Mwa-ha-ha-ha! Vette has been doing her own thing there, while the Sith was busy with Mala this is so hilareously in character! Okay, now I have to wonder if Mal gets promoted or demoted... I am complete ignoramus in the military titles! Thanks for the laugh!

To answer your question yes, it's a promotion. Captain is higher than Lieutenant in most armed forces. It is in the Marine Corps.

@Alaurin:

That was before that damned Jedi killed his groove.

I have no idea why this line in particular made me giggle so much, but it did. I couldn't help but picture Jaxzin nursing a drink in the bar, looking miserable, blaming the Jedi for bringing down the voodoo.

@Alauran- Oh dear, whatever shall Jax do? Not every woman he looks at falls instantly into his arms! The horror!

As for your piece, I've really enjoyed this series on that first Republic FP. I loved seeing everyone come together despite such varying backgrounds and personalities. I also like how you offered different POV's throughout the different pieces. Nicely done!

@sthrift:

Is it me or did it get warm in here? Never mind, it's just Alaurin writing another story. I snickered all the way through that one.

@DomiSotto:

@Alaurin

Your story kept me smiling. I am in complete agreement that Jedi should appear both titillating and a touch off putting as romantic possibilities. Great read for a Friday morning for me! I liked Smuggler's line a lot, quite in character!

Thank you for the comment as well.

@Alaurin - we've just finished Chapter 2 on our Jedi, and I kept thinking about your story all the way through my guest appearance in my husband's JK wrap-up sequence. Appreciated your story even more I feel that it's Doc who is JK romance interest, with Rusk and Scourge on the team. Oh, well. Cheers!

@Charmedseed:

@alaurin: *fans self*

@LaxKnight: I like this female version of Quinn and can totally picture that reaction in the beginning.....very appropriate for the uptight, number crunching companion.

@alaurin What have I done?! I unleashed Zeltrons upon the world! In other news that was a pretty good story. I imagine it would be working with a Jedi. The smuggler Jax may be smooth but I imagine the Jedi gets most of the fame. And adoration. And quite possibly the women. However the thing with Jedi is when it goes to women, they can't go the whole 9 yards. Points to Jax! It was very enjoyable to read. Every time I heard mojo all I could think of was Austin Powers. Yeah baby!

Aric started humming to the radio as he shampooed a second time, enjoying the feeling of a long, hot, much needed shower. Lieutenant Varlok sent him to the ship to start getting it ready for takeoff while he stayed behind to help their newest crewmember pack her things. Aric was more than fine with that despite the fact he’d miss seeing his CO’s awkward attempts at conversation with the young blonde medic he was smitten with. To say that the Lieutenant wasn’t good with females was a gross understatement. The level headed Zabrak turned into a shy, stuttering mess whenever Sergeant Dorne was in the room. Something that amused Aric after all the ribbing he took for getting tongue tied over Captain Roark’s sister back on Carrick station. It wasn’t my fault…….Jedi aren’t supposed to look like that!

After he finally finished scrubbing the stench of Taris out of his fur, Aric got out of the shower only to realize there were no towels in the cabinet save for a couple of small hand towels. Growling, he grabbed one and started drying off as best he could. It was soaked quickly so he snatched the second one and headed out the door.

“SeeTwo!” he bellowed as he left the fresher while trying to dry his face with the remaining towel, “Where’s all the kriffing towels?!” A low whistle followed by a giggle froze him in place. He turned his head sharply toward the noise and his eyes went wide with shock as he spotted familiar tall, yellow furred Cathar Jedi standing in the doorway to the crew quarters, a red headed Human standing next to her, giggling. He quickly clutched the small hand towel in to cover his private area as that bright blue gaze boldly appraised him. Another noise caught his attention and he turned to see the rest of them.

“Oh, dear,” Elara gasped from the doorway to the med bay, quickly averting her eyes.

“And you think I have no modesty, Zev,” Jax snickered as he and Corso set down a huge trunk.

“Honestly Jax,” Zev grinned, setting a smaller trunk on the one Jax and Corso just set down, “This is the first time I’ve seen Jorgan prancing around in the buff.”

“I wasn’t prancing around……there wasn’t any kriffing towels in the fresher!” Aric growled, completely mortified and desperately trying to make that little towel cover as much as possible while the rest of them laughed, “and I wasn’t expecting a welcoming party when I got out of the shower.”

“Jax spotted me and Dorne leaving the barracks with one of her trunks so he and Corso volunteered to help us carry them to the ship,” Zev explained as the others kept laughing, “Syarra and her padawan, Kira, were with them and they grabbed the rest of her stuff so it only took us one trip.”

“Yeah, only Zev didn’t warn us we’d be getting a peep show,” Jax chuckled, bringing another round of snickers from the group.

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” Syarra teased, blatantly letting her gaze travel to where Aric was now clutching that small scrap of a towel, “And it’s nice to see you’re not compensating for anything with that massive assault cannon you haul around, Sergeant Jorgan.”

“Uh, Master,” Kira raised a brow as she bit her lip to keep from giggling, “Isn’t that a little inappropriate for you to point out?”

“She’s definitely your little sister, Jax,” Zev shook his head feeling sorry for his squad mate and tried to stifle his laughter until he realized what was playing on the radio, “Is that Kitty Lovin and the Playmates? I didn’t take you for a fan, Jorgan.”

“Hey,” Syarra flashed a rude gesture at the huge Zabrak, “I love that band!”

“There’s nothing wrong with Kitty Lovin and the Playmates, Zev,” Jax grinned, “I like ‘em too.”

“Yeah,” Corso snorted, “but that’s because you’re daydreaming about sleeping with them.”

“Maybe that’s why Jorgan was listening to them too,” Jax shrugged, not even trying to deny the fact.

“I don’t……I wasn’t…….Kark! I just put it on a station dammit!” Aric sputtered, “I didn’t pick what was playing!”

“Me thinks he doth protest too much,” Zev grinned while the rest of them lost it and even Elara started to laugh.

“Oh stars,” Syarra groaned, wiping her eyes, then doubled over laughing again when she caught the pained expression on Aric’s face, “No more……it’s starting to hurt.”

“I’m glad this amuses all of you…..now if you’ll excuse me, sir,” Aric muttered with as much dignity as he could muster, “I think I’ll go get dressed and keep to myself for the next few months. Welcome to Havoc, Sergeant Dorne. Nice to see you again Captain Roark, Corso, Master Jedi,” Aric nodded, feeling the tips of his ears burning as he clutched the hand towel tightly to his groin and turned towards the crew quarters.

“Come on, Sergeant, you’d be laughing if it was one of us,” Zev called out to the retreating Cathar, “Admit it……it’s pretty funny!”

A giggling Syarra and Kira stepped aside so Jorgan could make his escape, the former letting out another whistle as he passed her, “Now that a*s could totally tempt me to Dark side behavior.”

Kitty Lovin and the Playmates is a band that I made up and introduced in this story. I decided to use it in Jax/Zev/Dek's universe as well.

I feel a bit for poor Aric Though something tells me that it just might be a come back for that famous First Flirt with him when he checks the gear out. Thank you for sharing!

Tamen Idresh had been working in the small factory town of Ciborda for the past two months. He'd integrated swiftly into the tight-knit local community, proving he could pull his weight when he was on the job and after-hours, in the tiny local cantina. He flexed his arm slightly, noting the corded muscle tensing under his dark blue skin with a swift flicker of pride. Pulling his weight on the assembly line had done some favors to his physique. The Chiss looked over his shoulder at a slight movement. His girlfriend was still asleep in their shared bed. Another favor from Ciborda.

He pulled on his coveralls, noting the comfortable fit. They'd started stiff and unappealing when he'd first been hired on to build bombs. His expertise in fitting the caps together, no matter how sloppy the rest of the build, had gotten him the job, and the rest he'd learned. It was a fairly low-tech operation. It had to be to stay out of the Empire's sights. Still, his bombs and weapons got to the resistance somehow, and accounted for the death tolls he studied carefully each evening on his holoterminal.

He looked around his living quarters. As worker housing, it wasn't the worst he'd stayed in. It was spartan, with one restrained poster advertising a concert he'd wanted to see on a planet he'd been nowhere near at the time. The house, like the job, suited Tamen just fine. Tamen was a Chiss who'd spent more time with humans than not. He was stoic and restrained, almost painfully reserved... Until he got a drink or two in him, at which point he exploded with a strange, wry humor that surprised his coworkers. He was easy to like, and easier to talk to, since he was a fantastic listener. He gave the impression he'd slid from job to job with quiet good nature his whole life, with no particular ambitions or passions. He'd more or less fallen into dating one of the prettiest women on the line, with easy, shy charm. And Tamen Idresh was about to die in a factory explosion that'd decimate half the town. He checked his holoterminal once for the time, then took off at a slow walk, headed to work.

After that, things tumbled into place. First, he settled into his place at work, where he hauled and fitted bombs for precisely two and a half hours. Then, during his fifteen minute break, he ducked into the droid maintenance bay. Normally, no organics checked on the mess of broken and bedraggled droids. Today, there was a new lifter in the corner, its right arm twitching aimlessly. The Chiss bent over its control panel, plugging in a sequence of numbers. That took five minutes. He walked back onto the factory floor, where he finished his tea. About half an hour later, he left the building. No one saw him leave, which could be explained by the personal cloaking field in his battered coveralls.

Cipher Agent Cha'tiro'yun shucked the uniform once he'd walked out of visual range of Ciborda, letting the cloak drop. He'd carefully planted tracers in one third of the bombs he'd built. He'd heard names, places, and theories from his coworkers during their evening drinks. He'd gathered a lot of useful information about the rebellion, and enjoyed himself thoroughly with a beautiful girl. It was a pity about the tragic bomb malfunction that was going to crater half the town, but that's the sort of thing that happens in unsophisticated facilities. He checked the time again, then turned back towards Ciborda. He couldn't see the town, but he could hear the primary explosion, just a little pop. It set off two secondary explosions that tore the factory apart. It should kill everyone working inside, including poor Tamen.

He slung the coveralls over his shoulder and stretched as smoke rose into the sky. It'd been a good cover while it lasted, and he quite liked the people and his little life. Still, the enemies of the Empire couldn't be allowed to threaten its security, no matter how charming they might individually be. As he trudged towards his extraction point, he wondered vaguely what he'd be tasked with next.

Domi@ Awwww.

I cannot say I know that much about consulars (or force classes in general), or their companions, but I do love your Zenith there. And the ending is so much feels. It's a great sting.

@Alu and the bar: This was very funny, if nothing else, for how annoyed Jaxin is. And how funny that is. Characters being out of sorts are always hilarious.

@Mird: Tragically, I do not have a Deviantart. I keep thinking I should get one up... Or one of them newfangled tumblr devices I've heard so much about.

I second the motion that I really like your take on the Miraluka vision. It's very hard to write for... I don't know exactly the word I'm looking for, but straight? Flat? Broad? Something like that. Anyway, the normal hero type. They can be hard to do and keep interesting, but you did a good job!

@Lax: >:3 I do like how poor Quinn is trying to keep things under control. And I like the idea of Imperial taxes. I bet it's a lot of trouble.

@Alaurin: *blink* Images. Cannot stop laughing.

I'm gone, far away from the clank of machines and the softness of gentle eyes. I'm gone away from the deafening jerk of pain and the hot tear of fear. I'm riding a warm cushion of alcohol into a place that never was; a place where Angharad Irons isn't.

They say he wears a long coat and carries two guns now. They say he doesn't remember my name. What's left of who I was isn't worth a broken nail. For who I was, I take another sip. I used to have smooth skin, as fine and delicate as new pillowcases, with not a tear on it. I used to make my own decisions, instead of being jerked around by the beep beep of my holo and the sweet smell of credits. I used to be a dumb kid. I used to be such a dumb kid.

And now I have a blaster and a deep throated growl of a life, all tumbled over like rocks in a river. There's no walking away. I have a reputation now. I keep my word. It's all I wanted to keep. It's all I kept. It's all I have. Someday, I'll walk away from everything I have. My ship will break, my job will end, my blaster won't fire, my body will finally fail me, but if I still have my rep, at least I'll have that.

