his shoulders, but he knew he had to stay strong for the sake of the crew.

He glanced back at Fel, a sly smile creeping across his face. “Looks like we’ve got some fun ahead of us,” he said, trying to inject a bit of levity into the situation. The truth was, he needed to keep morale high, even if it meant masking his own fears with a facade of confidence.

Jet nodded at Fel. “I’ll see you down there. I need to grab my gear.” He turned to leave but hesitated after a step, glancing back over his shoulder. “Don’t forget to bring your best. Times are getting tougher.” His mouth spread into a cheeky grin. “Could do without any more blaster burns, yeah, kid?” The playful banter was his way of reminding Fel to stay sharp and vigilant. They couldn’t afford any mistakes, not now.

As he walked away, Jet’s mind raced with thoughts of the upcoming mission. He knew the risks, but he also knew that the crew relied on him, just as he relied on them. He couldn’t let them down. With a determined stride, he headed towards his bunk.

Fel left Wrench soldering on the flight deck, and walked to his cabin. It was, as with most everything else aboard the UA - a mess. The desk was strewn with various half-finished projects, and the floor with clothing in various stages of 'good-enough-wear-it' to 'oh-hell-no.' Spares, cred-cards, papers, holo-discs, data pads, tools, parts off the UA that needed repair or replacement, Astromech bits... all shared space clustered close to or on the few table surfaces. About the only surface that was clean was the upper bunk, a bit of Galdaart's personal code of ethics. This berth wasn't 'his.' In his Imperial service, he shared a rack with two other pilots in rotation depending on their ship's flight schedule.

As messy as his area was, there was a rhyme and a reason for almost all of it. he could identify exactly what each and every project was, and could also explain (if anyone cared to know) why it wasn't yet done. What part he needed to find, or what had interrupted the project as more pressing than the last. Fel walked to the foot of the bed, and pressed a hidden, recessed plate in the durasteel wall panel, which glowed for a split second, before segmenting into four, which Fel rotated anti-clockwise. There was an audible 'click' and the panel released, revealing the hidden locker beyond. There were several weapons, ident-cards, and small piles of different local currencies. The pilot reached in and retrieved an Imperial EC-17 blaster, and two pieces (receiver and barrel assembly) of a T-21 light repeater. Fel sat at the desk and closed his eyes, assembling the long gun, recalling his academy days.

When he was finished, he grabbed a rag off the desk and wiped down the blasters. Grabbing two spare power packs for the T21 and his leather flight jacket, Fel stepped back out into the common space of the UA, tossing the jacket over his shoulders, he moved aft past the galley and the 'fresher, tapping on Aellyn's door as he moved toward the port cargo bay. "cargo bay -- let's go..."

The cargo bay was only a few more steps aft, and as he arrived, the lights flickered to life around him, casting a sickly yellow hue over the scattered cargo containers and crates. Only one crate had been onboarded at Coruscant, and Fel leaned the T21 against the large crate, pressing his thumb to the access control plate on the cargo canister, it hissed open to reveal four used but relatively clean, sets of Stormtrooper armour, in the markings of the one-oh-seventh.

Jet’s bunk aboard the ship was a testament to his meticulous nature. The room, barely larger than a broom closet, held a sense of purpose—a place where chaos dared not intrude. His organizational skills, honed during his days in the Republic, served him well. But it wasn’t just habit; it was a survival instinct. In the unforgiving expanse of the galaxy, misplaced tools could mean the difference between life and death.

His cot, neatly made, featured crisp military corners. The sheets, starched and unwrinkled, lay taut against the thin mattress. A small shelf held a handful of personal items: a faded holopicture of a woman with a wistful smile, a dog-eared datapad filled with mission logs, and a polished blaster grip—a relic from a bygone era.

Jet sank onto the edge of the cot, the springs creaking in protest. His fingers, calloused and scarred, traced the grooves of the plastoid container hidden beneath the bed. With reverence, he unclasped the fixings and lifted the lid. There it lay—the DC-15A blaster rifle, its matte finish cool against his skin. The weapon had seen better days, but Jet’s care and maintenance had kept it lethal. Beside it rested the DC-15s sidearm—a reliable backup for close encounters.

He assembled the rifle methodically, each piece sliding into place with the precision of a surgeon. The elongated barrel nestled snugly against the receiver, the collapsible stock adjusted to fit his frame. The energy cell, its blue glow like a distant star, slid home. As he snapped the trigger assembly into place, muscle memory guided his hands. The blaster hummed to life, a familiar thrum that resonated deep within him. The holographic sight awaited, its reticule calibrated for close-range engagements.

