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built like a truck and out for revenge

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Itxaro studied the collapsed bridge. There were stone bridges on Earth of similar design that stood for hundreds, if not thousands, of years; they didn't just collapse for no reason, especially if they were maintained as Silbermine suggested. She took note of the large stones just peaking over the edge of the waterline like crocodiles. It would be dangerous to cross loaded down with equipment as they were, and the receding waters were still moving quickly. Itxaro shifted the weight of her heavy pack on her shoulders and looked to the others uneasily.

"Whatever we do, we should probably do it fast. Get a fire going and post sentries, or get our asses across this river. I don't like the looks of this place anymore." Throughout their journey, Itxaro had been endlessly fascinated with the biome's rich and diverse wildlife, but now the swamp had taken on a sinister, almost malevolent quality that awoke in her a primal fear she kept in check. For now.

At Mallory's urging, Itxaro cautiously drew her revolver and her body relaxed some, the weapon's weight reassuring her. That, and the training she'd received back at the Jotunheim meant Itxaro actually knew how to use it now. Somewhat. She compulsively checked the weapon's cylinder and positioned herself between Shirik and Silbermine. She thought of the demons the Glenn lord had mentioned the other day. A year ago, she would have deemed such a thing impossible, but now, with magic and aliens abound, who knew?

The group seemed indecisive, so the engineer took the initiative. "I remember reading somewhere the best way through an ambush is to power through. So, ladies first?" Itxaro suggested as she slowly walked to the collapsed bridge, studying the route she might take through the broken stones as if it were a puzzle. Itxaro holstered her gun again unclasped her pack's front strap, took a deep breath, and leapt to the first small stone. Itxaro yelped as she nearly lost her footing on the wet rock, but with some clever flailing she managed to regain her balance. She glanced back to the others sheepishly before hopping to the next stone, this time more cautiously.
Cel, Lorn, Rask, Urh'otrr'kur

Keldabe Administrative District // Mandalore



Lorn finished shaking Cel’s hand and withdrew his arm back into his overcoat. He had barely acknowledged the young woman scream out at the blaster shot, as he was too absorbed with his own amazement at the stupidity of his underlings at the time. It is not a sin to be a civilian, so he would not blame his rescuer for being a foreigner to such violence. “Thankfully I don’t need to see quite that much of Keldabe, I only need to find my way to the next round of diplomatic talks that are supposed to be held later tonight.”

<What happened here?>

Lorn turned to face the robotic voice and had to stop for a moment and think about what he saw. Two Tuskens were standing on Mandalore, talking to him in basic. Lorn had never heard of a Tusken leaving Tatooine, much less travelling across the galaxy to attend a festival. Lorn was honestly so surprised he was left speechless for a moment.

Cel would stare for a moment at the Tuskens after they approached, she seemed almost flabbergasted at the sight of the two. “I….Uh… You are Tusken… and… don’t you usually live on Tatooine.” She seemed completely taken aback that she seemed to almost forget what Lorn had asked. How did they get here… why are they here? Oh man… they probably smell, I haven’t tried to see if they have.

Rask wasn’t as taken aback by the Tuskens as his compatriots, having met their kind before years ago, and spotted them in the crowd earlier. Then one produced a translator droid and he was just as confused. Rask studied the Sand People with new eyes. He looked into the narrow pinholes, windows into what might be a Tusken's soul. He found nothing. A fetid miasma hung over the pair of robed silhouettes, either them or something they carried with them. Perhaps both, Rask considered.

They were curious, though, and Rask indulged them. If only so they wouldn't bring their war clubs down on his head.

"Just some drunk children, playin at soldiering. Nothin you need to concern yourself with. No, I'm sure they'll shape up now that he's here." Rask tilted his chin towards Lorn. People hadn't scattered at the gunfire. If Mandalorians ran every time a blaster was discharged, there'd be no one left on the planet. But the crowd thinned, perhaps sensing there were better places to be in case the Deathwatch made an appearance. Rask thought they had the right idea.

”Why don’t we get a move on? Given the choice, I’d rather not have to explain this mess. Maybe we can take your new friend there to his party,” Rask said sidelong to Cel. A meeting of diplomats was just the right place to begin his hunt for Zi’Aii, and he wasn’t eager to tell the Deathwatch why he’d scrapped a droid in broad daylight and kickstarted a cantina brawl. Lawman or not.

Cel’s eyes were moving over the Tuskens and their devices and examining if they are actually a threat or not. She nodded to herself. About a 15% chance of them being a threat later on… of course you can’t put a probability on savagery…though it does seem that they have advanced technology that make them less savage…Or is it more their culture that could be considered the savagery. That’s interesting, I could probably write a paper on that.

“Hey, can I interview you guys later?” Cel would ask curiously with a slight smile on her face showing curiosity and interest in the Tuskens before she registered what they asked and what was finally going on.

Her voice would go back to its cheery sound as she looked at Lorn. “Oh I can lead you there, most likely it’ll be the Mandalore tower, you’ll have to excuse me though I don’t have my ship and I’m not too interested in flying so we can take the back streets and roads.” She looked around at everything that had transpired. “If you told me this morning that I was going to watch a bar fight, meet a vice admiral and then promptly meet a couple of Tuskens… then I would have told you that you are insane. This truly is an interesting day!”

Cel would look up at Rask almost like she was making sure he was close to her, these other two she didn’t trust fully, but he seemed to be honest in all that he has said and done around her. “Come on everyone!” she said as she led the entourage. What a scene it must be to have this ragtag group following behind her.

Urh’otrr’kur listened intently as the translator droid worked furiously to deliver what they had said, to transmit it to the little earpiece he wore. He could feel it slowly get hotter in his hand, too, something that made the Tusken want to groan in annoyance but he knew the translator would try to deliver that, too. So instead Roh'okr and he listened in silence to the foreigners through their little sphere.

Drunk children playing soldier, that was the reason given. Were they on Tatooine, there the children knew their place and knew their elders. There they'd have respect for the rites that would make them into warriors. It seems that these people…one of them, at least, had no such respect. And they called Tuskens savages. He snorted in derision. It seemed the man swallowed by a coat was some sort of leader among them…though not enough to chase after the children who were so disrespectful. Not enough to force them to stay, either. The Tusken chieftain looked the young man up and down with a critical eye. He didn't seem particularly upset by their disrespect…in fact, he seemed surprised.

Of course, then the girl offered up…a talk? After being amazed by the mere existence of them, and vocally too, she wanted a talk? Urh’otrr’kur could tell the word she had used bore no equal in the Tusken tongue, the translator briefly grating in contemplation of how it would deliver such strange news. What did she want to talk about? Why did it have to be later? He could feel the droid heat up more in his hand, through the gloves, as it frantically worked. Roh'okr's eyes drew down to it as well, staring. He turned it off.

<Is it meant to do that?>

<No, I don’t think so.>

<Did he say this one is a leader? Another chieftain?>

<Seems to be that, yes.>

<Where are his people? To deal with these disrespectful young?>

<He doesn't seem to care enough to stop them.>

<And the female? Was that…what was she asking?>

<I am unsure.>

<They make humans strangely here.>


Urh’otrr’kur struggled to not laugh, merely shaking his head again as he waited for the translator droid to cool down for more use. Normally it wasn't like this, but of course these humans had to use strange and different words the translator droid struggled to interpret. Why, why, he was not sure. Of course, then they got moving down and away to a…party? A celebration? Something of that sort. A meeting involving the strange chieftain.