Maybe someday I'll be as good as I want to be, as I dream I should be. Maybe someday, I'll be everything I try to be. Cold, efficient... Professional and soulless. When you take the job, you finish it. You finish it when his wife throws herself in front of him, weeping. That's the contract. If you weren't willing to do it, you shouldn't have signed up for it. And I do it. I shoot the husband, but I don't shoot the wife unless someone's paying me for that. I don't always take kill contracts, but when I do, I don't go back on that, neither. And when the lady comes at me with a knife, stained with blood and tears streaming from her eyes, I sure don't kill her. I put her down if I can. I let her hire someone to sink a blade into the base of my neck, because that's how the game's played.

Your clients, sure, they can always find someone. Their credits may as well go to you. And I know damn well “principled” is another way of saying “Broke... And dead.” Some of the people in this job, they're crazy mean with killing and power. Others are crazy good, so good they can afford scruples. And some of them don't take even a little of it home with them. It's just what daddy does at work. Some people just want the freedom, because the big open galaxy's calling their name. Unless you're a mando, you don't usually take up hunting by choice. You fall into it. It's all that's left, all you can do because you're too broken-*** crazy for anything else.

And then you hunt and you run. You have good jobs. You have bad jobs. You have the job where you got hired to find a seven year old girl, eyes like deep waters, a smile like staring into the sun, and bring her on home, carving your way out of some real bad men on the way. And you have the same job, but you're too late.

I don't make friends. It's the job. In the end, everyone's just the pile of credits you can get for their head, weighed against what it'd do to your word if you made a grab for it. I run with people sometimes, I work with and for the good, the bad, but mostly people just trying to do right for themselves and theirs. Sometimes I've stared at evil, and sometimes I've seen the kind of good that rips your heart out and flattens it in front of you with its purity, but mostly, I've seen people just trying to make it.

Someday, I was going to have another life, when I was done with hunting. Hell, I used to believe that. But I've fallen into the pit now, and I can't get out. The next job, the next score, the next kolto pack, they're all calling my name. I can't let them down.

I am what I am. I can't regret that.

The IA was a very concise short, with incredibly interesting emotional split. I totally loved it! Good set up, good portrayal. The finality of it was outstanding. No miracles, no last minute saves.

With Angie, I always like delicious irony of the characters who experience regrets and sadness when they think about how they can't feel any longer. Solitude is one of those hard to capture shadows. Nice!

To blazes with you, Jenny!

Tishujen Dur gritted her teeth and roared the speeder down the dusty path. To her right, the gray ocean licked the shore, to her left the golden grass swayed in the wind, sending a myriad of fluffy seeds flying. The seeds of what used to be those wee purple flowers way back when she set her foot on Ord Mantell for the first time. The rest was pretty much the same. Well, save for the dangers of being caught in the cross-fire. Mantell is peaceful now, he’d said to her. She knew Riggs would be here, but was still glad to walk out of the Vital Stats office with his address on the datapad. She would have been even gladder if it did not come with a scathing gaze (free of charge). It was good that Riggs went to his homeworld, and not to the Unknown Regions or something. One never knew when a man could turn unpredictable. Like, she didn’t expect him walking out on her. She didn’t expect him not to turn up the next day with a sheepish grin of his. Or the week after. It was more than a month now, and she still didn’t expect any of it.

Well, a woman can turn unpredictable too. So, Tishujen rode into Brell settlement. Checked the address. Pounded on the door. Yelled: “Riggs!” a couple of times for a good measure. It was no use. The cabin was obviously empty and so was a yard full of machinery, dirt rows and green twigs. A neighbor’s door opened up a crack, revealing a well-built woman in a brown dress, apron and well-worn shoes. Some five little heads popped around the woman’s full skirts. Tishujen put on her very best smile: “Morning!” she yelled across the street, waving vigorously. “Could you---“ The woman gave Tishujen the very same scathing gaze she remembered from the Vital Stats office, backed her ample hips and her brood into the house and slammed the door shut. The rest of Brell looked uninhabited. Tishujen dropped on the single step by his door, and kicked the dirt up with the heel of her boot. More than anything else in the world she hated waiting.

“Miss?” Tishujen looked up from her feet to see a little girl’s head pocking from around the corner. Captain Dur perked up, figuring that at that age the women of Ord Mantell couldn’t have yet mastered the scathing gaze basics. “Hello,” Tishujen said cheerfully. Ain’t you supposed to talk cheerful with the kids?

“You’re Jenny, ain’t ya?” the girl asked. By the way the child tried to stay out of the line of sight from the angry matron’s windows, Tishujen guessed her for an offspring. “There’s a man calls me that,” Tishujen said, “but my name’s Tishujen. What’s yours?” The girl nodded seriously: “Maria is mine. You’d be talking ‘bout Mr. Corso, ain’t you? ‘Cause I’ve never on my life seen a spacer in our parts.” Tishujen suppressed a bubble of laughter: “Aye, I’m Mr. Corso’s friend. Do you know where he is, Maria?” The girl bit her lip, and Tishujen noted a missing tooth. She smiled ingratiatingly: “Please? I need to talk to him real bad.” The girl drew a complicated pattern in the dirt with her big toe. “I dunno, Miss. Mr. Corso, he’s real help to ma and us, because pa’s died in the war and all, and they’re all saying you ain’t no good for Mr. Corso and all.”

Now I’m a bad girl on the Galactic scale. Thanks, Riggs. “Look, I came to say sorry, and if I don’t, than Ri—Mr.Corso will never know I am… everyone deserves a chance to say sorry, you know?” The girl eyed her suspiciously. Well, couldn’t blame her for that, it was not much of an argument. “I have a sister, who’s a Jedi, and she says–“

“Wow!” Maria said, “Really?! A real Jedi?” Tishujen nodded: “Uh-huh. Real thing. A Master of the Order.” Maria’s eyes rounded: “So why ain’t you one? Something’s wrong with ya?” “Nothing’s wrong with me,” Tishujen said crossly, “I just wanted to be a Captain and fly a starship.” The girl pondered that a while. “Guess that’s nice too. I still wanna be a Jedi more.” Tishujen heard the longing and offered: “If you tell me where I can find Mr. Corso, I could ask my sister to send someone to test you.”

She was wrong about the women of Ord Mantell (among many other things). They were born with the scathing gaze. “Wait! Wait! It didn’t come out right. I… I always say the wrong thing, you know? I just… I really need to see Riggs. Mr. Corso. I flew from the Outer Rim non-stop! I haven’t slept in days! I… please, Maria?” the words tumbled out of Tishujen like an avalanche. Maria nodded knowingly: “Aye, happens to me all the time too. Ma says that’s ‘cause I have a big mouth. I don’t think it any bigger than hers. Tell ya what? Ya promise to be good and not hurt Mr. Corso, ‘cause he’d suffered enough and all?”

“On smuggler’s luck!” Tishujen swore solemnly. The child hesitated. Blazes! She might as well tell someone: “Look, I don’t know what they think Riggs suffered, but it was out of love, really, that I said I won’t marry him. ‘Cause I cared for the kind of a man he is. ‘Cause he’d never have children on me, seeing I’m a Twi’lek, and he was the sort needing two or four—“ She stopped abruptly. Good going, Captain Dur, telling that sort of thing to a child!

“Well, I dunno, Miss. There’re kids with no moms or dads aplenty now… “ Maria’s eyes watered. Tishujen outdid herself now! And that was exactly the thing Riggs said before he’d walked out. This girl-child could see it, why not her? Then again, would it change anything? “If it’s not this, it would be another thing, wouldn’t it, Jenny?” Riggs told her instead of arguing.

“Too bad I’m not smart like you, Maria,” Tishujen sighed, defeated. That admission did it somehow. “He’s hunting, Miss Tishujen,” Maria said, pointing her thumb behind her. “In the cliffs to the west. Just follow the trail, and try to make noise and such, so Mr. Corso don’t shot ya by mistake.” Tishujen did not confide that she wasn’t altogether sure Riggs would not take a careful aim.

Tishujen spotted Riggs by the base of the cliffs, tying a large animal to the saddle of the speeder. Suddenly, all need for haste went out of her. She stood and stared. And would have turned away if he did not look up. She put the gear in reverse and cursed under her breath. How exceedingly stupid would it be to go all the way to Mantell and leave without saying her piece? Still, it took calling herself a craven wombat rat to get moving. Tishujen dropped the speeder down the cliff face, hoping that the hoovers would cushion the mad dive. Riggs didn’t say a word, as the dust settled of her fall settled around him. Funny, she’d never noticed a few strands of silver in his dark hair. Was it new? No matter. It was now or never.

“Riggs,” Tishujen said hurriedly, “Listen up. I had time to think things over, and here’s what I’m down to. I’m, well, pledging for a lack of any better word. Ain’t another man in the Galaxy I want, just you. That’s not sain’ at all I expect you to do anything ‘bout it. You do what you want. I’m in agreement to it.”

Riggs breathed out and run his fingers through his hair. Then took a sip from a flask. “Water,” he muttered at her suspicious glance. Then he shook his head in disbelief. “Ouf, Jenny, ain’t you always falling out of the sky on my head like that!” He took another sip. “Well, I reckon I got to save the Galaxy, ‘cause it stands no chance, what with you foreswearing men. But we’re going to do it the right way. Deal?”

“Deal,” Tishujen said, even though she didn’t like a twinkle in his dark-blue eyes. In for a credit, in for a treasure horde.

She followed Riggs speeder back to Brell. There, Riggs passed his own house and led her right to the unfriendly matron’s doors. Tishujen didn’t have a chance to say anything, because the doors flew open (which was just as bad as being slammed into her face before if you thought of it), and the lady of the house stepped out, hands on hips.

“Corso Riggs, tell me ye didn’t! Don’t ye dare come running back to this no good tramp, the moment she whistled!”

Riggs lifted his palm. “Hold there, Beatrice, you’re better woman than that. And my Jenny’s no tramp, she’s just confused in many ways. Grew up in a big city, and all.”

Tishujen got a distinct feeling that Beatrice was about to slam the door (again!), but Riggs slipped the boot in, and kept on: “Is that the way to treat me, Beatrice? I come to you with a favor to ask, out of friendship with your Franco, may he rest with the Force, and here you’re all cross and near close your door to me.“

“Don’t ye dare bring my Franco into that, Corso Riggs! If he’d been here, he’d chase that woman away afore she got her claws into ye again, and thump ye well and hard on the head! No matter if ye’re a hero or not.” Beatrice was on the roll. She’s probably had the most entertaining morning of her life. Tishujen pondered making their exit with as much dignity as was left to them. But Riggs stood stubborn.

“See here, Beatrice, I need you to stand a witness for Jenny.” Tishujen had no clue what in blazes Riggs wanted.

“Are ye mad? Are suggestin’ I lie to the Major on your behalf?” Beatrice obviously knew very well what Riggs had in mind. Some quaint Mantell custom no doubt.

“Am not,” Riggs said. “Jenny wants to do it proper, and seein’ she has no family, she’d have to prove herself, and I know no better woman than you, Beatrice, to take her in as a ward. And when you’re convinced, then in a good faith you can stand witness to the Major that Jenny’ll make me an honest wife.”

Tishujen managed a weak smile. She did want to marry Riggs as recently as this very morning. She didn’t count on Beatrice having a say in it. Blazes, she didn’t even know of Beatrice’s existence back then. Beatrice eyed her suspiciously, probably thinking along the same lines. Apart of her knowing plenty about Tishujen, that is, and none of it favorable. There were worlds were Captain Dur was sang as a hero, but Ord Mantell wasn’t one of that number.

“That’s true? Ye came here to marry our Corso?” Beatrice asked curiously. “Aye,” Tishujen chocked up on the word.

“Well, I tell ye what, Corso Riggs. I’ll take her in, and I’ll do what I must on a condition ye make this promise to me. If she runs off before I’m satisfied, ye put her out of your head for good, and marry an honest woman. How’s that?”

Riggs nodded: “Fair enough. Thanks, Beatrice.” Tishujen was pretty sure she’d heard Beatrice call him a damnable fool under her breath. She poked him in the chest with her finger. “And don’t ye think ye can go moping ‘bout my property too, Corso Riggs. It’s women’s business now.” Tishujen threw the last panicked glance at Riggs, but he only waved her to follow Beatrice into the house.

First thing Beatrice did, was ask Tishujen to change into one of her dresses. Tishujen looked over her jacket and pants. “What’s wrong with that?” she’d asked. “Ever weeded a patch in those? At high noon?” Beatrice pointed at her greaves. “No,” Tishujen admitted. “Then do as I say, and not another argument out of ye. Oh, and take that one off too,” she pointed at Tishujen’s headband, “no need to get it caught on the branches. Go change and I’ll send Maria to show ye round. Ye probably don’t know a weed from ye own toes, Miss Jenny.”