Jet slung the rifle over his shoulder, its weight settling comfortably against his spine. The holster found its place on his waist, the sidearm secured at his left hip. Duty washed over him—an old companion, both comforting and burdensome. Victory and loss danced in his mind, a bittersweet waltz. He splashed cold water on his face at the sink, banishing doubt. Now was not the time for introspection.

Exiting his bunk, Jet navigated the narrow corridor. Abelene’s payment—or lack thereof—weighed on him. The mission felt like a gamble, the odds stacked against them. He stepped into the cargo bay, where the two crew members awaited. His grin was wide, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“You told her yet, Kid?” he teased, his smirk revealing more than words ever could.

She was good at sending digs his way. He was equally good (thus far) at side-stepping them. Of course he hadn't told her anything about their job. Until she had settled on a 50% take a scant few minutes ago, she hadn't even wanted to be a part of it. "Look, you said you wanted in. This is in. You said so a half dozen heartbeats ago. So we're going over the plan. Now. Not like I had hours to brief you before we departed Coruscant." Wrench rolled into the cargo bay, informing anyone who cared that they were eight minutes from breaking Lotho atmo. No orbital defenses, no comm scans, no hails, nothing. As expected. Fel thanked the little astro droid, and then jokingly shoo'ed him away, in case he heard anything about the plan... information he could be tortured and melted down over. It was obviously a joke, but the little astromech scurried off to the bridge, chirping about the violent nature of humans.

He turned back to Aellyn and Jet, crossing his arms, as much against the cold of interstellar space as the figurative chill in the room. "After we lay it on the line, you want out, no hard feelings. You and Wrench can stay aboard the UA. You still want a piece of the action, ok." Fel walked over to the cargo container and picked up a Stormie helmet, turning it over in his hands. "Lotho is far enough off the beaten path that when the Empire has something they want to hide from public view, they often do it here, or on Ord Mantell. This time, the ImpStar 'Basilisk' sustained major internal damage due to Rebel sabateurs over Fondor five months ago. Heard about it? If you have, bravo. You're one of very few who have. No news on the HoloNet. Nothing in the headlines. The 'Basilisk' could have been taken to KDY shipyards, but that would make it awfully official. Here, they repair it real quiet-like." He tossed the helmet to Jet, picking up another. This one, with added HUD flip-down display denoting a scout trooper or sniper. This he likewise turned over in his hands.

"XO of the 'Basilisk' is a real sadistic bastard called Kara. Vinoor Kara. He was a Commodore when I knew him, but he's at least a fleet Admiral now. One of those real peacock Imperial officers who believes the more ribbons and medals, the better. Anyways. Kara has been lining his pockets for years stripping planets of their wealth, both monetary and cultural. Artworks, Sculptures, artifacts. Anything he can sell on the Black Market. We're here to take back a few items on behalf of a lady name of Abelene." He tossed the helmet to Aellyn, picking up the third for himself.

"Simple enough plan. Three Stormies of the one-oh-seventh enter. We got cards, ID's, papers. We're three out of two full detachments of the one-oh-seventh aboard the 'Basilisk.' We head straight for the port landing bay, zero in on these two small crates in the cargo stow, extract and leave. Anything aside from these two small crates we take is gravy. One hour, door to door." He pulled out a Stormtroop web belt, and attached the EC-17, priming the pistol. Inserting a power pack into the T21, he likewise primed the rifle, the whine of the energy converters and the static pulse adapters a familiar punctuation to any prep for a field mission. "Any questions?"

Jet caught the helmet Fel tossed his way, fingers tracing the dents and scratches. It had seen better days, just like the galaxy—a bitter reminder of how far they’d fallen. Once a symbol of peace, it now signified fear, a heavy weight on his shoulders.

He listened to Fel as he explained the plan to Aellyn. Nothing he hadn’t already known, albeit delivered in a more rushed manner than when he’d first heard it. Still, it was nice to have a mission objective recap—nostalgic, almost, like the old days.

“You are both either completely blind or stupid.” Aellyn rested the helmet on a nearby crate. “You want to go raid a star destroyer? What is it that is so highly regarded that this Abelene lady wants?” She shook her head, placing her hands onto her hips as she began to pace the cargo bay.