Well, might as well. Maybe Ro Nuul would be there. The pair promptly followed as well, though lagging some little ways behind.

Rask heard the familiar low whine of jetpacks behind them as Deathwatch troopers touched down. He didn’t turn around to see as Cel led them through the increasingly narrow streets of Keldabe. He fell in with the Tuskens, leaving Cel to deal with the Imperial officer.

They walked in silence for a time. As they exited the Refugee District and entered the city proper through an ancient gate, the architecture grew taller around them, the streets even busier. Celebrants roamed from place to place, all under the increasingly watchful eye of the Deathwatch, perched on balconies above them like some metal gargoyle. Not as much mischief here. Rask watched himself limp along in the glass reflection of buildings they passed.

Finally he spoke. He wasn’t sure how much they could even hope to understand; as far as he knew, the Tusken language wasn’t extensively studied. Hard to study it, when everyone who speaks it tries to kill you. Still, he tried.

”You two are a long way from home. Same as me, I guess. What brings ye this far out?”

Did Urh'otrr'kur really want to tell them of Ambria, of their exit from home by those made beings? Did he really want to give too much information about the clan, and maybe leave them open to attack? Urh’otrr’kur gave a long pause before he tersely replied, a simple response that likely left much to be desired as they strode on.

<Patronage. Just meeting our patron, and looking for more patrons.>

Rask raised an eyebrow at this and looked the Tuskens over again, but found nothing he hadn’t seen before. Patrons. Strange word for a Tusken to use. The Tuskens he’d met before wouldn’t have ever sought out a patron, but he supposed they weren’t a monolithic people.

”Patrons, huh? I’d bet you might have some luck with the Mandos. There’s always some new clan or ally with them, and you could do worse for friends,” Rask said. ”I’m bettin there’s a trial you’d undertake, ritual or some such thing, but nothin you Tuskens couldn’t handle.” A little flattery never hurt, in Rask’s experience. He wondered if his words were true; would the Mandalorians accept Tuskens into their ranks?

”How you two enjoyin city life? Me, I don’t like it worth a damn so far.” Rask asked. He couldn’t imagine they were keen on it either, but the Tuskens already surprised him twice and he was ready for any answer.

Roh'okr spoke-up instead, braying out his disappointment in quick enough order. One hand clasped the handle of his gaderffii, gihaal long forgotten and discarded in a trash can. <The dunes are better than this. I miss home. I miss the brothers.>

The chieftain gave a long sigh, shaking his head. He missed it too, but wouldn't have been so eager to state that. It was an easy thing to state, complaints and whines for home. The man's first comments intrigued Urh’otrr’kur though, suggestions that there was some ritual or trial they could take, that they would be able to overcome it. The implications there weren't hard to see, seeing as rituals with the Mandalorians meant they would also be Mandalorians. It made him bristle. His tones, while in the Tusken tongue, were harsh and confrontational in more ways than one, sharp and fast.

<Patrons are not brothers, merely friends. We are Tusken, they are Mandalorian. That is a line neither cross.>

Between the Tusken’s harsh language and the droid’s flattened speech pattern, Rask could hardly tell if he’d given offence, but erred on the side of caution. He held up his slender hands as if in surrender. ”Alright, alright, my mistake. Sure, Mandos’ll be your friends. They’re a friendly lot,” Rask replied, knowing the translator wouldn’t pick up on sarcasm. Tuskens joining Mandos? Drinks gotten to your head, old man? You’re short on ears and long on mouth. Think before you open that slack jaw of yours. Rask fell silent, letting the ambient street din fill the void between them instead.


Cel would continue to guide them along the different paths of Mandalore, never seeming to stop and never seeming to have any second thought where she was going. In fact she was almost skipping and humming as she continued to move on. If anyone saw her eyes though they seemed to be darting all over the place. “Upon reflection, it is truly remarkable to witness the convergence of diverse nations and people groups congregating here on Mandalore, united in celebration. The irony lies in the fact that this harmonious assembly is a fleeting moment in time, as these same individuals will soon become diametrically opposed adversaries, engaged in conflict and strife..” She’d say so gleefully and with a hint of a giggle. She smiled at the group before leading them down a dark alleyway.

“Don’t worry this is a shortcut.” She’d say as she led them through the rotten-smelling alley to the other end. At the end of the Alley, you could see the Mandalore tower. It wasn’t in front of them, but it sure was closer than they had been.

“Okay shouldn’t be far, maybe a 20-minute walk from here. So… anyone got any great stories?!” She half-joked.

Lorn stealthily groaned as he was told the walk back would at least be another 20 minutes, shocked he had managed to absent-mindedly wander his way so far from his captors. He would likely be torn a new one after all this time, doubly so if he was late to the diplomatic dinner. As his guide suggested some storytelling, Lorn stayed quiet and let one of the others talk. Basically growing up a child soldier does not lend itself to having fun stories to share on a leisurely walk. The young admiral merely attempted to stay focused on the long walk that was now beginning to wear on him.

As the silence grew, Rask decided to speak up. ”Shore, I’ve got one for ye, if you don’t mind old war stories.” He’d told it a thousand times to a thousand audiences. It hardly felt like something that actually happened to him anymore, as if the truth faded each time with the retelling, but those who heard it still enjoyed it.



Cel smiled as she listened to Rask’s story, she began to giggle at the end as she turned and spoke. “Rest assured, I will hold you accountable for your promise. My exceptional memory ensures that I never forget important commitments, so you can trust that I will always remember this.” Cel said, giving Rask a wink before giving this band of misfits a smile and turning back around to lead her rather strange entourage.

Rask laughed. ”I don’t doubt that you will, ma’am.”

By the time his tale ended, the group was swallowed by the shadow of the Mand'alor's Tower in the afternoon sun. The streets surrounding the tower were filled with minor nobles, diplomats, wealthy merchants, and every other person from throughout the galaxy trying to scrape their way to the levers of power. Deathwatch guards patrolled the streets relentlessly, ensuring there would be no trouble in this opulent part of Keldabe. City workers were still setting up the final preparations for the festival to take place that night.

Cel would look up at the large tower and smile as they got closer and closer. She would turn to the group, “Well, here we are! Try not to upset anyone while you’re here! I’ve had so much fun! But this may be it for our merry band of misfits!” she would twirl around and start heading for the front doors as if to show them inside, there was a guard who held up his hand for her to stop but she held up a badge and he immediately dropped his hand as she walked to the front doors and opened them. “Perks of being a bureaucrat.”

Rask let the other two enter as Cel held the door and paused. “I believe this is where we part ways for now, Ms. O’Royal; I got a few things to do before wandering into this krayt’s nest,” he said, idly thumbing H1-VOK’s ruined memory chip in his pocket. ”I’ll catch up, sooner or later.” Rask tipped his wide-brimmed hat as the heavy doors swung shut.
you know we had to do'em






Keldabe Refugee District // Mandalore // Mandalore Sector
Mentioned:@pandapolio @Thayr @Paingodsson



"Yes ma'am, trouble seems to follow us," Rask repeated as they walked out of the cantina. The two stood there for a moment, Rask blinking in the day's afternoon light like some nocturnal creature caught out after sunrise. His eyes adjusted and he was able to take in the scene around him.