All of Beatrice’s dresses came in the same size, cut and a shade of brown. There the resemblance to a Jedi robes ended. The robes had mystique that the dresses utterly lacked. Aprons were a good thing though. They kept the skirts from flopping about too much. By the end of the day Tishujen had to admit that Beatrice was right – dresses were comfortable for all sorts of things she was put to doing. Like weeding.

Maria giggled when she discovered that Miss Jenny was patently unable to tell the difference between the beneficial greenery to pamper and the obnoxious greenery to mercilessly destroy. Tishujen suspected that the wicked child tricked her into squishing bugs, slugs and caterpillars with her fingers, until Mrs. Beatrice solemnly confirmed it was expected. Tishujen wondered how Flashy would do in the pest wars, but she agreed to give the squeezing method a try through the gritted teeth. And on that happy note ended her first day as a ward in Mrs. Beatrice Donati’s household.

In eight days’ time, Captain Tishujen Dur had become passable at weeding, handy at mucking, and indispensable at pounding dough into submission. Just when she was sure Mrs. Beatrice can’t throw anything she can’t handle her way, the matron grabbed her by the sleeve when she was about to make her getaway to the loft after supper. “Need to show ye how to dance our way, I suppose,” the woman said gruffly.

Tishujen straightened up, narrowed her eyes and announced with a proud determination: “I might be a Twi’lek, but I dance for no one!”

“Suit yerself, Miss Jenny,” Mrs. Beatrice shrugged. “There’d be plenty of women ‘round to dance with Corso Riggs, even at his own wedding.” Tishujen bit her lip. True, the Ord Mantell was crawling with men while the separatists were on the attack, but now, with the war raging elsewhere in the Galaxy, Mantell was left to women, children and the elderly. Tishujen gritted her teeth. She was doing it a lot lately. If she continued it with the same enthusiasm and frequency, she’d be toothless in no time. “Teach me,” Tishujen said resolutely. Just like that, another thing she swore she’d never do….

On the twenty-third day, judging by the notches she made in the loft above her mattress, Tishujen was digging a new row in the yard, when she’d heard her full name called by a familiar voice. She lifted her head to see her adopted mother, flanked by the flower of Zabrack military (both of her step-brothers and her step-father). And, slightly apart from the rest of the Durs, there was Quinly, hands resting on the hilt of the lightsaber. Little Maria watched Master Dur with her mouth ajar and a hungry adoration in her eyes. Tishujen’s adopted family looked as pretty as a propaganda picture for the Empire planets. Not a wrinkle on the men’s uniforms, not a speck on the impeccably elegant dresses of the women. And none of them at all concerned about hugging her (a handful of coarse brown fabric, mud, shovel and all). It cheered Tishujen some, and yet when they went back to the village to see about the accommodations, Tishujen mopped her brow, knowing from past experience that she’d smeared dirt all over her forehead and muttered: “I’ll kill you, Corso Riggs. I’ll marry you first, then I’ll kill you! I’ll be a merry widow, and would never entertain a fool idea of marrying a man!” Then she pushed the shovel back into the unyielding patch of dirt. Surely, they have some sort of agricultural machinery out here on Ord Mantell?

On the thirtieth day Tishujen stood in front of the mirror, in a silvery-gray dress her mother brought. It chastely covered her from chin to toe. She would have put her headband back on, but Maria brought in a chain of bright yellow flowers, and Tishujen didn’t have the heart to refuse it. Tishujen made a double-take. She looked prettier than when she was wearing a shapeless brown dress, and being clean was nice. Still, the woman looking back at her wasn’t at all like Captain Tishujen Dur. And she was out of time to do anything about it before the Major was to see her. To get her wed, if he would. In the presence of half the population of Brell Settlement, like as not.

It wasn’t not half of Brell population.

The entire population of Brell, and their many, many, many distant cousins, friends and acquaintances turned out for the event. As well as the visitors who had no business at all being there. They had to clear out the chairs from the Hall. And open the windows, so that the crowd outside won’t miss out on her nuptials, should it actually take place. It was up to her witness now. Tishujen pushed the yellow petals out of her eyes and watched Mrs. Beatrice walk up to the Major. She was wearing a bright red dress Tishujen would have never imagined she’d possessed. The woman obviously enjoyed all the attention. She waved at some, smiled at the others, and frowned thoughtfully at Tishujen. Then she turned to the Major, pointed an accusing finger at her ward and said:

“The woman Tishujen Dur, I’ve had my doubts ‘bout her from the start.”

Tishujen’s heart sank.

“She was my ward, and lived under my roof for a month, made and ate my bread, and here’s my honest opinion. She’ll make Corso Riggs’ a fine wife. And that’s the end of it.” Mrs. Beatrice nodded gravely at Tishujen and went to stand by her side.

Very slowly Tishujen Dur expelled the pent up breath and finally, finally dared to look up at her one man in the Galaxy.

On the thirtieth day at Mrs. Beatrice’s household she wed Corso Riggs.

Maybe I'll sum up most of my replies and say thank you very much. I am glad you all liked Ungry. I had very much fun writing that story.

@LaxKnight: I am looking forward to see more of Mala Quinn. To quote Shryder at the end of 'Running Behind': "This will be interesting."

'Rites Of Passage': I liked the doubts that crept up on Snipes. I can see that happen very easily in such an scenario no matter how confident somebody is.

'Taxes?': I didn't see the end coming. It made me laugh. But honestly, ditching Vette? He earned it

@Kitar: Now that's a nice way to get rid of a customs agent, and all involved parties will be happy afterwards.

@DomiSotto: That was a beautiful story about Zenith. The way Quinly deals with him is very fitting for a JC. It's nice how she sees the good heart inside of him.

'Miss Jenny's Wedding Day': She 'suffered' these 30 days, she must really be in love with Corso. I guess it would be a good thing to get a little insight in the Ord Mantell ways before marrying Corso. Really enjoyed reading the story.

@alaurin: Just a random thought, but I guess this Zeltron barkeeper has some stories to tell...

She seems to be the perfect cure for a hurt confidence.

And maybe we could bribe Elara to invent a paragraph that limits the size of towels.

@Mirdthestrill: Trying to rescue the prisoners is a nice addition to the story. I like details like T7 having problems with the drop.

@Celwinn: Welcome to the thread!

@AKHadeed: I like the way you use the coverall in your first story. At first stiff and unappealing, then comfortable, and shed at the end, a great symbol for the cover identity.

I smell a tragic background story somewhere behind the second one. Being a bounty hunter puts you somewhere in the middle between the 'good' and the 'bad' people. To do your job you can't actually belong to any of these groups. I think that is not easy to deal with, no matter if you'd rather want to be one of the good or one of the bad people.

“Hey, Mako!”

“Hey, hunter!”

Odd, Mako looked up only briefly without really looking Thorns in the eyes, then fidgeted nervously with her datapad. Something was wrong. Was this still about Kaliyo? No, he didn’t think so. He had not been here to make any other mistakes, his job had gone well, he had already collected the bounty.

“Anything wrong?”

“No, nothing.” She still didn’t look at him.

He retrieved his canteen, put his backpack down in a corner of the room, and took a seat in the chair next to her.

“Have you found out who’s got Nemro’s sponsorship token?”

“Yes.” She took a deep breath, turned and finally looked at him. “I’ll tell you everything, but I’ve got a price.”

Now, that took him by surprise. “What?” Dumbfounded he leaned forward, forgetting about the passenger he was still carrying in his jacket. “Suddenly you expect me to pay for your info?”

Mako had taken a step backward. Kark! He hadn’t meant to scare her.

From inside his jacket came a faint indignant squeal. “Ouch!” Thorns hissed. Ungry was trying to climb to the neckline, finding spots where his sharp talons cut through the fabric of the shirt into Thorns’ skin on his way.

“Is there something moving inside your jacket?” Mako asked warily.

Thorns sat back and opened his jacket. “Could we please stick to our original subject! So I got to pay for your information now? You know I can’t afford much.” That was an understatement. Braden had been the one financing the project. Thorns had scraped the last of his credits together to get to Hutta. The bounties so far had been hardly sufficient to cover his expenses here. He realized he could not take her help for granted. If she wanted payment he’d probably have to find another job. Ungry had found a comfortable position and had settled down again. Thorns hand sneaked into his jacket to stroke his ruffle. “How much do you want?”

Mako’s gaze followed his hand. “Not like you think. Braden taught me how to fight, and you know I’m great with information. Take me with you—on this hunt and whatever comes after.”

“I thought that was the plan all along!”

She still was distracted by the mystery inside his jacket. “I’m good with a blaster, and Braden was like a father to me. It’s not fair that—wait, did you just say yes?” She stared at him.

Thorns nodded. “We’re a small team, but we are a team. We did a good job so far, if you ask me.”

“Thank you, Braden was sweet, but he always treated me like a child. I’m not a child.”

He had noticed. Although she looked really young right now; and cute. Her face beamed, she could not keep her hands still, and she was literally bopping up and down.

“So thank you,” she continued, “I want to be there when we find Braden’s killer. I want that more than anything.”

Thorns got up and took her hands. “We’ll get him, promised!”

“Omised!” the little head sticking out of his jacket confirmed.

Mako recoiled. “Force! What’s that?”

“Odsdad?”

“Mako, this is Ungry. Ungry, this is Mako.”

“Ako.” Ungry tilted his little head.

“That’s a Kowakian Monkey Lizard. Where did you find him?”

“The little guy found me, or rather my lunch. Seemed to be half starved.”

“This is wonderful! If we sell him to the hutt, we won’t have any more financial problems for a while.”

“Sell him? To the hutt? You’re joking.” Thorns looked down at the little guy sticking out of his jacket. He could feel the tips of Ungry’s talons where he clung to his shirt.

“Shokin.”

“I won’t sell him and much less to the hutt!”

“At least think about it. He is cute, no doubt. But he is a Monkey Lizard. You can’t keep him.”

“What do you mean, I can’t keep him?”

“Eeepim?”

“You don’t know anything about Monkey Lizards, am I right? You didn’t even know he is one before I told you.”

“What’s there to know? He needs somebody to look after him, and that somebody isn’t going to be Nem’ro if I can help it.” Thorns realized he sounded like an obstinate child. “You see, I had to kill most of Nem’ro’s pets just a few hours ago. He won’t get Ungry! Look at the little guy. He looks at me like he were sentient.” As a boy he would have given an arm for a pet like this.

“Semi-sentient. And that’s a problem. It would be cruelty to keep him in a cage and you can’t take him with you all the time. They are said to be not trainable. How do you think this is going to work?”

“Urgh?”

“See, even Ungry sees the problem,” Mako laughed.

When Ungry joined her laughter the tension was broken.

“You’re probably right. My mother used to say I was good at finding trouble.” Thorns sighed. He took Ungry from his jacket, and the little guy immediately climbed to his shoulder.

“Seems he really likes you.” Mako reached out and stroked Ungry’s belly carefully. Ungry eyed her warily but didn’t object. Mako tapped her cybernetic implant. “I’ve been doing a bit of cursory research on the holonet. Keeping him in a cage while we’re out hunting Nem’ro’s hunter probably would get us expelled from the cantina. He’d be able to make enough noise to arouse half of Jiguuna. Maybe we could find a babysitter for him? I’ll talk to Juda. She’ll know some kids who are reliable. On my way I’ll buy a collar and a leash on the market. Oh, don’t look at me that way. I know you don’t like the idea and neither will Ungry, but he’ll have to get used to it if he wants to travel the galaxy with us. Guess we’ll need some kind of cage or transport box, too. And something to eat that’s more suitable than sandwiches. And…”

“Mako?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the best!”

She smiled at him. “While I’m underway you can check the data on the computer over there. I collected what information I could on Fa’athra’s palace. It would probably be a good idea if you knew the floor plans by heart. We have to go in there. Be sure to bring enough power packs, you’re trigger finger will get some exercise.”

Mako told him about Nem’ro’s hunter, an evil-minded Trandoshan named Rarsk. Rarsk was collecting on a bounty Fa’arthra was holding for him on a Republic scientist. The plan was to find the scientist and set a trap for Rarsk. As a bonus they’d collect a few bounties for some of the more interesting people on Fa’athra’s payroll. And then there was the mysterious bone-faced guy who had been following Mako earlier. Mako had intercepted a transmission between him and Rarsk. If those two were working together they were obviously already paying attention to him and Mako. He’d better check for anything useful among Jory’s and Braden’s equipment. He knew he was good, but he doubted this was going to be a cakewalk.