Jet couldn’t help but smirk at Aellyn’s bluntness. Of course, she wasn’t wrong. This mission wasn’t exactly a cakewalk. They’d been through tougher ordeals—jobs that practically guaranteed getting shot at or worse. But at least with this plan, they aimed to not get shot at. A small victory, perhaps, in the grand scheme of things.

“I want sixty percent and I’m not dressing as a trooper. You need an officer."

Jet’s eyebrow arched as he considered Aellyn's request—or whatever it was. "An officer?" His concern etched into the lines of his face. "I mean… Officers tend to stick out like sore thumbs, but they’re also less likely to get hassled by the cannon fodder out there…" He nonchalantly hung his helmet off a pouch on his belt, then raised his cybernetic hand to his chin, rubbing the rough beard in thought. "Not the worst plan, but it’s damn short notice. And the change of cut? Eh, doesn’t bother me much. What about you, kid?" His smirk was subtle, but he knew Fel would catch it.

Fel boiled under his collar for a good few seconds. It wasn't the usual run of things, when someone called him stupid directly to his face. But Jet -- ever the voice of reason, and a calm head when he was prone to losing his -- Jet didn't have much to say, but what he said, spoke volumes. Fel took a deep breath, and swallowed his pride. (That's what it was, wasn't it? There should be no place for pride on a ship such as this.) "I think we can get you a junior officer's uniform. There's a settlement nearby the drydock that has been seeing its fair share of Imperial activity since they touched down." He definitely picked up what Jet was putting down, and did his best to remain poker-faced about the cut. "Yeah, sixty percent. Got yourself a deal." He rubbed at the scruff that was quickly becoming a full-fledged beard. "Your call, but you might want to dress as a Stormie till we get to town... That way it's three troops together, rather than two troops and a local. That's sure to draw more attention." He shrugged. The call was Aellyn's. Though he would have preferred it, he wasn't going to die on that hill.

"Any questions?" He stood still for what felt like an eternity, but was more accurately about twenty seconds. He was ready to engage any questions, but had not-so-neatly sidestepped Aellyn's question about what was so fireblasted important to Abelene. Truth go on ahead and be told, Fel hadn't asked. He only knew where they'd be stashed, and that they would both fit into a cargo canister no bigger than a suitcase. "We touch down in five. No dustoff. No evac. The UA sits still while this is going down. See you planetside, folks."

He moved fluidly back into the flight deck, greeting Wrench with a swat and the whirr of a battery powered dremel he kept handy for just such occasions. Wrench immediately launched into a diatribe about how he was not in any way in need of cleaning, and that it was pleasing that the pilot would deign to show up for the, y'know, flying. He stated that based on the even split of duties aboard the UA, he should be captain, and Fel should be ballast. Galdaart roared at that, loving the good-natured banter they shared. "You're likely right, tin-can. Captain R2-P47 doesn't exactly roll off the tongue though, does it?" Wrench tooted that if only all hyperspace travel and communication were given over to droids, as it should be, that appearances wouldn't matter.

Fel overlaid the SD on his HUD display, and began the process of entering atmosphere. The old boat creaked and groaned, but flew straight and true. Two minutes. Fel banked sharply to drop below Imperial sensors, flying scant few feet off the deck. "You wouldn't do this though, would you Wrench?" The little droid replied with a slew of very unflattering comments, which even in Binary, sounded as bad as it really was. Fel smirked, but kept his eyes on the task at hand. Larger hunks of garbage created canyons, and mountains, and toxic rivers of sludge separated this man-made geography. Fel went down into one of the larger canyons, referring quickly to the terrain-mapping sensor suite. The canyon would lead them to within five klicks of their target. Close enough, without jumping up on the dorsal hull and waving his hands around.

"There. That's good." he mused to nobody in particular (though he got a questioning reply from Wrench.) The overhang was big enough, and the slag beneath it was nothing compared to the UA's landing gear. Fel pulled a full sweep of the immediate area. No heat traces of previous patrols. Wasting no further time, he brought the ship around and backed it underneath the junk overhang. It was a near-perfect fit. More junk for the junkyard. The UA fit like it had always been there. Fel performed the quick-quiet routine, killing all power except for emergency systems, and listened as the ship settled. "Keep your photoreceptor open, Buddy. If this goes sideways, It'll happen quickly."

Donning the old Stormie uniform, Fel gave Wrench a half-assed salute before exiting the flight deck, to which Wrench dressed him down for using improper Imperial Customs, and offered a handy spreadsheet should he feel the need to brush up. The door closed and Fel moved aft to the planetfall ramp...

Swing and a miss.