The street was surrounded on either side by squat prefab buildings made of cheap durasteel and small windows. These buildings, once new and shining bare metal, were now rusting and painted in vibrant and garish colors. Crude additions or second, third, and even fourth floors were added to some habitats, giving the whole street the feeling of being cobbled together. Each building's appearance reflected its inhabitant's tastes. Some walls bore murals depicting brave Mandalorian protectors with blasters in hand, or other artwork the occupant's previous homeworld. Others looked like the art of young children, stick figures of small families and flowers and other doodles. In the narrow spaces between each dwelling merchants hawked their wares in makeshift stalls. Food, trinkets, artwork, anything and everything that anyone could ever want. The entire community grew from a single point, the spaceport exit, and now encircled the spaceport entirely. Rask could see ships of every make and model land or take off from the heart of the district.

Once a refugee camp after the fall of the Republic, it had grown into something much more. Something the residents seemed proud of.

The streets were packed with people from around the galaxy, and the locals were pleased with these new arrivals. A chance to make some money, and a chance to display their new lives, gifted to them through the protection of Mandalore, many would say.

"Didn't tell you who I'm lookin for," Rask spoke to Cel over the din of music from the cantina behind them and the voices of vendors calling out their wares. "Twi’lek woman, name of Zi'Aii Nenta, though I expect she'd have changed it by now. Hell, probably changed her face too, if she's smart. Which she is. Too clever by half sometimes."

Rask looked at the cantina and watched as a team of small droids with flat, oval heads scrambled up the side of the building and set about painting over the sign that read "L4's Place." In a matter of seconds, the updated version said "Z3's Place." The sign had several layers of paint over the first two letters. Apparently, this establishment changed hands frequently. He shook his head ruefully and continued.

"She were a Republic agent. Once. Turned bandit the day that well ran dry. Now she's tryin' her hand at somethin new. Representin Confederacy interests on Ryloth, or some such thing. Don't rightly know much about it. All I know is she's on this planet, and I aim to find her, and bring'er to justice." Rask fiddled with the memory chip in his pocket. He thumbed the scorched half of it that was left. H1-VOK's memory chip. All the droid was, and all it would ever be, all in his pocket. He swiped the chip from the droid's head at the cantina, only to find he'd blown right through it when he executed H1. It would take a miracle to recover anything intelligible from the fragmented data leftover.

Stupid. Stupid to do it like that. Ain't no description of a fool you fail to satisfy.

Rask caught a glimpse of two odd figures in the crowd. Their frames were swathed in bandage-like robes and two narrow tubes jutted from their wrapped faces where eyes might be. They carried strange clubs with spikes on their bulbous ends. Tuskens.

"Well if that don't beat all," Rask said, more to himself than anyone else. "Fellas must be lost. If those are fellas. Hard to say." He'd encountered Tuskens before. He knew very little about them, but he was certain they never left Tatooine. They had neither the inclination nor the technology. Or so he thought.

More sounds of fighting from the cantina behind them. Rask didn't pay any mind, transfixed on the Tusken casually walking through the crowd with little more than a few curious glances from passerbys. Then a shot rang out.

Rask spun, blaster drawn, just in time to see a grinning New Imperial holding their gun just as the cantina doors slammed shut.

Slow. Too damn slow. You coulda been shot. Coulda been dead. Cel coulda been dead.

He'd lose sleep over that, he knew.

He returned the blaster to its holster as a slouching man approached them, garbed in an Imperial Navy dress uniform. Rask couldn't discern much else from the man, cloaked as he was in his coat. Young, but hardened beyond his years. He'd seen that look all too many times on the faces of clones in the late days of the war. Rask rested the heel of his hand on his blaster's grip casually, like a swordsman might place a hand on the hilt of their weapon when at rest. So relaxed that it did not seem a threat, only where his hand might naturally fall. Judging from the man's severe expression, Rask figured he was about to get chewed out for something, at which Rask knew he would laugh.

Instead, the man asked for directions.

Rask chuckled and tipped his hat to the man. He thought the man might have been drinking at first, but he looked as sober as a Jedi. "Well captain, I think they call this place Keldabe, last time I checked. Refugee district, maybe. You want specifics, best ask my friend Ms. O’Royal here. She'll know better than me."

His words were amiable enough, friendly even, but there was just a hint of distain behind Rask's sharp eyes. Barely perceptible, but there. Rask never had much love for those of the Renkar Imperium. They were a furtive, slavish people to him, all serving some tyrant whose interests were not their own. Everything the Rim was not. The man before him looked like an officer as well. Rask didn't care much for officers.
Itxaro could barely focus on Kolvar's words as they spilled out of her translator. Her dark eyes were locked on his nimble hands as they worked at a near-imperceptible speed. He seemed as either-handed as a spider and similarly dexterous. The alien's hands gesticulated and twisted in strange ways and she felt a warmth growing in her leg, not unpleasant. Itxaro watched as the red-streaked flesh knitted itself back together under Kolvar's touch. He began chanting in a tongue yet unfamiliar to her even in this alien world, and the translation device read back an error screen. When all was finished, Itxaro couldn't even tell which leg had been shot.

She laughed in disbelief. "I think you're gonna put our medics out of business, Kolvar. Thanks. Wish you were tagging along with us."

The alien was curious just why she'd been attacked in the first place. "I am curious about the reason why you were wounded by your own crewmember."

"Yeah, I'm curious about that too, Kolvar. It wasn't one of ours who did it, though. I don't think so, anyways. Human politics are a little complex," She replied as she stood up, testing her leg as if it were a new and alien part of her body. It felt fine. Better than fine. Better than she ever remembered. She wondered if she could get a full spa treatment from these mages, a sort of rejuvenating treatment.

Kolvar continued. "If I may speak freely, I am worried that each faction is using you against each other. And once they are finished dealing with the other faction, they will try to enslave you. I know your captain wants to resolve this situation peacefully, but I would be cautious of Kareet and Silbermine. There is no telling what their true intentions are.”

Itxaro appreciated the alien's candor. "Thanks, Kolvar, but I think that's something my crew has considered one hundred times over by now. They're a paranoid lot. We're just gonna have to take it one day at a time, I think." There was growing suspicion among all parties, it seemed, and Itxaro was already weary of it. She was glad to get away from at least some of the humans and try to diffuse whatever conflict was growing.

With a wave, she said her goodbyes to Kolvar, hefted up her pack, and headed to join the rest of her party. She took one last look of the Jotunheim. An ugly thing in her eyes, a foreign scab on the landscape, and she was happy to be leaving it.



Itxaro spent the next several minutes frantically running around Silbermine's camp like some mad tourist. She watched smiths work metal with foreign tools into alien shapes. She studied tailors as they transmuted crude fabrics and leather into fine clothing and boots suitable for a human form. Glenn knights in full plate tested their mettle against one another as they clashed in a makeshift arena. Itxaro had been to many renaissance fairs back on Earth, a guilty pleasure for her, but this was like nothing she'd ever seen. It was all real.

One Glenn, large even for their race, called out to her from their small tent. "Human! Come, come, try my food. You'll grow as strong as our host Lord Silbermine on this stew." The Glenn wore simple and stained clothes and bore no antlers atop their large head, so Itxaro assumed this was in fact a female Glenn. She couldn't resist, of course, and was drawn to the Glenn's tent by both her call and the powerful and unknown aromas sent forth by her cooking.