Heya, aww, thank you for the comments! Nothing warms me heart as someone saying a kind word about Zenith in my writing.

I am glad you continued with your BH story. He is not fitting a typical mold the BHs are written in, but actually meshes well with the game content, with Maco. I think if I decide to play a male BH, I would take a page from your book, and try a younger, kinder character. Hmm, you got me thinking about doing something different! Cool!

The swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace matter receded before their eyes. Stars everywhere, coming to life like a grandiose bouquet of flowers opening in a flicker, once more shining majesty in their eternal stillness.

In sight was a milky sphere, tainted with a myriad of moving specks. The arctic planet Hoth, and its skirt of space debris.

As soon as the planet stopped growing and the last stellar streaks became dots, signalling subspace travel, a soft but fast paced alarm started ringing, filling the cockpit. One you didn't hear often - the last time was when the party had been caught in a dreadnought's interdiction beam tractor.

The republican space station was on the other side of the planet - and they were not headed towards it.

"Warning - gravity unstable. Recommend flight pattern delta", said the ship's gentle automated female voice. Kenobewan smoothly pulled the lateral thrusters of the Defender so as to adapt to the planet's uncanny gravitation, and then slowly engaged the rear ones, and let the ship's algorithms determine how to best surf opposing gravity currents by herself. He also disengaged the safety latch on a big square pad on the far left of his console and pressed it. "T7 - I'm activating encrypted navcapture subsystems. Plug in and download everything."

"T7 = great astromech // Defender + T7 = improving navdata for SIS"

Focused on the approach with ever more derelict vessels ahead, the Jedi knight solemnly addressed his crew without taking his eyes from the windscreen. "My friends, in case we don't make it, T7 is the priority."

Sitting at her master's right hand, Kira took a good look at him, as if to size him up one last time. An ageless man - was he stock human? - he had white hair and beard, but his skin, a dark healthy skin, shone; it was not the skin of an old man. Blue eyes that pierced the darkness, be it the darkness of a tunnel or the darkness of a soul - always with a glint in them, that inspired them all, that inspired and renewed hope in the most battered and desperate of cornered soldiers they'd ever met. Right now these blue eyes were locked onto the targets of his attention like tracer missiles. His brow was imperceptibly frowning, yet it contrasted a lot with the open, earnest face he had sometimes. His closed mouth expressed unwavering seriousness and the cascade of his white beard made his hooded face look like a fortress. They were all in full combat gear, and his was a medium-heavy plate under a plain brown jedi robe which marked his broad shoulders. He had the luminous aura of a combat angel. She could follow him into hell.

She looked at the cold white planet, and all the shipwrecks. She stared into the space. She sighed. Okay. Time to change the mood.

"Do you ever wonder why they made these ones beep and whizz instead of just have them talk? This little guy can't speak basic and the other one just can't shut up", she remarked with a smirk, ready to enjoy C2-N2's protests.

And sure enough, a metallic voice coming from the rear of the ship started, with a melody worthy of a holoadvert : "Madam! I can assure you this droid has been equipped with the finest discretion routines! Our verbobrains monitor sentient reaction and willingness to engage in conversation with a point o o o three percent margin of error, according to the latest Cybot benchmark! Should you wish to modify the rate or amount of our speech, all you need to do is..."

"C2. Deactivate speech. Thank you. Kira... I'm trying to concentrate here", Kenobewan ordered in a voice both gentle and leaving no room for discussion, yet somehow amused.

"Yes, master."

All the while, the ginger-haired padawan had been voicing the exact same musical modulations as the protocol droid as it was recommending... only the discourse itself was a bit different: "Blah blah, yadda yadda. Ramble ramble, shiny yappy protocol droid, la la laaa.. oh, where's my "shut your trap button"? Oh, dear, oh dear, I don't have one."

Speaking of the ship's protocol droid, it had not lied when it had introduced the Jedi to his appointed vessel once upon a time on Coruscant. It was state of the art indeed. To think it was almost in mint condition when he had first stepped into it... it looked quite worn already.

Kenobewan set her on a course parallel to the ice planet's equator, precisely where it would be hardest to navigate the gravitational oddity. It was starting to feel like being struck in traffic - there were so many ghost ships and ship debris around them! Slowly orbiting the planet until the day they would finally fall prey and bury themselves in the snow forever after a brief time ablaze in the atmosphere.

"Ok, we're going in", the Jedi said. Specific coordinates had started flashing on his console. The ship plunged towards the atmosphere, where it was the thickest white. Moments later they were surrounded by impenetrable cotton, and the Defender started pitching and skidding like crazy, hammered by rolling crosswinds, several alarms beeping at the same time. After a thud and a loud "OUCH! MOTHERSPACIN' BANTHAS!" coming from the stairs as Doc hit his head hard with the thick hollow railings, everyone took a flight seat in the cockpit, fastened their belts and wrapped the emergency life support systems around their forearms. "Warning - distance and volume of terrain unfathomable, pitch uncertain" said the navcomputer. "Nice timely warning, eh?", grumbled Doc as he was trying to apply a quick patch of kolto to the bloody lump on his forehad and right cheekbone. "Bet that's why they gave you a woman's voice!" He fumbled, and saw the green sludge splatter on Kira's robe next to her ankles. She didn't notice. He grinned, despite the pain.

"Good idea, T7" said Kenobewan. As snow was piling up on the cockpit transparisteel, the little astromech droid, still connected to the ship's navcomputers, but now clenched to both the floor and the wall in a corner dedicated to his kind in emergency landings, had managed to clear the viewscreen.

"T7 = activated ship shields to ward off snow // Windscreen visibility = up 74.6 %"

Kira sighed."Oh great, we still can't see a thing, but now we can see that we can't see a thing. Isn't team work grand?"

"T7 = Hero // Kira = Annoying" the little droid tchirped back, his head rotating back and forth between looking at her and at his master.

"Well, you know what they say about all work and no play. We could use a vaca-"

All of a sudden all were knocked off of their seat reclines, stopped dead in their tracks by the safety belts, their winds knocket out of them in the process. A thunderous SNAP. It had hit from nowhere, frightfully rocking the ship. A horrible, tremendous CRUNCH, braided into the concussion, lingered in their their ears.

It was as if it had come from the ship itself.

"Whoa!", shouted Doc, coming to, "what was that?!!"

Now, wails. A series of grinding metal wails coming from her very innards wrenched their ears.

They looked at each other with puzzled faces. Kenobewan was about to tell T7 to disengage his clenches and go have a look... and then they started barrel rolling. Everything in the ship that was not fastened crashed against the ceiling, the walls, the floor, and then the ceiling again (yes, even that fine drammasian mirror Doc had bought for this blonde Duchess from Alderaan).

They all yelled, beeped, bellowed. Except for the white-bearded, dark-skinned, middle-age Jedi in the captain's seat.

"Status report!"

"Hull compromised - damage: unknown. Left engine: offline. Right engine: 96% functional. Lateral boosters: damage varies but all functional above 75%. Shields: online, full power", the voice answered, with holos of ship parts apppearing in front of the screen with aurebesh captions. Reading them was not an option, hence the vocal report.

"What's going on?? Did we get hit?!! Any incoming fire??!! EMP blast???"

"Negative. Analyzing... number of offline sensors critical. Unable to diagnose. Manual examination of hull is required."

Kenobewan closed his eyes. Breathing deeply, he let the Force flow through him, calm him, and provide a degree of intuitive certainty in the overwhelming chaos.

He veered the ship upwards and to the left.

"Master! I feel it too!" cried Kira.

The collision alarm pierced the air.

With a roar the Defender shot upwards as the blank whiteness of the blizzard was replaced by grey and white vertical streaks, in a vertiginous blur. They almost cleared the top of the mountain. The deflector shield took the brunt, and the tremendous impact sent debris of jagged rock flying like shrapnel all over the clouds.

Like a throwing dagger, the Defender was sent flying around its axis with a piercing shine. Inside its cockpit everybody was alive, even though the cacophony of a hundred alarms could make anyone wish to die.

Just as Kenobewan managed to steady his ship, most of the rock debris that had shot upwards fell in neat ballistic trajectories into the oblivion of the billowing white sea they had just emerged from. On the other side of the mountain range it was a clear, sunny day over the endless ice plains and snowy hills. They had just escaped a monster of a snowstorm - one enraged by its captivity in a narrow valley.

...

"There", suggested Kira,

"That should do", said Kenobewan.

There was a spot between a bunch of snowy hills that looked good enough to land on and to conceal the ship in, just in case.

With a puff of powdery snow, the red and white Defender landed safely, still dripping, glittering in the winter sun. A small panel slid on top of the ship and a round dish deployed and started scanning, pivoting on its axis. No signs of any settlement, fast-moving objects, communications or anything. No large animals on scans either.

Dressed in white polar clothing, the three humans walked down the ramp of the ship, followed by T7 who had been equipped with tracks and ski-like devices. Doc's face had improved dramatically, only the minutest of lumps visible on his forehead, with a patch on it. The place was thick with silence, characteristic of snowy environments. All that could be heard the soft, fuzzy creaking sound of their steps in the snow, and the occasional heat sink venting heat, blurring the air above it. The powdery snow was two feet deep and it was not easy to walk in. Both Jedi started leaping gracefully instead. They all eyed the ship, doing their best to notice any detail. No blaster impacts alright. That is, no new blaster impacts, and nothing large, outlandish enough to warrant putting a whole engine out of commission. Both the giants exhausts seemed fine.

"Awww, the cannons are fubar!" hollered Doc. Not only had the starboard shoulder of the ship been badly dented, but the twin laser cannons mounted on it were hopelessely bent inwards, as if to fire parallel to the cockpit's windscreen - if anyone was foolish enough to try and fire them. Even with full shields on, the impact with the rock had transfered tons of kinetic energy inwards. Doc shuddered at the idea of what would have happened had the shields failed them too. He was doing his absolute best to avoid thinking that this cold barren place would be the end for old Doc - never to be seen again, buried under millenia worth of snow, forgotten by the galaxy. Only one fact stood between him and utter desperation. The very one thing he liked to taunt droves of imperial troopers with, when, in disbelief, they inevitably fell like flies: "Did you not notice my jedi friend???"

Moments before that hell of a crash, way before the ship's helpless sensors had warned them, too late, of imminent collision, he had seen his jedi friend close his eyes - while flying a ship, mind you, in zero visibility, with all instruments down - and calmly follow who knows what instinct towards salvation. The one way out, and they had taken it. And here they were, walking, unharmed, breathing, pondering, cussing.

Pr. Archiban Kimble had seen it all. He'd seen sages of the Jedi Order close wounds no amount of kolto or bacta would ever close, with their bare hands, emitting blinding light. He'd seen people resist poisoning that would have killed a trandoshan. He'd seen mere padawans batting blaster shots fired at them with their lightsabers. But to have flaming mountains warn you of their presence??? He'd read many a scientific theory of what the Force was, but once you'd seen its hand at work, nothing barely compared to the experience of it. Take all the hypotheses you want and just scrap them. The logical mind alone was out of its depth in some realms.

"But hey, I'm the one who gets to have all the fun, sipping Corellian brandy at a party with a Zeltronette on one side and a Twilekette on the other!" he thought to himself. "Plus, I don't wear a robe, for phrik's sake. Especially not on top of cortosis armor."

Kenobewan leapt on top of the ship, to see the top of the engines, while T7 scanned them underneath. Kira leapt along.

"I can see why the SIS wanted us to give this a shot. A Forcedeaf would be toast. What am I saying? A normal Jedi would be toast."

"Kira..."

"I know, sorry boss. I shall not call non-force users Forcedeafs. I shall not call non-force users Forcedeafs. I'll order my datapad to write it 20 million times... okay, it's just that I am officially freaked out. For all I know if another such blizzard engulfs us while we're in glorified recon, we could lose the other engine and it's game over for good ol'Kira and her Master as we can't call for help..."

"Trust in the Force, my zany apprentice. It has taken us this far."

She opened her mouth in surprise, with a "oh no you didn't" expression, blushing a bit. "I wish you'd stopped calling me that!" she said. He too could be tongue-in-cheek. He smiled. Knowing he could find it in himself to take some of the whole situation lightly, she felt relieved right away. It was soothing. Plus... she liked when he stopped looking at things with eagle eyes - robots, Sith, asteroids - to take a moment to look at her. Those blue eyes... the expression in those deep blue eyes.