That always seemed to be the theme of Zane's life story. He'd gather up his courage, settle into position to bear down on his target, take a crack at it...and swing wide, somehow. It never failed. The most recent example of his supreme luck happened less than six hours ago. Parlo - his late mother and father's oldest friend in this swirling hellhole - got him added onto the salvage crew for the old Lucrechulk wreck at the last minute. It was supposed to be a total cakewalk gig, and it would have netted him and his brother their rations for the next month solid; if only he'd never seen the sign. The one that read "CAUTION: RADIOACTIVE" with about ten different symbols denoting which types of death rays the old wreck was likely to be spewing out at the time. It didn't matter that their rad-sensors were reading negligible - once the scrap of metal plate was removed to give them access to the area and the sign came into view, Zane was startled. And that was not the reaction that was needed when you were the one holding the counterbalance cable for the pry-beam.

The long and short of it was: he kriffed up. Cable was let go, beam slapped against the hard deck, and one of his crew had their shoulder caved in as it fell. An ornery Duros named Loz Dorbek. And, as it just so happened, Loz had four brothers who were just as disagreeable as he was. Which was why Zane - after being fired from yet another salvaging job - was hiding near the outskirts of Junktown, waiting for things to cool down. Well, either that, or for sunset, so he could make his way back into town under the cover of night and hopefully avoid the retribution of the entire Dorbek clan.

Junktown - or "Derrivan's Point", if you cared to call it by its original founding name - was like many of the other scrapper settlements scattered over the surface of Lotho Minor. A smattering of ramshackle dwellings nestled in between the massive hills made of both naturally-occurring geological hill formations and enormous piles of refuse, junk, and even shipwrecks. The whole place was made of one and two-story "buildings" - anything taller would risk what little structural integrity they could afford, as well as invite disaster when any number of calamities that the planet was known for occurred. The town itself had very few facilities; mainly storehouses for whatever equipment the residents held among the community, a clearing which served as a small starport, what passed for a cantina, and a "clinic" that an old sawbones doctor worked out of, which was little more than a place someone could lay up while they recovered from whatever ailed them. Loz was there now, which was why Zane was not in town.

Rather, the gangly youth was up on the eastern ridge, somewhere with a half-decent view of the valley in case someone came looking for him. He sat on a pile of stacked-up junk that served as a makeshift chair with his head in his gloved hands. His hair was oily and matted, his skin caked with grease and dirt which made him itch all over. He wore a dark, hooded jacket and pants which served as part of his protective gear that shielded him from some of the harsher elements that Lotho Minor was known to produce. His environment-scrubber mask hung around his neck, draping over the top of his chest. A satchel was slung over his shoulder which held the remainder of his gear. He was just staring into the acrid air with sunken eyes, an indicator of just how poorly-nourished he was. He couldn't really say what he was looking for - some sort of sign, he supposed. He doubted he would find it amongst the wreckage of Junktown, or even the temporary Imperial barracks that were just north of there, not far from the dry-docked ImpStar that now sat in the northern valley. The ship itself was beginning to look more and more like the rest of Lotho Minor. Being marooned here for a few months would do that, though.

Zane kicked a rut into the ground near his feet, trying to figure out in his head how things could have gone so terribly wrong, again. He was so terribly fixated on his predicament, not knowing what he was going to do with regards to taking care of his own little brother, that he never heard the soft steps of several individuals coming up the hill.

"There you are, Skid! I thought for sure you would have tried to skip town already..."

It was Wibb, Loz's older brother. And he'd brought friends.

Yup...just like always...swing and a miss.

“Are you really into this plan? Because honestly, this is half baked.”

Jet stood there, his mind racing through the contours of their newly hatched plan. It wasn’t their best plan, but then again, had any of their schemes ever truly been? As he parted his lips to speak, a flicker of hesitation entered his mind. He didn’t want to betray any uncertainty, yet he also couldn’t bring himself to feign unwavering confidence.

“I really hope these were sanitized before they were place in this crate..” Aellyn gave in and pulled out one of the smaller uniforms. “This smells of bantha poo-doo…”

Jet’s lips curved into a sardonic grin. “Ha!” he blurted out, almost involuntarily. “I wouldn’t count on it, princess.” His fingers snaked toward the helmet, precariously hanging from his pouch, and with a deft flick, he tossed it into the air. The helmet spun, catching the dim light before landing securely in his other hand. “Just about as sanitized as they are legal,” he added, the smirk deepening. It was a small rebellion, but Jet relished every opportunity to stick it to the empire—even if it amounted to a mere few hundred credits’ worth of missing uniforms.