"You don't do to-go orders, do you?"

"Tew-go?"

"Nothing. Can I take that in a flask or something?"

The Glenn smiled, showing their large forager teeth, each row like a line of little tombstones. "I was told you humans are strange. But it can be done." She doled out a massive portion of stew into a dried and painted plant of some kind with a stopper affixed to the top, not unlike a gourd bottle. More than Itxaro could ever hope to eat in a single day. Not that she wouldn't try.

"Thank you. What's this called?" Itxaro asked as she slung the bag over her shoulder like a bandolier. It was surprisingly heavy.

The Glenn responded in kind, but not to Itxaro's satisfaction; the translator failed her, as she should have expected. Itxaro asked what was in the dish, but was met with similar disappointment. She thanked the Glenn profusely before realizing she was meant to be leaving with Silbermine and scrambled off.



Itxaro just caught the tail-end of their host's speech before they departed. She didn't find it difficult to keep pace with the Glenn, especially now that her leg was mended. She fell in line next to Mallory and Shirik. Itxaro felt light despite the gloomy marsh; even in this swamp she found beauty, admiring the wild and alien plants that grew from the murky puddles, tufted stalks which bore large and luminous bulbs at their ends. She barely paid any attention to the party's banter until Silbermine's voice cut through.

"They go well, Lord Silbermine, thank you," Itxaro said, slipping into the antiquated speech she often used when addressing him. For fun, mostly, as if she were acting the part of a medieval knight in some play. Anyone fluent in English would detect the mirth in her voice that the translator flattened. "The resource in greatest demand for us now is time. Given enough, we should be able to mend our home."

She switched off her translator and looked to Mallory.

"So, what's the plan? We shouldn't let this cocksucker know what we actually need yet, right? Keep it vague?"

Cel O' Royal & Rask Coburn


Cel looked up momentarily as the Imperials walked into the bar. Her eyes moved to the man as he approached and stood beside her. At first, she was about to tell him that she had no interest until she looked behind him and saw the saddened New Imperials walking away. ‘I guess it’s not so bad having a tall man nearby to deter others.’

“I think trouble follows us wherever we go. Like some kinda hound hot on our heels. We ain’t lookin’ for it, but it always seems to find us just the same. All we can do is keep an eye out for it, be ready for it when it comes, and hope our luck don’t run out. Helps to have a second set of eyes on the lookout, though.”

“Believe me, I don’t think anyone could be a kindred spirit with me.” She gave a slight grin as she spoke, writing down a final note in the journal she had.

Rask chuckled. “I don’t doubt you’re right, ma’am. My mistake.” He gave a slight nod and tip of his hat.

When she looked up she noticed that he was pouring her another glass. Cel seemed wary, though, and her eyes darted like a fly dodging getting hit. She saw the percentage of chances of this being a trap in her head, determined based on his demeanor and how he approached her that the chance was less than 3%. A 6-foot 11-inch man would be obvious as the last person to be seen with someone, even on Founding Day. There aren’t too many 6-foot-11-inch humans on Mandalore. Not to mention he had a scar… She began to recalculate the numbers in her head, less than 1%. Safe.

She took a drink from the glass, smiling as she felt the warmth of the drink go down.

“You aren’t wrong, trouble does seem to follow me. But I think your observation is just slightly off. You see, I don’t run off of luck. I run off of calculations. That and proper channels.” She chuckled at her joke, not realizing that this man had no idea she was a bureaucrat. Which meant he had no idea she just made a joke.

She slightly turn to him as she did, her eyes darted to the man whom she had just rejected. He seemed upset that she wasn’t treating this man the same. She leaned forward towards, the tall man giving him a grin. “So tell me. What do those extra set of eyes see?” She asked before taking a sip, and nodded to show approval of the drink choice without words.

It'd been too long since Rask had banter like this. Playful, unserious. So much of his life was serious.

"Well," Rask began, "For starters, I see you ain't a Mando. The lack of beskar kinda throws that idea out the window. So, not a local. But you're lookin pretty comfortable with this lot of scoundrels. My guess? You been planetside for a while. Live here, maybe. Don't come to this joint often, though."

Rask drank before continuing. The whiskey was top shelf compared to the swill that clone had been feeding him.

"I reckon that ain't just a hat rack you got there." He gestured with his glass towards her book. "Nobody reads somethin that heavy for their health. I would say you’re some kind of scientist, but those types don’t wrangle fools well as you.” Rask tilted his chin towards Cel’s jilted lover. "And since you've a workin brain, that rules out politician or diplomat. No, I'm bettin you're behind the scenes somewhere, though. Be stupid not to."

The band struck up another tune, this time a cover of local pop phenom Kada Skirata's hit song "Devil." An energetic and synth-laden dance number, lyrics dripping with venom. It was a not-so-veiled takedown of General Grievous and massively popular outside of CIS space, where it was banned from the airwaves. Rask found this cantina singer's interpretation lacking. Few, in his estimation, could match Kada's vocal prowess.

He looked back to Cel. Meeting his eyes was easy for most. They were dark and narrow and one eyelid sagged from a cut long ago, but there was a softness to them behind the craggy skin and scars.

"Last thing. That vibroblade." His dark eyes ran across the sheathed weapon tied to the woman's hip. "You see a man with a blaster, he might know how to shoot it. Might be all mouth. But a lady carrying a knife like that? You ain't strappin that on every day because it looks pretty. I wouldn't wanna tangle with you, that's for damn sure."

Rask idly tapping his wedding band against his glass as he drank, which made a small clink that was drowned out by the band and the crowd. "And that's all I've got, for the moment. I'm figurin it'd be a day's work or so just to guess your mind. Maybe I've lost my touch." He seemed close to pleased with himself, but unwilling to speculate any further for fear of stepping on his new companion's toes. Rask considered himself a good judge of character, but it'd been long since he had any characters to judge. Four years, give or take. A little rusty. Still, he welcomed the challenge.

"So, what'd I miss?"

Cel hummed as she sipped her drink, listening to him break down who she was based off of what she had and how she looked. She giggled as he mentioned guessing her mind and maybe losing his touch. “I will admit you’ve got a good eye on you. I am not a scientist, and this.” She patted her book. “This is just what I read for fun. So not a scientist, but I am a bureaucrat. Just a simple paper pusher.”

“You’ve an interesting idea of fun. Well, I weren’t too far off. Bureaucrat, huh? Everyone’s gotta make a livin, I don’t begrudge you that.”

She gave him a playful smile as she listened to the song that the band struck up. Her eyes darted as his looked around quickly, but she moved her eyes back to his to make sure she didn't lose eye contact with him. “Some say I’m really smart but very good at remembering things. Eidetic memory is what I believe it’s called.” She said playing coy.

“But that’s beside the point, you did get one other thing right.” She patted the vibroblade at her side.

“This definitely isn’t just for show. While I cannot claim expertise on this matter, I can attest that my father had instilled the notion of self-reliance, especially when it comes to safeguarding oneself, in a universe that demands it like the one we are in now.” She gave a smug grin as she looked down at her sheathed vibroblade.

Rask pulled up a stool beside the woman and sat down. ”Your father’s a smart man. This galaxy’s a mean place. That’s true everywhere I’ve been and gone. Gotta depend on yourself if you wanna live to see the sunset.”