"I... I think I love you"

She was about to say it. She could have said it. She was dying to say it.

Of course, a series of overeager beeps and tchirps had to interrupt, just then and there.

"T7 = scanned hull = Durasteel molecules = crunched // Hull has shrunk"

"What??!!" exclaimed the Jedi knight, in unison with the other two.

"Durasteel hull = molecular patterns characteristic of thermal shock"

"I thought Durasteel could take anything you throw at it, including extreme temperature!", a dumbfounded Kenobewan shot back, overlooking the droid from the flat area between the starship's oversized exhausts and the port side escape pod. T7's tracks had drawn neat, orderly trenches in the snow.

"Extreme temperature = yes = constant // But thermal shock = going from one extreme to the other too fast = hull molecules have shrunk = hull itself has shrunk." The beeps were frantic.

"You're right T7, it is strained alright here... oh my! It's burst open right around the engine!", the white-bearded Jedi exclaimed, looking at the juncture between the engines and the superstructure. There was a burnt patch of exposed components there, with the durasteel plating connecting the two parts still fixed on both, but ripped apart in the middle like a mere sheet of paper, strangely wrinkled. Among the burnt parts was a large sheathing filled with, among other things, busted convector cables.

"We should never have flown straight from the Dune Sea to this place", said Kenobewan, irked at his own ignorance ; "The ship was practically melting over there. I guess it did not cool in hyperspace. Blast the SIS and their last-minute requests!"

"Yup. Newsflash!" Doc quipped, mimicking a headlines' holorectangle with his hands, "Infinite Dessication Desert claims Five more victims, 15 000 parsecs away!"

"Yeah... how bout "Imperial Intelligence jubilant as SIS kills five suckers in stoopid experiment", Kira added with her trademark smirk, borrowing Doc's gesture, and eager to brush off the feelings of a moment before.

Kenobewan tried to keep a straight face... and failed miserably. His crew kept their spirits up no matter what, and that mattered more than anything in the world. The trio's giggles escalated into an all-out burst of laughter. A bubble of joy on this sorry planet. Even an overjoyed T7 gave it a try, all the while drawing "8s" in the snow around his masters in some kind of victory dance:

"Doc + Kira = break the ice on Hoth // T7 = crafted a pun"

"Well. Let's take off while we can and get repairs in the space station. The SIS idea to scout a backdoor into Hoth for them to land on the planet away from prying eyes... even without hulls busting open, it would take gree technology to navigate these mad gravitational currents. I guess we'll have to stick with docking at the station, and keep grabbing shuttles to the one region where gravitation is not rabid-Gundark insane. And so will the Imps."

A collective sigh of organic and mechanical relief was let out. They even heard a muffled "Thank the Maker!" from inside the ship. An overjoyed C2 had actually overriden his (now irrelevant) order to deactivate speech, and he would feel guilty about it for quite some time.

"Aaah, I'm so going to enjoy a warm bath on the fleet!" proclaimed Doc as he disappeared into the ship without one last glance at the polar scenery. "And Tionese Sauté!" As his footsteps progressed, he was less and less audible. "With Tarulan Wine!" His voice was but a faint impression by the time it went "Aaaaaauuugh!!! My mirror!!!!!!!"

T7 was climbing up the ramp, but he climbed down and gave the durasteel one last scan. He made excited little beeps. "Durasteel plating bent out of shape = needs repairs or replacing depending on parts = thorough assessment necessary // But durasteel = quenched = increase in sturdiness = interesting"

Taking in the purity of the air, the magnificence of the natural landscape, basking in the Force that had once more laid its protective mantle on their party, Kira and Kenobewan were the last to remain outside, almost knee-deep in the snow.

"Er... Boss", Kira said as they were about to go back into the ship.

Kenobewan turned around, half expecting her to say something he wasn't certain he was prepared to hear.

"Remember on our first time here, how I said that if you mashed Hoth together with Tatooine, maybe it would make a decent planet with nice weather?”

He chuckled. "Yes. Good one."

"Well... let's don't."

He offered a warm laugh this time. He looked at her, beautiful as always, standing straight and slender in an almost military stance, with her arms in her back, smiling, her fiery orange hair providing one tiny speck of life in this monochromatic landscape. "Let's go, my inventive padawan". He turned to board the ship.

"Boss?"

"Yes?", turning once more.

She plastered him in the face with the mother of all snowballs.

"Unless we can bring some of those over there, that is!"

Pandemonium ensued... pandemonium with many a force leap, that is.

The beginning was influenced by Osetto's Among the Stars (Torrid Squadron), among other things his TESSA female computer, which also reminded of Shyrka in a great animated series of my childhood, Ulysses 31. Though you also find that element at the beginning of KOTOR 2 (best intro ever!), or the countdown to self-destruct of the Nostromo in the very first Alien movie. Was definitely influenced by Osetto anyways lol.

Crash-landing! Yes, yes, yes! Missed those after KOTOR2, because you are right, KOTOR2 had tons of those!!! And, the game of snowballs in the end was charming. Kira's feelings are very authentic, and she is captured well. She is a great character in the game, very real, and shines in your story!

@alaurin, that's a funny story. Felt sympathy for Jorgan even though it's really hard.

@AKHadeed your agent story was brilliant, what I imagine an agent to be, and I love Ang's inner dialog.

@DomiSotto I loved the whole trial Tishujen had to go through to marry Corso. Great idea.

@frauzet Got to say, I was surprised to when Mako asked for payment. I really hope they don't keep Ungry in a cage. I imagine he could be useful to them.

@BenduKundalini That debris field bit reminded me of a mix of Episode V asteroid field and Serenity when they were flying through the Reaver zone. The metal shrink thing actually made since. Dialog was great but best line: T7 = crafted a pun

@Alaurin: I saw this on Tumblr and it still makes me giggle. Assult cannon. *snicker*

@alaurin - Dark side behavior. Funny stuff.

DYING. Reading while in class and giggling like mad, got weird looks from all my students. Oh, some days how I wish I was teaching high school...

@DomiSotto: I got to give Jenny credit.....I wouldn't have lasted 30 days with Beatrice! She must really love Corso a lot to put herself through that!

@ Alaurin: I feel a bit for poor Aric Though something tells me that it just might be a come back for that famous First Flirt with him when he checks the gear out. Thank you for sharing!

@AKHadeed: That was a very insightful introduction to your IA. It shows he's already been hardened to be able to live, work, and even love among people he's going to destroy, then simply move on to the next assignment. Nicely done and it will be interesting to see more of this guy!

@Alu and the bar: This was very funny, if nothing else, for how annoyed Jaxin is. And how funny that is. Characters being out of sorts are always hilarious.

@Alaurin: *blink* Images. Cannot stop laughing.

@frauzet: Awwww, Ungry is cute and Mako is definitely the best! I have to agree with Thorns about selling him to the Hutt…..

@alaurin: Just a random thought, but I guess this Zeltron barkeeper has some stories to tell...

She seems to be the perfect cure for a hurt confidence.

And maybe we could bribe Elara to invent a paragraph that limits the size of towels.

@BenduKundalini: Yay! That was great! I’m glad they found a way to enjoy Hoth a little because I feel cold every time I take a character to that planet! Also, I have to agree with Kira’s assessment of C2!

@LaxKnight: I have done that before and there are no words for how frustrating that feels…..well, there are and those are what I’m usually yelling when I do that!

@alaurin, that's a funny story. Felt sympathy for Jorgan even though it's really hard.

“Come on, Lauren,” a loud male voice bellowed, “We don’t got all day here and you’re not quitting! Also, keep in mind, the longer you take, the more people that show up to see you…….and you don’t exactly look your best right now.”

Seventeen year old Bella glared over her shoulder at the Phys Ed teacher as she struggled to get a foothold. Resigned that the stubborn bastard was going to make her finish, she continued to slowly climb towards the platform, thankful this was the last day of school and she’d never have to deal with her awful Phys Ed class ever again. She could hear a couple of boys whistling at her from below, certain they were getting a nice view. Not that she minded the attention, Bella loved boys and they loved her. However, Mr. Muir was right, being clad in sweaty gym clothes wasn’t how she preferred to be seen.

“That’s enough from you boys……as for you, Miss Lauren, keep it up,” Mr. Muir snickered, enjoying that the snarky, highly popular teenager was being humbled a little, “You might actually pass your PE final!”

Bella bit back a scathing retort as she continued her slow climb. “This is so stupid,” she muttered passing the halfway point, “Seriously, when would I ever need to scale a wall anyways?!”

***roughly 10 years later…….

“Come on, Captain,” Corso called out from a couple of feet below, “We’re almost there.”

“I can’t believe I agreed to do this run in the first place,” Bella grunted, climbing as fast as she could, seething as another fingernail broke off, “I just knew it wasn’t legit and kark it all, I just got this manicure! Family or not, your cousin’s going to answer to me and her ‘boyfriend’……..his nuts are totally going in his throat!”

“You know I hate when you do that, sweetheart,” Corso grimaced, closing the distance between them to cover his wife as his plating deflected a blaster bolt, “Uh-oh, looks like they caught up to us….”

“Dammit,” Bella cursed as more shots hit the wall they were climbing, “I’m so charging Garza extra for hazard pay now.”

“I’m just glad we were able to complete her mission while we were here,” Corso sighed, hoping they’d make it out of Black Sun territory alive.

“Thank the stars for small favors,” Bella muttered as she pulled herself over the top of the wall and turned to help Corso.

“Thank the stars you knew how to scale a wall,” Corso grinned at his wife, still in awe of the beautiful red head, “You did great, darlin’”

“Yeah…….never thought I’d be thankful for high school PE,” Bella smirked as they ran across the rooftops towards the taxi they’d hijacked earlier, “or my instructor, Mr. Muir. He was a real d*ck, but he refused to let me quit.”

I taught middle school Math for 5 years before having kids and becoming a stay at home Mom. You wouldn’t believe how many times I heard “When will I ever need to use this?”

Hissing.

Bright shards melting.

High pitched whine. Sensations on his skin. Burning cool air. Sharkskin silk.

Dreams in the dark, dreams in the cold. Endless dreams.

A missile bored into the soft flesh of his inner elbow. Blew the cold breath of Hoth’s, Naos’ wind through his veins. Ice broke. Streams flowed again.

No. Not a dream. Reality.

Gravity returned and he tumbled forward. Hands caught him. Slowed his fall. Sound, sound again in his ears. Roaring, buzzing, noise noise noise. Pins and needles filled his lekku, poked through his skin with every movement. Eyes open, drying, full of nothing but dark.

Another missile in his arm. A hypospray. Then another. One in the other arm.

A vivid thunk in his chest. A heart unused to beating. Its function almost forgotten. Sluggish blood moved, flowed, circulated.

A breath, his breath, passed his lips. Was it a curse? He remembered a curse. A sharp inhale, his body reacting like the machine it was. Air out. Air in.

Smells. Andris spice. Kolto. Stim.

Drops in his eyes. Wet on his cheeks. The taste of refined Andris filled his nose, dripped down the back of his throat. He coughed. Andris on his tongue now.

Hands holding, still holding, supporting, bearing his weight. Moving, dragging. Sitting. Sitting? More drops in his eyes. Another hiss of a hypospray. Heart finding its familiar rhythm and drifting to the background. Breathing becoming regular and smooth. The cacophony of unfathomable noise resolving. Bluesy music accompanying kaleidoscopic lyrics half spoken, half sung to swirling drums. Memorable Fancy.

Humming air recirculators. A secondary backbeat, unrelated to the music. Bleeding up into the space from somewhere else. A voice. Close by.

“...heart rate stabilizing...”

“...toxin flush needed soon but otherwise within normal parameters...”

“...Brain wave patterns match monitoring data...atypical activity...”

“Vision?”

“Working on it,” female voice speaking Basic. "Eyes are more sensitive to cryo than other tissues and take longer to recover. Stimdrops may help--"

"Do it." Male voice. Also Basic. Both with Hutt space inflection.

Hands on his face. Touching his eyelids. He jerked away, flailing and thrashing. No one messed with his face. No one messed with his eyes.

"Hold him," ordered the female voice.

Stronger hands grabbed him. Wrestled him still. Black fog and shadows filled his vision. He wasn't sure if his eyes were open or not. "Relax, Rixik, this won't hurt. I'm trying to help you."