As Aellyn glided toward the exit, Jet followed suit, snagging the scumbag suit that seemed tailor-made for him. Back in his bunk, he retrieved his datapad, its screen flickering to life with his latest scribblings about the hyperdrive and power plant. They’d be planetside soon, and Jet knew he’d have to keep an eye out for spare parts. If any place wouldn’t miss a few stray components, it was this backwater world.

He tossed the datapad onto his bed, wincing as he twisted his neck to one side, eliciting a satisfying crack. Then, like a silent prayer, he traced his thumb across the holopicture on the shelf. The ritual had lost its original meaning, reduced to habit, but Jet clung to it nonetheless.

Fully clad in the stormy outfit, he strode purposefully toward the ramp, where the rest of the crew awaited. His voice cut through the tension. “Ready to get this one over with.”

The medical bay within the Basilisk was sleek, organised with military precision, and humming with machine ambience. Rows of medical cots followed the walls, each equipped with state-of-the-art diagnostic and life-support systems. The bay was immaculately clean: its white, sterile walls and floors routinely decontaminated by droids.

Viszt stood by a console, reviewing the day’s analytics. Since the Basilisk had been put out of action several months ago, each day had been near-identical. Operating on somewhat of a skeleton crew, the Empire had uprooted the majority of medical personnel, leaving only a handful to tend to the daily requirements of the imperials garrisoned on Lotho. What the bureaucrats had failed to acknowledge, however, was that running medical facilities on a ship of the Basilisk’s size did not become drastically easier when stationary. There were just as many plates as before, and significantly less hands to keep them spinning. Thus, Viszt spent the majority of his waking hours working himself to exhaustion. Today, it was only himself and his supervisor, Dr. Benaire, an old, quiet human, who manned the med bay.

The doors to the bay slid open, and with a swift, clicking footsteps, a rigid figure entered. Viszt, in his state of fatigue, took several moments to realise the visitor was Admiral Kara, executive officer of the Basilisk. Kara was a real fierce bastard according to just about every crew member who’d incurred his wrath firsthand. Luckily, Viszt hadn’t ever had a one-to-one interaction with the man. He snapped to attention, observing Kara, who seemed to look through him like a phantasm, focusing his attention on Dr. Benaire.

Benaire swallowed dryly. A visit from Admiral Kara was seldom a good sign.

“Good evening, Doctor,” the Admiral said, annunciating each syllable emphatically.

“Ahem, good evening, Admiral, sir,” the Doctor replied. “How can I be of assistance?”

“I assume that you were briefed this week on the lowered availability of energy during the current stage of maintenance? Though your frail old mind may betray you from time to time, I assume you are quite aware of the importance of these repairs?”

“Yes, sir,” the Doctor said as any hope of a positive interaction quickly dissipated.

“Then please explain to me why, exactly, good doctor, that your department seems to have made no effort to reduce its power consumption since you received the aforementioned briefing?”

Dr. Benaire twitched a little. There was a perfectly good explanation for the power consumption in the medical bay. The technology they utilised couldn’t just be switched off and on again, and they had a wealth of expensive chemicals kept in cool storage. Viszt knew this, but he could only watch: it was not his place to correct an XO.

“My apologies sir. We have shut down anything deemed non-essential by regulations --” said Benaire.

“Curious. You seem better versed than I in imperial regulation,” Kara spoke, his words venom-laced. “Perhaps I am undeserving of my station.”

“No sir, I only mean --”

“Your cold storage: shut it down. I have arranged a storage in the nearby settlement to have its contents kept. Send your blueskin down with the chemicals on an ITT.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, doctor, if I have to do your job for you again, I will begin to to consider your value to the Empire. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the doctor repeated.

Viszt watched quietly as Kara left. The old man before him had always been dependable and respected, but in this moment he shrunk before Viszt’s eyes. He thought to console him, but he didn’t want to risk coming off as patronising. His mind quickly shifted to Kara’s mention of the chemical relocation. He cursed internally - not for the slur aimed at him, and not even because it would require him venturing into the potentially dangerous settlement nearby, but because it would prolong his shift for at least another hour.

“Right, boy,” Benaire said, having sobered himself from Kara’s admonishment. “Let's get everything down to the hangar and I’ll set you on your way. I’ll make sure the cold storage is powered down.”

Viszt merely nodded. He was sure Benaire didn’t need to be questioned any further.