“I must admit that I am impressed by your perceptiveness. I definitely didn’t expect someone from a place like this to be able to determine all that, let alone determine what I am reading. Well… I hope all that means I’m a solid character from your eyes and judgment. She took another sip before her eyes darted again around the room. She didn’t seem worried, or in a rush, but she was double-checking her surroundings, checked the windows and doors, and recognized everyone was basically still normal and not seeming to be in a hurry to jump into the conversation or approach them. There was a slight moment she thought that one of the Imperials were going to cut in but he quickly just kept walking by. Huh, he seems to keep the trouble away, I’ll keep entertaining him a bit longer… we can see where this goes… I don’t…. Hate him after all like most people.

”Not to spoil too much, but I ain’t from here, ma’am, and I take that as a compliment. These Mandos are too serious for my liking.” He made a sweeping gesture with one long arm at the cantina’s patrons, as if to point out each dour-faced and solemn Mandalorian in the otherwise energetic crowd.

”But readin folks just comes with the occupation I guess. Speakin of, I must admit, I’d be curious to hear what your eyes make of this old salt before ye. Shouldn’t be too hard; I’ve been told before there ain’t too much to see. How bout it?” He set his half-drained glass away from him, as if the small distance would stop him from reaching over and finishing it. With a large hand, Rask playfully covered the Regulator badge pinned to his poncho as if to prevent Cel from ascertaining his occupation.

“Hmmmm, I’m not sure you’re ready for this, tall dark and scruffy,” Cel shrugged before taking another sip and her eyes moved up and down his body. If anyone could see what was going on in her head they’d see numbers and percentages moving through her eyes.

”Believe me when I say I’ve heard it all, and then some.”

“Okay,” Cel said, taking a deep breath. “As you walk, there is a slight limp in your gait that you try to cover up with each step. It seems that you might have sustained an injury in your leg, or perhaps it is a remnant of an old childhood affliction. However, the presence of that blaster on your hip suggests that it isn't the latter. In fact, the blaster's appearance implies that you may have been a combatant in the Clone Wars, or you might have acquired it from someone who was. Considering the blaster's origin, which would have to be from the outer rim, I presume that you belong to that region. Your confident stride into this establishment despite every Mandalorian's attention on you since you walked in and shot that droid, suggests that you are not intimidated by such surroundings. Furthermore, the fact that your friend referred to you as Marshal supports the notion that you might have served a term.” She took another sip, her eyes moving up and down his body still.

“Upon observing your movement since you arrived, it appears that you have not ceased from leaning, which suggests that you may not be from a planet that has a similar gravity pull as Mandalore. This could mean that you are either compensating for the difference in gravity or it could be due to a previous injury. Furthermore, I noticed that your boot protrudes slightly on one side and remains rigid when you move your foot, which leads me to believe that it could be a concealed weapon of some sort, as you have been caught without one at an inopportune moment in the past. Based on my estimation, you appear to be in your mid to late forties, and judging from the way you drew your gun on the droid earlier, it seems that you have not been practicing your shots lately, which was somewhat sluggish, at least to your standards since you seemed a bit disappointed. However, you approached me with great confidence, which indicates that you were either bored, attempting to save a damsel in distress, or driven by curiosity. In any case, as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat.” She gave him a playful wink as she spoke and chuckle at her own joke.

“So how’d I do?” she asked, batting her eyes for a moment before taking a final sip of her glass and leaning back into her chair.

Rask studied the woman, his eyes narrow and focused. He adjusted his stance, squaring up to her. Then he relaxed and laughed. “You missed out on a good career in law enforcement, I’ll say that. Got everything but my name, and I’d bet you could figure that out too with a second run.” He didn’t answer why he’d approached her. Truth be told though, Rask was more worried for the New Imperials, really just kids, who strode into the cantina rather than the woman before him. By his estimation, he probably saved them a couple broken limbs.

It always compelled Rask to see himself through the eyes of another. His wife painted his portrait once, years ago now. Hers was an amateur’s hand, but to see how she viewed him fascinated Rask to no end. He had a low opinion of himself, and seeing his likeness painted in a favorable, if not downright heroic light made him realize people saw what they wanted to see. Both in themselves and others. Cel's appraisal of him felt true to the mark, if a little sparse on detail.

"Us Rim folk like to think we're full of secrets, but truth be told, what you see is what you get." In direct defiance of this statement, Rask set his hand down on the bar and his half-drained glass slid across the metal countertop directly into his palm, as if pulled along by some invisible string. He drained the glass of its contents.

"But I'll save ye the trouble of guessin my name. Rask Coburn. Marshal Rask Coburn, Outer Rim Regulators. Been a while since I held that particular title, but circumstances have conspired against me and here I am again."

“Cel O`Royal, it’s a pleasure.” she said, putting a hand out gently to touch his for a moment like she was almost owed a handshake.

"Well, Ms. O'Royal, I must confess that Mandalore's changed since last I was here. I been lookin for some bad folks the past few weeks, and have found little but trouble. Save for that heap of metal over there." Rask stood to his full height and threw some credits on the counter. Enough to cover the drinks. Not enough for the scrapped droid.

"I could use someone with a lay of the land to help me out. You’ve a keen eye, and I’ll bet you know this city better than most. Regulators'll compensate ye for your time, though I admit it ain't much. Could make for a good story to tell your fellow desk jockeys back at the office though. Think of yourself as a... Guide, of sorts. How's bout it?" It was a common practice among Regulators; their jurisdiction spanned so wide that they were often better off hiring locals. These impromptu deputies were typically security forces, but often included frontiersmen, diplomats, street urchins, and others with expansive knowledge of local conditions. Bureaucrats, not as much.

“Hmmm, well I guess it would not hurt to do so. I don’t really have much going on… I had only the plans to come in here and read until it was time for more favorable moments of the celebration. Possibly something that makes all the streets less crowded and rather everyone focused on one point… in other words, the main event.” Cel made sure she put everything away in her bag as she zipped it up. She put some of her own credits on the bar as well.

”Nothin better to do, huh? Hell, I’ll take it,” Rask said, shaking his head. ”Think it’s about it time we leave this dump. Gettin a bit too rowdy for my liking.”

As they were about to walk out, Cel turned to the original man who she had turned down who seemed seething that this man had not gotten the same treatment she did. She stopped and waved to him like she promised as he got out of his seat and began walking towards her as she started walking out. She figured she’d let Rask or any of the other patrons handle this man, and if not, well it was going to be a mistake for him.

Rask watched as the man loped towards them. He knew the type. Known them all his life.

This particular gentleman’s ears were missing, giving his already narrow head an even slimmer and weasel-like profile. There was an ugly burn on his neck, letters burned into the skin. It was impossible to read them now, the hot iron having been left too long against the flesh and the symbols were now splayed and jumbled. Rask knew what they meant though; not many people wore that brand. He’d been a guest at the prison moon, Reku, a hell reserved for the most depraved criminals within the Renkar Imperium.

As the man stood swaying before them, his mouth working to form some string of insults, Rask reached behind him and grabbed the half-full bottle of whiskey.

”Happy Founding day, friend. Drink up,” Rask said amiably as he shoved the bottle into the man’s hands. Before he could respond, Rask led Cel through the crowd towards the door. A new song played now, rife with heavy and dark synths under which the singer yowled. It hurt Rask’s ears and he was glad to be leaving. He looked behind to see the thug slouching after them. Rask thought of the predatory six-eyed Halcorr that stalked the plains of his homeworld, vicious beasts that killed without thought.