That's right. He had a name. His name was Rixik. Jesp Rixik. He'd been Shen once, but Shen was dead.

He writhed in his captors' durasteel grip but to no avail. They held his head in a vise. Soft fingers caressed his forehead. He felt them on his left eyelid. The one above the scar. He fought against their terrible hold but the fingers pried open his eye anyway. Darker black obscured his unsight. Cool, stinging fluid like an oil bath full of tiny crystals filled the well and spilled over down his cheek. It trickled into his nose and from there the back of his throat, bringing with it a chemical saltiness. It tasted like a stim. The fingers repeated the operation on his right eye. They retreated, leaving the hard hands of his jailers.

Then the shivering started. Violent, uncontrollable, as though his body just now realized the bone deep cold was not quite banished. The scaly mitts restraining him held on through it all.

"What did you do? Is that normal?" The man demanded.

"It's a common side effect with extended artificial hibernation," the female said. He was sure the soft hands were hers. "It will pass soon."

"You've seen this before?"

"The effect is well documented in accounts of early sleeper ships, before the invention of the hyperdrive," she said, “though to be honest I never treated a patient who's been frozen this long. Or with such an uncontrolled initial chilling. I--I can’t be sure how he’ll recover.”

“He better.”

“I’m doing my best, but precedents for this kind of thing are few and far between. If I had more information at the outset--”

“I gave you what you wanted,” the male voice said. The female declined to reply.

The shakes slowed and stopped. Rixik still felt muscles twitching, but the worst was past. The stims flowed through his system, sweeping cobwebs and dust from his brain and banishing clumsiness from his hands. It shredded the dark veil shrouding his vision. There were shapes now, shapes in the darkness and light in patches that might be lamps. Things sharpened more with each blink, like adjusting the emitters on a holoarray.

“Jesp Rixik?”

Rixik turned his attention toward the speaker. He was an aqua and cream blob in the haze. Another few blinks and he became a Twi'lek, his skin the hue prized galaxy wide. Cream was his tailored suit. Expensive tailored suit. Behind him stood a matching pair of either Nikto or Zabrak, he wasn’t quite certain which yet. The shakes started up again but this had nothing to do with the cold. This was stims; he tweaked on stims often enough to know the difference.

“Do you hear me?” the Twi’lek repeated, “A nod will suffice.” Rixik managed a creaky nod. “Excellent. Run vitals again, ZsuZsa,” Cream Suit ordered. The shadow across the lower half of his body was a desk. A real wood desk. The grain glowed in the dim lighting beneath layers of deep varnish.

A green female entered his field of view from the left. He jerked away and the clawed hands clamped down, halting his movement. She was an ugly Twi’lek, eyes like black pits, her lekku hideously deformed--he realized she wasn’t a Twi’lek at all but a Nautolan. She gave him an awkward smile. An imprisoning hand exposed Rixik’s wrist and she placed the scanner above the deep vein. His gauntlets were gone. Adhesive from the wound tape clung to his skin where he affixed the backup stims to his arm. They were gone too. Where were they? Oh yeah. He used them. Andris and stims. Right before Andalar froze him again.

The Nautolan’s scanner ruminated for a bit then lit up in yellow and green. She removed it, “Signs are all in normal range. Like I said before, he should have a toxin flush soon. Peripheral nerve conduction is running at thirty percent of typical and increasing. Neither condition is life-threatening. Otherwise he’s doing fine, all things considered.”

“Brain function?” Cream Suit asked.

“I can’t tell that,” she objected, “It matches the patterns in the file but I don’t have the equipment to determine the extent of damage--or whether there’s any at all.”

“Thank you, Doctor ZsuZsa,” Cream Suit said, “please remain close at hand in case your patient requires your assistance.” She backed off, behind him and out of his view. “Relax, gentlemen,” Cream Suit declared, and the iron bands keeping him captive loosened. He addressed Rixik directly, “The infamous Jesp Rixik. At last we meet.”

Rixik had no clue who this Twi’lek was. His throat didn't want to communicate with his brain and his inquiry came out garbled. “Ooothe’ellareyou?” he croaked.

The Twi’lek leaned his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers, “I am Galaal, Majordomo to the great Gorpo the Hutt. I’m sure you recall my employer. He’s gone through quite a bit of trouble to acquire you.”

Rixik did indeed. Gorpo was a player, a major one. Complete amoral bastard, and it took a lot to earn that epithet from the king of the amoral bastards. How the hell had he ended up in Gorpo’s collection? Kirya was far too principled to sell him. She was more likely to stash him in storage. How long had he been out? “Wazzeewan’wifme?” he slurred. His tongue felt half a beat behind his thoughts.

“I’m so pleased you asked. Can he walk?” Galaal asked, his attention shifting to the hidden Doctor ZsuZsa.

“Probably,” she replied from over his shoulder.

“Excellent. Master Rixik, if you would like to accompany me?” Galaal asked, pushing his chair back from the desk and standing. He gestured toward an open arch leading to another room, “We prepared a special reception for you.” Rixik stiffened. “Oh, not that kind,” Galaal reassured him, “you are the guest of honor. Gorpo has a proposal for you to consider, but as is the way with Hutts, pleasure before business. Please?”

The durasteel hands relaxed even more. Nikto. Galaal’s attendants were Nikto; he presumed his handlers were as well. Rixik forced the stim-shakes quiet. He rose, wobbling, to his feet. Planting one leg before shifting to the next he shuffled toward the indicated space. Galaal and his entourage fell into step behind him.

The arch opened on an opulent skysuite. A bank of polysilicate windows ran all along the exterior wall. Nar Shaddaa’s night neon sparkled and flashed in the darkness outside. The music was louder here, emanating from an old-fashioned jukebox complete with heat sculptures melting and reforming between real glass panes. Deep cushy carpet, panelling that glowed with the same warmth as Galaal’s desk, a full bar, a long overstuffed sofa in rich red leather arranged to provide the best view of the cityscape. An elaborate blown glass spice hookah sat on a low table in easy reach of revelers, blue ryll smoke drifting from its bowl. Two Human females decorated the couch. They rose as he entered.

Galaal was at his elbow, guiding him along, “Allow me to introduce Misha and Sasha,” he said. The two tittered at the introduction, “Misha is a scion of Alderaan’s House Thul. Sasha is a Nar Shaddaa native, but don’t hold that against her. Misha, get our guest a drink.”

"I don't think--" ZsuZsa began.

Galaal cut her off, "Hush, woman," he snapped, "let the man enjoy himself. A lovely pair, aren’t they?” he asked, his attention returning to his guest.

Rixik’s answer died in his throat. Both were beyond lovely, in matching azure outfits that left the best bits--and only the best bits--to the imagination. Sasha sidled up to him, pressed warm chocolate skin to his, tickled the base of his left lekku with cobalt lacquered nails. Misha returned and fitted a tumbler into his hand. He took it. Shakily brought it to his lips. Glacial ice popped and sputtered in the glass, releasing trapped pressurized gas. The familiar aroma of Whyren’s Reserve whisky filled his nose and its glorious flavor filled his mouth. Flushed the leftover chemical and kolto aftertaste away.

But his eyes wouldn’t leave the view through the windows. It was all wrong. It was Nar Shaddaa, but not the Nar Shaddaa he recognized. This planet resurfaced itself as fast as a cancerous tumor. He was out of circulation for a while but he should see the bones he knew beneath a new skin. For the first time he checked his chrono, the spendy one guaranteed to keep running in cryostasis.

It was dead.

What the hell?

Misha breathed a whisky- and spice-scented breath into his ear and nibbled his earlobe. He kept staring at the black chrono display. How could it be dead? The energy cell should last decades. His gaze rose to the panorama again. The tumbler in his hand grew slippery with condensation.

“Perhaps you are wondering how long you were absent, as it were,” Galaal said.

Rixik grunted in agreement. Even if he could form words he wasn't certain he wanted to.

“We should sit. Come,” Galaal motioned toward the elegant furniture, "Ladies, bring our guest."

Rixik allowed them to settle him on the couch. One of them handed him the hookah mouthpiece. He let a puff escape out his nostrils without breathing in; something told him relaxing too much was a bad idea. He already regretted the single sip of whisky. A tremor passed through his hand and the stunning Sasha relieved him of the blue braided hose and coiled it on the table for him.

In the meantime, Galaal claimed another section of the sofa, his color and clothing a tasteful complement to the rest of the décor. “You are quite the prize, you know,” he began, “The last Great Hunt Champion before the breakup of the clans, a Twi’lek who won the greatest Mandalorian challenge and told Mandalore himself to f*ck off. Pardon the crudity of my language.”

Rixik grunted noncommittally. Mandalore’s offer came with too many strings attached. He hadn’t actually sworn at the man.

Galaal continued, “You collected some of the most difficult bounties of your time. Killed Jedi and Sith both. Tales of your exploits still make the rounds today in hunter and underworld circles. You are legend.”

Rixik grunted again and faked a sip of whisky. Galaal laid on the complements a little thick. Suggested Rixik wasn’t going to be happy when he got around to making his point; both of them knew how to handle dangerous people.

“The story of your eventual carbon-freeze is a strange one,” Galaal said, “Accounts are mixed. Some say it was an accident, some say a rival contract, others claim one of your crew betrayed you. I’d love to have the real version, and of course you are the only one who knows--”

“Ow’lonng?” Rixik demanded. He didn’t have to blur his words now but he didn’t want his host to know it yet. He zoomed past the groggy stage and went straight to hyperaware. He couldn't quite place the mystery music coming in from elsewhere. The Memorable Fancy recording launched into a live rendition of Whisky Bar. Appropriate.

Galaal shifted his weight, the leather cushions squeaked beneath him, “Let’s just say--”

“Ow’lonng?” Rixik repeated. Misha handed him the hookah and he pretended to smoke it. The two of them playing with his lekku was distraction enough without narcotics.

Galaal’s Nikto entourage moved in protectively. “Four hundred years,” he admitted.

Rixik blinked, “Four? Hundred?” he said, forgetting to slur his words in the shock of the revelation.

Galaal glared at the pair of Humans bookending him and they upped the ante, fiddling with the fasteners on his armor. “Four hundred seventeen, by the most widely accepted reckoning, though as I said accounts vary so the precise date is conjecture. Legend has it you dropped out of circulation at the height of your game. Retired, most likely. Every so often someone claimed to be you but they were all proven frauds. Even that stopped in time. Much later a trio of carbonite slabs, purported to be part of the Nok Drayen fortune, came up in an estate auction. Naturally, the auction house required verification of the identities and ages of the slabs. One turned out to be yours..."

Galaal related his tale with all the joy of a collector showing off a prized acquisition. Rixik tried to listen, but his mind froze at four hundred. The flavor of Whyren’s Reserve turned sour in his mouth. Memorable Fancy’s poetic lyrics became incoherent nonsense. The scent of burning ryll could be perfume or sewage and he wouldn't know the difference. One of the women slipped the hookah pipe back into his hand, but even their attentions were not enough to distract him. Four hundred. He couldn't wrap his head around four hundred. He always figured he'd retire at the wrong end of a blaster. The future was something that happened to other people.

The other Twi'lek prattled on about appraisals and appreciation, about certificates of authenticity and waxed lyrical over the prestigious vestibules his frozen form had graced. Rixik stared at the ice melting in his drink. Gault, Mako, even that hulk Skadge, all gone. His ship, Kessel Won't Have Me, gone. All of it, everything he had, gone. What happened to it all? Did it matter? He had nothing. And Gorpo the Hutt owned him.

Galaal rambled on, “...last in possession of Tareva Pridan, a Corellian pirate prince who, it is rumored, drank a toast to you with your favorite whiskey every day. But, alas, he ran afoul of two different Hutt clans. Gorpo, in a master stroke of--”

“So whazzhe wan wif me?” Rixik interrupted. He brushed Sasha’s hands away from his belt in irritation. Why would Gorpo thaw out his prized possession? He had to be worth a hell of a lot more as a slab. Easier maintenance if nothing else.

“Please,” Galaal said, “Enjoy our hospitality. You are the guest of honor. Business can wait. I took great pains to meet your needs,” he waved a hand toward the hookah, “Your favorite spice blend in a hookah, as you were known to indulge. Women of your prefered species and shade. Your favorite whisky--not so easy to obtain these days as it was in yours! Even the ice in your glass is chosen in your honor. Cut from the high mountain glaciers of Alderaan, it fell as snow the very year you vanished. There are delicacies at the bar, if you care to partake. I prepared everything you might want.”