Within fifteen minutes, the contents of the cold storage was emptied, moved into the hangar, and loaded on to a Imperial Troop Transport. Benaire slapped Viszt on the back, quickly rushing away to make sure Kara’s orders were seen to.

---

Before long, he arrived in Derrivan's Point along with several troopers - some of which were instructed to accompany him to the delivery point, and a few others that split off on unrelated business.

Viszt winced as he stepped out of the ITT. The place had an unwelcoming odour, its buildings seemed to just about qualify as buildings, and its people, even the children, looked ancient and weary. Disgust washed over him, but quickly receded into a sense of shame. It wasn’t these peoples’ fault they lived in such squalor. The Empire clearly wasn’t doing much to assist them -- and probably even contributed to the degradation.

The stormtroopers handled the interaction with the fellow who owned the storage, instructing Viszt to “deal with the delicates” and “let them do their job.” Though he was sceptical of the rickety cold storage unit’s ability to maintain the integrity of the chemicals, he put them away without argument. He had no interest in pulling up trees. He did his job and kept his mouth shut.

When he returned to the drop-off point, the ITT was gone, and he was informed by the troopers that it would not return until the next patrol shift change in several hours. Though they offered for him to remain with them on their watch, he kindly rejected, deciding to find a nearby cantina. Yes, to an extent, the locals intimidated him: but he was too tired to care about consequences. He just wanted a drink, and perhaps a hand of sabacc.

Whether or not what he found qualified as a cantina, he wasn't sure. It was more a collection of various table-like objects that had been assembled in an unstable-looking, one-story building. A reprogrammed astromech droid played grainy, low-quality jizz recordings. He ordered a drink, which seemed to be watered down, and made his way over to the biggest table in the room, which seemed to be the wing of a TIE-Fighter painted grey. Seven ripe locals swaddled around it, chips gathered around them, cards in hand.

"Might I buy in?" Viszt asked with a polite, charming smile.

"Ha," a portly twi'lek man grinned, flashing red-brown teeth. "Fancy yourself a gambler, Imperial?"

"Not really, friend," he lied. "Just looking to pass the time."

The twi'lek gestured at an empty seat, pleased by the answer. Viszt handed over the required credits, and recieved chips in their place. As he waited for the next hand, he swigged his drink and grimaced, the unlabelled beverage reminding him of stale rain-water.

For a little while, they played. Viszt kept his head low, eager not to seem a threat, but as the game progressed, his chips mounted. He fooled and baited the patrons, one by one, and his pot ripened.

"Schutta..." the twi'lek frowned. "You've played before, haven't you?"

"Once or twice," Viszt smirked, lying again.

His smile was snatched away as his comms buzzed.

"Viszt, I need you --" Benaire's voice sounded. "There's a problem with the cold storage. I shut it down, but there's been a leak. I need you over here, right now. I've asked for a transport to be sent."

Viszt sighed, holding the button down on his comms. "I'll be right there."

He looked to his left and right and smiled warmly. "Well, my friends, it seems this game has been cut short. It's been a pleasure."

"Hm?" One of the humans looked over, disgruntled. "You can't just walk away, the game's not done!"

"Look, it's clear that I'm winning, and it's not particularly close," Viszt gestured at his abdunant chip haul. "But, tell you what, you give me back my buy-in, and keep the rest. I don't want any trouble."

"Or what?" the twi'lek spoke lowly.

Viszt peered back. Good question. He supposed he might be able to drag a stormtrooper over and fill him in on the story, but should his superiors learn of his mingling with the 'local scum', he might get in some kind of trouble. Bluffing couldn't hurt, though, right?

"Well," Viszt gestured to his uniform, attempting to angle a threat at the man. "It would be rather unwise to try and swindle an Imperial."

He was met with seven glares.

He came to his senses. This wasn't the time, nor the place, to assert power. "You know, on the other hand, keep it... as a thank-you for your... wonderful company."

He hurried up, and made his way out of the door. He wasn't sure of his best course of action for making it back to the Basilisk, but Dr. Benaire needed his assistance. His pace increased, but he must have been flustered by his cantina encounter, and made a wrong turn. He realised he did not know his way back to the dropoff point, and he felt the seed of panic bloom within him.

As he stopped still in the street, he sought to compose himself, to get his bearings, to --

"Schutta," a voice from behind him spat. The portly twi'lek, flanked by two of his cronies, stepped out, blasters exposed. "You should be careful who you threaten."