Well, I tried.

With a slight flick of Rask’s arm, the thug off his intended course, as if shoved by some invisible phantom. Not much, but enough to send the drunk reeling into a circle of New Imperials. He spilled whiskey on one young woman’s uniform, which was enough to invoke their collective and already pent-up rage. Words were said that could not be unsaid. In a matter of seconds the cantina exploded in a pandemonium of violence as punches and kicks were doled indiscriminately, just as Cel and Rask stepped outside and into the bright and lively street.

Interacting with: @Paingodsson




Two more glasses filled. Two more glasses drained.

"Never did catch your name, Mando."

"Don’t think you asked."

"Well. What's yer name?"

"Zeke. Was that droid right? You’re Coburn?"

"Yeah, that's it. Rask Coburn."

Zeke laughed. A harsh sound more like a bark, but warm enough.

"Like the holodrama?"

"Like the holodrama."

"Any relation?"

"I like to think not."

Rask watched as a familiar scene played out on the opposite end of the bar. Young woman. Drunk man. Rejection. As long as there’d been drink in the galaxy, there’d been this dance. He’d studied the woman when first walking in. Her and everyone else. Taking notes of who was carrying what kind of firearms, how many, and gauging just how besotted they were. This woman seemed unarmed. In Rask’s estimation, that meant she was either very green or very dangerous. Her weapons could be hidden, but most on Mand'alor didn’t bother. Offworlder, then. He chuckled when the scorned drunk wandered off into the crowd. Least she knows how to handle fools. He thought of the first time he saw his wife, in a scenario not unlike this one. Mina decided on a less tactful approach, though, and headbutted the offender so hard their nose shattered.

A second droid arrived at the bar, some poorly maintained service model. It chirped at him in binary, gesticulating wildly with creaking arms like some demented mime. Rask watched this show before turning to Zeke.

”What this one’s saying?”

“I think its not too happy you just scrapped the owner, and wants you out from behind the bar.”

”Well, I guess I can oblige.”

Rask knelt down and with a practiced motion wrenched the head off H1-VOK’s body and tossed the severed hardware to Zeke. The hands never forget. He thought of how they used to pick through battlefields after a raid, tearing the heads off of CIS droids for the Republic bounty placed upon those twisted pieces of machinery.

”Sure you don’t want to split the reward? You did most of the work.”

Rask shrugged. ”Scrappin’ him was reward enough.”

The service droid’s beeping and squawking intensified as Rask bent down to pick up another intact bottle from beside H1’s wrecked carcass. Several MSE-6 droids wheeled around working to clean up the mess, but they shied away like little animals from Rask as he stepped out from the bar. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots.

”’Nother round?”

Zeke shook his head as he tucked H1’s beneath his arm. ”I’ve got a shooting competition in an hour. I can handle seeing double, but triple’s no good. See you around, Marshal.”

”You just might, Zeke. Galaxy ain’t that big these days.”

The two men shook hands and the clone left just as the band regained their confidence. They played louder and louder, emboldened by the crowd trickling back into the cantina. Newcomers, as if nothing had happened. Among this throng were several New Imperials, crisp uniforms now wrinkled and stained and reeking of booze. Three swaying recruits leered at the reading woman with wide and hollowed out eyes like nocturnal creatures surprised by day. Crazed with drink or drugs or both. In a few long strides, Rask cut the advancing recruits off and posted up next to the woman, leaning on the bar with one arm.

“If ye don’t mind me sayin’, ma’am, I think we’re kindred spirits of a sort,” Rask began with a faint smile as he set the bottle between the two of them on the bar. His long fingers fully wrapped around the bottle’s base and obscured the label. He uncorked it and refilled the woman’s empty glass with amber liquid. Rask kept a wary eye on the New Imperials who now averted their course with his arrival, like water breaking on a river stone. They slinked off to pester some Mandalorian, demanding a free round of drinks for having single-handedly defeated the Great Enemy.

“I think trouble follows us wherever we go. Like some kinda hound hot on our heels. We ain’t lookin’ for it, but it always seems to find us just the same. All we can do is keep an eye out for it, be ready for it when it comes, and hope our luck don’t run out.” Rask reached over the bar and produced another glass which he filled. The bottle’s label read “Cheedoan Gold Reserve”.

”Helps to have an extra set of eyes on the lookout though.” He raised his glass to her.

The cantina was filled to bursting, teetering on the precipice of revelry and lawlessness. Smoke clung to the close air in a grey shroud like cordite after a firefight, and it reeked of unwashed bodies and sour liquor. A young Twi’lek woman crooned on a corner stage, singing in a patois of Basic and Mando’a. Her voice was garbled and warped, sounding as if she was underwater. The band accompanying her played with frenzied desperation to be heard over the raucous crowd.

L4’s Place. That’s what the sign outside said. Proudly droid owned and operated.

A strange lot in these parts. Foreigners mingling with beskar-clad warriors of Mandalore. Some helmeted, others not. They spoke in a dozen tongues not native to this world. Aliens with peculiar shapes ill-suited to this planet, struggling mightily to stay upright with the strong gravity and stronger alcohol. Some didn’t, resigning themselves to the floor as booted feet trod over them or ontop of. Humming neon lights overhead painted the celebrants in sickly hues of blue and pink, distorting faces into something far divested from their true forms. The 25th anniversary of the Founding brought diplomats, military officials, and other notables to Mandalore, but they would not be found here amongst these rude forms. A tall man stepped in from the busy street. Too tall to be a native. Any other day he would be instantly singled out as an outsider, but today he was just one off-worlder among many.

The man’s narrow eyes swept through the crowd. Too many helmets. Too many hats. He pulled off his own and swept a clawed hand through his hair. He’d sought refuge from the besotted revelers in the streets, so-called New Imperials now crazed with drink, but found this place little better. The Marshal, now two months on the job, had been planetside for a week chasing down dead end after dead end. He was out of leads now and exhausted to boot. The gravity was heavier than what Rask was used to, and he’d spent too much time in low-g these past weeks of travel. Soft. Slow. Thirsty.

He slipped through the crowd, a noticeable hitch in his step. Rask nodded to patrons as he went, exchanging a brief smile with a Devaronian woman who was right and truly drunk. One of the musicians grinned at him hideously with iridescent eyes fixed on long stalks that peeked over his canted instrument, at which he sawed viciously. The Marshal did not return this smile.

Rask ducked under a low beam and bellied up to the bar, slotting himself between a Trandoshan armed to the teeth and a helmeted Mandalorian kitted out in a similar fashion, as were many of the patrons. The scaly alien scowled at him and sidled away, leaving him with the stout Mando sitting on his left.

“Marshal.” The voice came out tinny and mechanical, but was directed at Rask. He turned to face the armor-clad man. Rask searched the flat black visor for any sign of humanity but found none. He felt like he was staring at a droid. The hairs on his neck stood on end. An old reflex.

“You got me at a disadvantage, sir, as many do these days. Do I know ye?” Rask spoke smoothly and slowly, his Outer Rim drawl contrasting the Mando’s quick, clipped military cadence.

“No, you don’t. But I know that badge.”