Like hell. No blaster. He swirled the glass and watched the ice melt and release tiny gas bubbles. He felt a sympathetic chill, thinking that those bubbles were trapped as long as he was. Four hundred seventeen years. Rixik gave himself a mental slap. Cry later, address the immediate. He let the stims send a violent shudder rippling from his forehead to his toes. Okay. Play the guy a little. His chance would come. He wheezed a laugh and leaned back on the sofa, wrapping an arm around each of his new friends, “I guessit has been a’while a’that,” he said.

Galaal relaxed, “Excellent. I’ll leave you to get acquainted, then,” he said, starting to stand.

“No, no, stay,” Rixik said. If Galaal was right, Gorpo himself had to be pushing nine hundred at least.

“Oh I couldn’t possibly--”

“Nono, I insist,” Rixik said, “you laid out a wonnerful spread, y’ought to enjoy it some too.”

Galaal sank back down, “I really couldn’t.” The Nikto milled about uncomfortably behind him.

Rixik snuggled with Misha. Or maybe Sasha. Whatever. “Must say, y’know howdah pick’em.” He let that little slur stay. Let Galaal assume he was maybe intoxicated, maybe messed up. Maybe both.

“Thank you.”

“Thing is, tho,” Rixik said, “I can’t get all comfy n’less I get bizness outa th’way. Not used t’people throwin’ me a party when I haven’t done anything forr’im first.” He kept his tongue thick even though the stims and the Andris had everything else working overtime.

Galaal grinned, “Consider it an...engagement party.”

Rixik laughed, a bit too loud, and snuggled with the companion on the other side, “Usually date a few times before gettin’ ‘ngaged,” he said, puffing on the pipe around an armful of giggling female. He passed her the mouthpiece in favor of his tumbler, “Do I hafta pick, or can I have both?”

Galaal’s grin widened. Obviously Rixik played proper straight man to the majordomo's joke, “Not that kind of engagement, my friend. Gorpo the Hutt would like to engage your services in a professional capacity.”

Oh ho. Gears meshed, turned. The stims already had his brain overcranked and he’d absorbed just enough ryll to grease the wheels. When a successful Hutt got too old, the younger, hungrier ones came nipping at his tail, carving away bits of his empire until they brought him down. Gorpo needed a show of force to keep them at bay. He wanted an enforcer with a fearsome reputation--legendary, if Galaal was to be believed. And by destroying a priceless piece of property to get it, he proved he’s financially secure. Rixik smelled desperation in the air. He pretended to sip his drink, “He payin’ well?”

“Very,” Galaal said.

“Iz this an advance?” Rixik asked, squeezing the girls at his sides until they giggled.

“A mere taste of the kind of rewards you can expect,” Galaal said, “Gorpo the Hutt is not stingy with his friends."

Gorpo didn't have friends, he had slaves and rivals. Anyone who thought otherwise was delusional. Rixik knew which category he fell in. "Or his servants, eh?"

"I am well compensated," Galaal said, "So will you be, I assure you."

Yeah, delusional. "This an exclusive kinda deal?" Rixik asked.

"Somewhat."

"How so?"

"Let's just say you won't be tempted," Galaal replied, “no one else in the galaxy will make you a better offer. Ever. Guaranteed.”

So, yes. Very exclusive. Any number of ways Gorpo could enforce exclusive, none of which he liked. Yeah. kark that. Kark Gorpo and his pet and his toys and his plans and all of it. Nobody owned him. He chose to whom he sold his gun and to hell with anyone else. Rixik gripped his whisky glass almost tight enough to shatter it. He forced himself to relax. Settled his voice before asking, “Don’ suppose my ac’ounts are still active, eh? Gonna need’n advance fer a blaster,” he said, with a cockeyed grin he hoped looked reassuring. Dammit. He’d been his own master for quite some time; grovelling didn’t sit well. Neither did digging the first spadeful from the grave of indentureship. No doubt the purchase price of his slab was enough to keep him in the hole for another four hundred years if he played by the rules. Rixik brought the tumbler trembling to his lips and covered rage with a real drink this time. The liquor smoked on its way to his empty stomach. Whisky wasn’t the only thing that burned. Still tasted like ash, but for a different reason.

The other Twi’lek nodded to one of the Nikto, who departed for the adjoining office, “Already taken care of.” The Nikto returned in a moment bearing a thick silvered steel case. Galaal took it and thumbed open the catch. He opened the lid and reversed it, presenting the contents to Rixik with a flourish, “Your trademark mismatched blasters.”

Blasters! His blasters? Couldn’t be. Rixik extricated himself from his new friends' clutches and scooted forward on the seat. Setting the whisky beside the hookah, he reached for the familiar weapons. They looked better than new. His fingers hovered over them and he hesitated before lifting one from its custom molded compartment with Galaal's approving nod. It was lighter than he remembered. Flawless workmanship. Status bars showed a full gas load. He left the safety on and checked the action, the aim, and the rest of the vitals. Beautiful piece. Fully functional.

Galaal beamed as Rixik set the first in his lap and removed the second from its cradle, “Not the originals, I’m afraid," he said, watching Rixik repeat his exam on the second blaster, "Those are long lost. I commissioned these reproductions especially for you. For a man who made his living with weapons, surprisingly little was recorded about their specifics. It took a good deal of research to discover the actual make and model of each one. Both are tuned to fire blue, as was your preference. While they look like antiques, beneath the skin you'll find state-of-the-art technology. I trust you don't mind the upgrades. Nothing but the best for you, my friend."

This was the second time Galaal called him friend. Most recently after handing him blasters. Fully functional blasters. Obviously, Galaal didn't know Rixik as well as he thought he did. “Loverly,” Rixik said, sliding his hand around the grips, “Not sure which pair of beauties I like better.”

Galaal settled back, satisfied, “If only all life’s decisions were so difficult,” he said, “So, may I inform Gorpo of your agreement to my proposal?”

Rixik gave him a blissed smile, “No.” He flicked the safeties off and fired. His first two shots struck the nearest lumbering Nikto. The second set did as well. Blasts tracked right a bit--either sights were off or his eye was. Hard to know which right now. He’d compensate. Rixik rose while the first of Galaal’s bodyguards fell to the floor without realizing what hit him.

Galaal stared at the corpse, dumbfounded. The girls had more sense, screeching and diving behind the sofa. He'd deal with them later. Didn't bother with the shield generator, no doubt time killed its battery too. Adrenaline and stims sang in his bloodstream, the only shield he needed. He was invincible.

One of the remaining Nikto launched himself in Rixik’s direction. He sidestepped the lizard's wild attack, scoring a crippling hit on his legs. Out of action. Pretty blue color on the bolts, he noted, a little darker than Kessel's laser turrets. Very nice.

The last two Nikto drew their blasters. Rixik kicked over the low table, spilling the hookah and its contents. Fire flashed in the deep carpet before the fluid from the glass flooded it out. Rixik grabbed the edge of the table and stopped its roll. Not a moment too soon. White interference rings splashed on the surface and the hammered metal rang with the impact. Stunners. Not blasters, the Nikto carried stunners. They wanted him alive. Good to know. Rixik himself was under no such restriction. He darted out from behind his improvised shelter and sent particle bolts across the room. One of the Nikto toppled a heavy display case. Knickknacks and bric-a-brac went flying. It landed on its side with a crash. The bodyguards ducked behind it. Rixik’s hail of bolts kept them pinned.

No weapons discharge alarm. Must be his lucky day.

The injured Nikto hadn’t the sense to stay down when he was being ignored. He roared and sent a blast in Rixik’s direction. Rixik spun. He fired at the Nikto’s outstretched arm. Several bolts connected and melted the Nikto's hand and his stunner both. Now out of action. His howls became a bass counterpoint to the soprano screeching from behind the sofa. Rixik closed on the final two. Beautiful blue bolts swept over his enemies. Galaal cowered on the floor with his head beneath his arms, his lekku tucked beneath him. Rixik stepped around the quivering Twi’lek in pursuit of the more dangerous foes. Constant fire kept them down while he moved in.

As though in slow motion he saw the pair emerge from opposite sides of the case. He concentrated fire on the right. The Nikto pulled back. A blast from the other side clipped Rixik’s left shoulder. His arm filled with glass shards and he swore a blue streak in Rodese. Stunners weren't supposed to do that. karking hurt. He sent an unaimed bolt in that direction and cursed again. With the hit, pulling the trigger on his new blaster felt like gripping the business end of a vibroknife. He shoved the pain aside and concentrated on business. Walked his aim across the overturned case then paused for a moment. The real wood exterior scorched and smoked. When the reptile poked his head back out, Rixik shot him. The body crumpled.

One left, the bastard who thought he could stop him with a stunner. Rixik flexed his fingers around the left grip. Stims banished the glass in his muscles, but not as fast as he’d like. His boots pulverized a variety of memorabilia, the crunching inaudible over the panicked and pained cries filling the room. The Nikto seemed determined to stay in cover. Fine. Rixik planted one armored foot on the edge of the case and gave it a mighty shove. The last threatening Nikto scrabbled out of the way but the falling cabinet pinned him. Half a breath later, Rixik finished him off.

The next set of bolts silenced Galaal’s final bodyguard, the useless one with more bravery than brains. That left Galaal and the girls. Galaal might be useful. The girls, despite their appeal, were expendable as well as noisy. Time to take care of them.

Out of habit, Rixik checked the gas loads and the readouts. All perfect green. Barely moved the needle on the load indicator. Must have made some substantial improvements in efficiency while he was out. He maneuvered around to the back of the sofa, blasters at the ready. Not many weapons fit in those costumes--besides the obvious, and he wasn't immune to their charms--but it paid to be cautious.

Misha yelped as he rounded the corner, her eyes dark with fright. She buried her head in Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha fixed him with a scornful glare. “You’re making a big mistake,” she hissed, “Gorpo will kill you.”

“He can try,” Rixik said. His next shots dispatched the pair. Shame, that. A waste of two very attractive young ladies. But witnesses were bad, and he wasn’t out yet. There was still Galaal to deal with.

As if on cue, the aqua Twi’lek made a break for the office. Rixik’s bolts tracked him but fell just behind his fleeing heels. Karking messed-up sights. Rixik snatched up a discarded stunner and took off in pursuit. He rounded the corner just as Galaal punched open the comm. Galaal froze, one hand on the console, a gizka in a poacher's spotlight. The silver carbonite slab stood against the opposite wall, a hollow where it’s occupant had been. Rixik trained his weapon on him. At this range he couldn't miss.

A coarse voice came over the channel, “Security. What's up?" it asked in Huttese.

Rixik stalked into the room, closing with his prey, his feet silent on the rich carpet. His species had a well-deserved reputation as cowards. Men like this Galaal were part of the reason why. The Twi’lek stood mute. His eyes bulged. His plump lekku telegraphed panic.

"Galaal?" the radio asked, "you good? Galaal?"

Rixik pressed the barrel of a weapon against the base of Galaal’s left lekku. Leaning in, he whispered in the other Twi'lek's ear, "Wild party," he said in Basic.

Perspiration beaded on Galaal’s turquoise brow. "W-wild party," he stammered.

The security voice laughed, "Wondered. Guys below you b*tched about noise. Told ‘em to stuff it. You got priority. So what's up?”

“Shut him down,” Rixik hissed in his ear. Galaal’s lekku twitched in terror.

Security went on, “You didn’t break Gorpo’s favorite decoration, did you?”

"No, no," Galaal squeaked. He cleared his throat, returning to a lower register, "He’s fine. We're all fine. Here."

There was a slight pause over the comm. The security guy suspected something. “Want me to send up a couple guys? Settle some rowdy elements?”

“Reassure him,” Rixik demanded.

“No, I--” Galaal cleared his throat again, gripping the edge of the desk, “I thought I’d let you know that everything was fine. In case there were complaints.”

“I see that,” security said, “good to know. Holler if you need anything.”

“Sure,” Galaal cut the channel but didn't relax. A drop of sweat surrendered to gravity and gathered friends on its slide down his face. He stared at Rixik out of the corner of his eye.

Rixik removed the weapon from its threatening position and backed a step. If Galaal escorted him past building security, he'd be home free. Probably wouldn't be hard to convince him. He was petrified. Hadn't moved away from the desk yet. "Come on, let’s go," Rixik commanded, gesturing toward the door.