Rask ran a long finger over the smooth piece of metal pinned to his ragged poncho. The badge of an Outer Rim Regulator. It’d been a long time since he wore it. Long enough to forget it was the first thing people saw.

“Surprised you Inners ever saw one.” A subtle joke accompanied by an easy smile. Mandalore was on the Outer Rim, but with its rapid development since the fall of the Republic, many on the galaxy’s fringe considered it a Core World. Culturally, at least. The Mandalorian chuckled.

“Hope we’ve still got enough of that Rim charm for you, Marshal. Here for the Founding anniversary?”

“Here to find someone.”

“I see. How’s city life treating you, Marshal?”

“I keep waiting for it to take, but it ain’t done it yet. What do you people drink on this rock with minimal risk of death or blindness?”

”We might have something for you. L4.”

The Mandalorian rapped his gauntleted knuckles on the metal bartop. L4, a bulky protocol droid, golden outer casing dented and rusting from abuse, wheeled around. The Mandalorian held up two fingers and two drinks were poured from a glowing blue bottle into chilled glasses, which were pushed forward carefully by robotic hands like pieces on a chess board.

“Here you are, gentlemen. Jajeeg. Please enjoy,” it said in a voice so pleasant it almost seemed sarcastic to Rask. He felt the protocol droid’s yellow eyes follow him. The same lifeless mechanical eyes he’d seen in most every machine throughout the galaxy.

“You’ll put a crick in your neck, you don’t stop starin’ at me, droid,” he said, his voice cool. The bartender curtly nodded and turned to attend to some other patron.

The Marshal thought he’d be drinking alone, and was surprised when the Mandalorian set his helmet down on the bar. Rask was even more surprised by the face revealed in doing so, though he shouldn’t have been. It was a face he’d seen a hundred times on the Outer Rim. Fought with, bled with against the Separatists on the Rim’s frontier. A little older now, but not as old as Rask expected.

“Who do we drink to?” The clone of Jango Fett asked. Half his face was a twisted mess of scar tissue, plasma burns or some other grievous injury long since half-healed. One piercing brown eye looked into his, the other milky white and wandering as if seeing another world beyond their own. His hair was long, longer than Rask’s, matted from the helmet and swept back on his head.

“To your fallen brothers,” Rask said, raising his drink.

“We’ll be here all day if we drink to them,” he replied, taking in the contents of his cup in one swallow. Rask followed suit. The liquor was rank. It tasted of creosote algae. It burned all the way down his gullet, and then burned some more. Rask knew he’d drank worse hooch before, but he really couldn’t remember when. He stifled a cough as the clone smirked. Revenge, maybe, for Rask’s earlier joke.

“I reckon your brothers saved my life when we was about done in on the Rim more times than I can remember. I’ll spare a day or two of drinking for’em if need be,” Rask said as the droid filled up their glasses again. He kept his eyes fixed on the battered robot as it hobbled away, as did the clone. Another veteran with little trust for droids, Rask assumed.

“You said you’re here to find someone.”

“That’s right.”

“Anyone I’d know?”

Rask studied the contents of his glass. The Jajeeg was bioluminescent and he watched as glowing shapes swirled in the bottom of the glass like living tea leaves. The pulsing music wasn’t doing much for his headache, but another drink might.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe. Fella about your height. Ain’t so small you’d be like to miss’em. Changed their name, maybe face too, so I ain’t got much to go on but memory. That fails me more oft’ than not as well,” He downed another round of the bitter liquor.

The clone looked around the crowded bar as he drank, as if half-expecting to find someone matching just that description. “Well, I hate to say it Marshal, but that doesn’t narrow it down much on Mandalore.”

“No, it does not. Seems like I’ve got some ground yet to cover.” Rask turned back to the bar and looked into the mirror behind rows of liquor bottles that sat on their shelves like the concoctions of some demented alchemist, or a madman’s preserved specimens crudely pickled for future study. Some bottles contained just that, worms and insects from distant reaches of the galaxy perhaps meant to alter the consumer’s mind or mood. Rask saw his reflection in the glass behind, gaunt face warped as if by a funhouse mirror in the neon lights. His stare was broken by the bartending droid who shuffled into view.

“Another drink, Marshal Coburn?”

Rask relaxed as he leaned against the bar sideways, one arm resting on the countertop. Perhaps the local liquor was getting to him. “That’d be fine. I’ll get this round, friend.”

The droid jerked a stiff nod and turned to grab a liquor bottle from the back bar. The clone spoke, but Rask didn’t hear him.

“I don’t remember tellin’ you my name, droid,” Rask said, his voice meandering, almost playful. Barely audible over the din of the crowd and the music, which was more feverish than ever. He studied the droid’s back. Its outer carapace was crudely stretched over the robot’s inner workings and secured with metal cables, like some metal insect grown too big for its exoskeleton and caught mid-molt. The droid paused as Rask spoke. As if it were thinking. Weighing options. The droid’s upper body spun around 180 degrees lightning fast, bottle in one hand, blaster in the other.

It happened all at once.

A single shot seemed to ring out. An explosion of bottles. The clone dropped from his seat and hit the floor with a metallic clank. Screams. Patrons flared like frightened birds and ran for the door. Then everything was quiet. Rask and the droid stood like statues in the still and hot air, eyes locked. A heartbeat passed. Then two.

The droid staggered back, hydraulic pistons pumping, stumbling into the liquor cabinet behind them. Their arms flailed to steady themself but the droid’s immense weight brought the glass shelves down on top of it as it fell to the ground. The smell of astringent liquor filled the room, mingling with ozone and burnt plastic.

If it looked like a thing the Marshal had practiced many times, it was. Shooting from the holster without drawing was considered a dirty trick by some, but that low-down move had saved his skin more than once. It left a smoldering blaster hole in his poncho.

Rask slowly walked around the bar and kicked the half-door open, briefly flashing his badge to the remaining patrons. The bartender looked like a crab on its back, scrambling for footing. He planted his boot on the fallen droid’s wrist as a metallic hand desperately grasped for its fallen blaster. The cheap carapace snapped and bent like ancient and brittle bones, but the metal beneath was hard and battle-worn. Pieces of shrapnel littered the floor from where Rask had fired his blaster through the bar and into the droid’s logic processor. A small beam of daylight shone onto the wrecked droid where Rask’s shot punched through both the robot and the wall behind it. He frowned at this. Rask would not have fired in such a crowded area, but there was no help for it.

“Not a bad disguise, H1. Better than your aim, anyways,” Rask said as he looked down at his former comrade, H1-VOK. “Real early on the trigger pull there. What was that about? You gettin’ rusty?”

“R-r-rematch?” The droid stuttered, voice now rugged and human-like with an accent not unlike Rask’s. “I t-think J-Jak messed with my s-servos. Barely operating at 75% capacity these days.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Jak alright,” Rask sighed. He knew just how paranoid old Brassteeth was; he had a ragged blaster scar on his stomach to prove it. The former gang leader likely tampered with H1’s logic center to make him slower, give himself the upper hand if the droid ever felt like it was time to make a change in leadership. 20 years ago, H1 would have punched five holes in Rask before he could even blink, and the Marshal hadn’t gotten any faster since then. He’d just been lucky.