Galaal retained his death grip on the edge of the desk. "I-I don't understand. I arranged everything. Convinced Gorpo you were worth more in action than as an ornament. Collected your favorite things, set up accounts, apartments, all of it. So you’d feel comfortable. It was perfect."

"Why the kark would you do that?" Rixik barked.

“...I'm your biggest fan," Galaal confided, his voice low and creaky, “You were my hero. I wanted to be just like you. The famous Twi’lek bounty hunter. There’s never been another.” One hand left the lacquered wood surface to catch a drip running down his cheek. Eyes flicked a furtive glance at the comm before returning to Rixik’s face.

Rixik followed the glance. A single red light showed on the console. Steady, not blinking, not drawing attention to itself. Silent alert. Clever boy.

Galaal realized his mistake, "There's still time!" he burbled, “Time to reconsider. It's a solid offer! It is! I can spin this as a job interview. It’s perfect. No one thinks Twi’leks are dangerous. Even Gorpo balked. Heh-” Galaal’s voice cracked, “He can afford to lose a few enforcers. Let me seal the deal. I’ll make your reputation. Remind the galaxy who you are.”

“Who I am, huh?” Rixik asked.

Galaal’s quick nod sent his lekku quavering again. A second later he crumpled to the floor. The weird echo of the stunner's blast rang in Rixik ears. He bent down and gripped the soft blue Twi’lek beneath the arms and heaved him upright, grunting with effort. Dead weight was the worst to lift. That and stims only did so much. He dragged Galaal across the room and shouldered him into the hollowed slab. One hand held him upright while the other mashed the cryo controls. The cycle began. Rixik braced him in place until his hands ached from the cold and he withdrew. Silver carbonite flowed over Galaal’s features, freezing him solid. Rixik checked the readouts. Alive. Hibernating. He shook the frost off his fingers and backed away. “Guess you get to be me after all,” he said quietly.

He returned to the main room. It smelled of burned flesh and carpet mixed with spice. The girls’ perfume still hung light in the air, an incongruous floral note. Jesp Rixik stared out at the familiar yet unfamiliar cityscape spread out below him as the Memorable Fancy recording wound into its finale:

This is the end, my only friend, the end

Of our elaborate plans, the end

Of everything that stands, the end

No safety or surprise, the end

I'll never look into your eyes, again

Can you picture what will be?

So limitless and free

Desperately in need of some stranger's hand

In a desperate land.

He shut it off mid-riff. Plan Aurek shot to hell. He had maybe twenty minutes before Gorpo’s security got up here. An hour more afterward before they figured out who was really in the slab, assuming Gorpo sent muscle with brains attached. Might be as long as two if not.

Four hundred years. How the hell was it fair he outlived everyone else?

Rixik fiddled with the safety on the blaster in his hand, the barrel warm from recent discharge. The old him was dead. Along with everyone he ever knew. Any children he might have inadvertently left. Every enemy and all their children and their children's children. Every rival. Every friend. Not that he had friends.

“The old you don’t exist anymore, he’s dead. I killed him. You can start over. Not many people get that chance, little man. Get to do things different.”

Except.

Except the one. Sal’s long ago words came to him right now for a reason.

He heard a creak off to the side. Both blasters came to bear quicker than thought. It was Galaal’s doctor. ZsuZsa. The Nautolan. He forgot about her.

She cowered on the floor mostly behind the bar, only one eye and her head-tresses visible, "Oh, stars, don't kill me, please," she begged, "he just said he had a patient in extended cold hibernation, he never said who it was. The credits were too good to turn down. I won't say anything, I'll keep your secret. I swear I will, just--oh stars don't kill me."

Witnesses were bad. A bolt between her eyes would be easy. Slaughtering a nerf. "Can you get me out of here?" Rixik asked instead. He could always kill her later if he had to. Harder to bring her back from the dead.

“I--yes, I think so,” she answered. She scrubbed her eyes with her sleeve.

“Do it,” Rixik said.

The doctor gripped the edge of the bar and pulled herself up, “You won’t kill me?”

“I’d be stupid to kill my doctor,” he said, “and my escort.”

“After?”

“Can we renegotiate on the promenade?” Rixik asked, “‘cause neither one of us is leaving if we don't go now.”

The doctor nodded stiffly. “Uh. Okay. You have, ah, acute hibernation sickness, something I can’t treat here. So I’m taking you to another facility. I have Galaal’s permission.” She craned her head, giving the Twi'lek in the carbonite a quick glance and swallowed hard.

Rixik nodded. He liked the way she thought. She would be useful when the cocktail she shot him with wore off and he dissolved into quivering goo. Coming down off this high was going to hurt. Bad. “Lead the way.”

The poetry attributed to “Memorable Fancy” is actually from “The End” by Jim Morrison. Memorable Fancy originally showed up as an obscure tribute to The Doors in my Cleaner thread.

@AKHadeed- I wasn't sure if I should read your agent story, since I don't have an agent myself, but since you don't usually have spoilers, I did it. Glad I did. It must be kind of weird for an agent, having all those different identities, that are you, but not really you. I like how he kind of regrets having to leave it all, but service to the Empire is more important.

As for the second piece, great musings on what it means to be a bounty hunter. Love it, love it, love it!

@Domisotto- Aww... Cute Only suggestion I would make is that you start a new paragraph every time someone else starts to speak. At first, when Jenny's talking to Maria, you don't do that. It's fine for the rest of the story, though.

@Frauzet- Still like how you decided to add a minipet to Thorns' crew. And of course Mako. Gotta love Mako.

For the first time in weeks, I’m sitting right where I belong: in the cockpit of The Fool’s Wager, with my feet up on the dash, music blaring from the stereo. It’s good to be home. Skavik didn’t even sell any of my stuff. I check my wrist chrono. Still eighteen hours till we’re supposed to take off. Hmm…

“Corso!” I call, swinging my feet to the floor. “Get ready, we’re going to town!”

Twenty minutes later, I’m ready to go, and I don’t look half bad if I do say so myself: striped shorts, a clingy grey top, short vest, and sandals. Checking the mirro one more time, I add a bit more eyeshadow and a touch of lipstick, slide on a few bracelets, and head for the airlock.

Corso is waiting for me. “Aren’t we going to bring Risha?”

“Nah.” Running across the galaxy on her say-so is one thing. Going to the bar with her is another.

We take a taxi to the Old Galactic Market Sector and find the cantina easily. Darmas Pollaran has moved on by now, but the place is still crawling with all sorts relaxing after a hard day. Down-on-their-luck spacer types nurse drinks and scowl at everyone else, swankier customers play sabbacc and a few guys are already drunk enough to be trying to dance along with the holodancers. I roll my eyes and head for the bar.

The droid manning the drink orders whirrs over as I slide onto a stool. “What will it be today, gentlebeings?” he says in a voice that sounds ridiculously snooty on any bartender outside the Senate Tower.

“Uhh… just some beer?” says Corso, looking awkward.

“Come on Corso, where’s your sense of adventure? This is Coruscant!”

“I already know I like it, why bother changing?”

I shrug. The droid turns in my direction. “And for you, ma’m?”

“How ‘bout a Nexu Tail?” They don’t have them everywhere, but when they do, I always get them.

While we’re waiting, I look around for something exciting going on. I guess someone just won a pazzak match. They’re dancing around like something good happened, at any rate. A cute, yellow-skinned twi’lek guy is smiling bashfully at me and I smile back. He brightens.

“Uh… Captain?” says Corso, with just a bit of an edge to his voice.

“What?” I can talk to anyone I like. The guy is looking at Corso, then back at me. Shaking my head I wave him over. As he’s getting up, someone shouts from across the room and he turns. A moment later, he’s bro-hugging a burly Cathar and I’m back to waiting for our drinks to show up.

I guess it’s for the best anyway. Mom always said “Flirt all you want, kiss if you like, but don’t give your heart- or your virginity- to anyone unless you’re sure he’s the one.” And so far, I’ve followed that rule, with only two exceptions. And I really thought Mal was the one, so technically, it’s only one exception.

Thinking about Mal makes me upset, but fortunately, the droid returns with our drinks before I stew about it too much. They certainly serves generous portions here. Corso’s beer is in a mug half the size of my head. “What is that?” he says, looking at my drink.

“It’s a Nexu Tail.”

“It looks like a couple of Zeltrons exploded in your glass.”

Scowling at him, I take a sip of the brightly-colored drink. “It tastes good.” And they put way more Corillian rum in it than most places do.

Corso takes a swig of his beer. “Really?”

“Yeah, try it.”

He sips it, frowns, takes another sip, and then two more. “Wow, you’re right. Is that mujafruit juice?”

“I honestly have no idea.” The rum is starting to work now. A warm feeling streatches down towards my toes and I feel relaxed. Coming here was a great idea.

“I guess you should get to try some of mine.” Corso slides the mug over and I pick it up with both hands. It’s got a rich, gold taste that makes me feel even warmer. “You’ve got foam on your nose.”

I wipe it off and go back to my own drink. “You know?” I say, giggling a little. “I really hope Risha’s telling the truth.”

“So do I, Captain.”

“I mean, it would really suck if it didn’t. And you can call me Jess, you know. Everybody else does.”

The droid reappears, dripping with some unsatisfied customer’s drink. “May I refill your glasses, gentlebeings?”

We look at each other and our eyes meet. Corso grins. I grin. “Sure.” “Why not”

Corso’s eyes are brown. A really nice brown. Why didn’t I notice that before? I look away awkwardly. Somebody is singing some sort of drinking song on the sunk-in section of the floor. Our refills come back really fast this time, and I start drinking again.

Setting down his already half-drained mug, Corso says “Why do we never do anything fun like this on the ship?” He’s talking too loud,

“We just got the ship back! And I can be kind of fun!” I shouldn’t turn my head so fast. It makes the room spin.

He grunts and keeps drinking. I follow suit. I’m almost at the bottom of the glass before he says “We could get our blasters out and see who can take that bartender droid out the fastest.”

For some reason, this is hilarious, and I start giggling uncontrollably. When I can breathe again, I manage to get out “I don’t think the cops would like that very much.”

He laughs too and scoots his stool closer. He smells good, like a haystack, even though it’s been weeks since he’s been near one.“Back on Ord Mantell, we used to run the rontos around in circles and see if they could charge us without falling over. We should do that.”

That sets me off again and I feel tears coming to my eyes. “Got any suggestions that don’t involve farm animals?”

“I know a few, but it might take a while to show you…” He leans in closer, and I can feel his lips just inches from mine. I smile.

Then he pulls away. “Sorry, Captain. I shouldn’t have done that. Propositioning you like some Hutt’s dancer. It’s not right.”

“’sokay.” I murmur. Everything’s starting to get fuzzy.

“Are you feeling ok?”

I burp. “I think so.”

“We should get you back to the ship.” He sounds a little slurred, but I’m not sure if that’s him or me. Maybe a little of both?

When I try to walk, the floor kind of tilts like The Fool’s deck does when I pull crazy stunts. Somehow, I end up with my arm around Corso’s shoulder and we make it out to the curb. A taxi pulls up and the droid says “State your destination.”

I crawl into the seat and curl up on it. “Taris. That’s what Risha said. And we have to do what Risha says, right?. She’s the only one that knows where it is.”

“Just take us back to the spaceport.”

The speeder starts speeding along again- a speeder, speeding, how funny is that?- and I close my eyes. It makes my stomach hurt less. “I don’t feel very good.”

“Why don’t you go to sleep? You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“OK. You know what? I like you.”

“I like you too, Captain.”

As the speeder hurries back to the spaceport, I fall asleep with my head on his shoulder.

I think the infamous "Drunk Flirting Scene" that starts the Corso Romance makes perfect sense with one simple addition: the smuggler is drunk herself that night.

I blame Alaurin and LaxKnight for the exploding Zeltron reference. Your stories gave me Zeltrons on the brain.

Like I said, my descriptions of drunkenness are probably riddled with inaccuracies. And they both got drunk really fast, even if those were big drinks.

Sorry Striges but I feel like I'm getting close on end of Chapter One for my BH and I don't want any spoils. Didn't read it, sorry.

@Mirdthestrill Muhahaha! The Rise of the Zeltrons! Onto your story, I found a typos and a grammar problem. Mistakes are bold:

Checking the mirro one more time

He’s talking too loud,

That comma shouldn't be there.

Other than that, it's a nice story, having a good time at no ones expense (looking at you alaurin). Of course Corso gets the beer while Jess gets the fruity drink. They must put a lot of something in that Nexu's Tail. Nothing like bonding over drinks.