“Tell me where he is,” Rask said coolly, now drawing his heavy blaster. He had little love for droids these days, and H1 was no exception. A CIS-built assassin model that Jak pulled off the assembly line and upgraded with a new personality matrix. A facsimile of Voss Wren, famous Outer Rim frontiersman with a love for liberty and hatred of droids. Perfect for killing Confederacy forces on the outskirts of the galaxy. Also conveniently at Jak’s beck and call. Rask remembered the powerful droid picking him up like a child and tossing him from their stolen ship after Jak shot him.

“Why sh-should I?” H1 replied as he clawed for the dropped blaster a foot away, his attempts growing more feeble as coolant leaked from his inner workings and mingled with spilled liquor and broken glass on the floor to create a foul paste.

“I’ll do ye a favor. You tell me, and I shoot you dead. Right here and now,” Rask said, leveling his heavy blaster at the droid’s head.

“That’s not much of a d-deal,” the failing mechanical voice replied.

“Or I let you live. Throw a restraining bolt on ye. Drag your sorry frame back to the Confederacy. Let’em poke around inside, pull out that fancy personality of yours and drum you back into service. I’m sure they’ve missed you sorely. How’s that sound?” Rask asked, already knowing the answer.

The droid stopped pawing for the blaster and slowly swiveled its head round to stare down Rask’s gun barrel. “Sounds like sh-shit. But it looks like I don’t h-have a choice, do I?”

“Always a choice, my friend. Like when you chose to kill all them people. Or when you left me for dead.”

“I d-don’t know where Jak is. Haven’t seen hi-him in years since he cut me loose.”

Rask pulled a restraining bolt from his utility belt.

“B-but I know w-where to find Zi’Aii.”

Rask paused. “Let’s hear it.”

“She's here. On Mandalore. She’s some hotshot diplomat f-for Ryloth’s Confederacy faction. H-here for the Founding.”

Rask let out a bitter laugh. Zi’Aii, the ever-faithful Republic saboteur, now with the CIS. He wasn’t too surprised. Fortunate she was on Mandalore though. “That didn’t take much to pull from ye. After all Zi’Aii done for you?”

“I’d rather d-die than l-live as a slave. Not like you, Marshal. Even when you rode with us, you never kn-knew what it meant to really live free.”

“Ah, you’re just a droid. You ain’t livin’ at all.”

He fired a single shot into the droid’s central processing unit. H1’s head jerked once and there was a great pneumatic hiss, a killing machine’s death rattle. Its yellow eyes dimmed like dying candles until there was nothing left in them but Rask's reflection.

He could have pumped the droid for more information. Could have asked why he was shacked up on Mandalore, how he knew about Zi’Aii, why he stopped pirating ships and started pouring drinks. But frankly, Rask could intuit most of that out, and he was sick of talking to the droid anyways. Best guess? Bounty got too high on his metal head, so H1 reached out to Zi’Aii to help him lay low. She grafted the protocol droid carapace over his hull and he bought this dingy cantina as a cover. Zi’Aii always had a soft spot for droids. Organics, not so much.

Rask looked over the bar as he broke open his pistol and pulled two spent power cells from their chambers, replacing them with fresh ones from his belt. “You take a hit there, friend?”

“Ever heard of beskar? It’ll take more than some holdout blaster to get through this,” The clone coughed as he stood up, patting his armor. There was a fresh scorch mark on his breastplate under which lay his heart.

“You Mandos got stones, I give ye that,” Rask said with a chuckle, shaking his head.

“How’d you know that was your man?”

“Oh, I deduced it. When he shot ye. But that’s them alright. Metal bastard’s been piratin’ shipping lanes the past eight years. Blowin’ unarmed ships full of holes and crawlin’ onboard to loot what’s left after everyone’s either spaced or suffocated.”

“Sounds like you knew them.”

“If one can ever know a droid, then, yeah, I known him. Used to run together in the 86th Irregulars fightin’ Seps on the Rim. Things took a turn, and now here we are.”

Rask looked down at the shattered remnants of his old comrade-in-arms. He thought of all the droids they’d scrapped together. All the Separatist ships raided. All the innocent people killed. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into the flesh of his palms.

“Empire placed a hefty bounty on’em, alive, after he killed some diplomat of theirs. Number’s probably dropped since he’s been layin’ low. You turn this scrap heap in though, might just get somethin’ for your trouble. Enough to polish that armor of yours, anyways. I don’t want nothin’ to do with it.”

The clone laughed as he returned to his place at the bar like nothing happened. “Getting shot’s no trouble for me, but I appreciate it, Marshal.”

Rask looked around the cantina. The patrons with less grit, mostly tourists, lit out with the gunfire, leaving him with a smaller crowd mostly of armored Mandalorians. Regulars, probably. All finally relaxing their grip on blasters and returning to their drinks. They looked relieved the riff-raff had cleared out. The Twi’lek singer started singing again, a more downbeat song now. The band hesitantly followed her lead.

“‘Nother round? Looks like I’m tendin’ bar now, and drinks are on the house. This swill’s growin’ on me,” Rask said with a wry grin as he picked up an unshattered and shimmering bottle from the ground. The clone chuckled and nodded, pushing his cup forward.
Itxaro woke in the dim metallic confines of her cramped quarter. She wasn't sure if the throbbing in her head was the Jotunheim's humming life support systems struggling to circulate stale recycled air, or a consequence of the previous day's indulgences. As she sat up, the engineer realized it was the latter. Itxaro let out a stifled groan as she slowly swung her body from the cot and rubbed her temples, as if so simple an act would override any biological rejection of alien hooch. No good.

Thankfully, she'd had some small amount of foresight before crashing the previous night. Her gear was all packed, a glass of water by her nightstand, and a battery of pills. Electrolytes, NSAIDs, and whatever else she could grab from the infirmary that wasn't locked up. She downed them all in one go and carried out her morning stretches, as ordered by Dr. Feng, to increase her injured leg's mobility. Itxaro made it halfway through this painful routine before an idea came to her. "Eh, fuck this."



Itxaro stepped out of the Jotunheim's hanger bay and into the alien sun, for what she realized might be the last time in a while. Despite her leg, there was a lightness to her gait that she hadn't felt in some time. Her chest swelled with excitement, and she felt like a child again, going on some grand adventure across the USASR with her parents. She wondered if this was how Columbus and his crew felt upon arriving in the so-called "New World" before they set forth. Itxaro shut the thought out of her mind. She was finally unshackled from the Jotunheim's metal carcass and let loose onto this strange and alien planet, by captain's orders no less. She could work in the field when possible using her datapad, transmitting information to the engineering crew staying behind, but she would spend more time simply familiarizing herself with the ship's FTL system, and how to diagnose its failure. No easy task.

Among the throng of humans and aliens around the Jotunheim she spotted Kolvar tending to some wounded crewmembers. "Morning Ker-wait, Kolvar. Right? How are we feeling today? That Glen booze is no joke," Itxaro called out as she walked over. She watched over his shoulder on the tips of her toes with wide eyes as he weaved intricate patterns in the air with his claws, tracing some strange glyphs, and watched as torn and battered flesh knitted itself back together as if in a timelapse.

"Wow," Itxaro said dumbly, at a loss for words. She rolled up her pantleg, revealing the stitches running across her lower thigh where a stray round had grazed the tender flesh there. The inflammation was greatly reduced, but far from healed. "Any chance I can cut in line? Looks like I'm going to be doing a little walking, unless Silbermine feels like giving me a ride."
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