The workshop lights flickered as Imik powered down the last diagnostic rig, the scent of ozone and freshly-polished durasteel lingering in the air. Seng leaned against the doorframe, his scarred fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his thigh—the only tell that betrayed his impatience.
FL-AR3 rotated his newly upgraded blaster rifle experimentally, the weapon whirring as they cycled through the new attachments. "Fascinating," the droid intoned. "Your modifications exceed Imperial military specifications by 12.7 percent." He paused, his vocabulator clicking. "Illegal in seven sectors."
Imik chuckled, wiping grease-stained hands on his already-filthy coveralls. "That's the point, bolt-bucket." The Sullustan glanced at Koraz, who was methodically checking the sights on his modified blaster pistols. "You ever think about sticking it to the Imps proper? Not just skirmishes—real opposition."
Koraz didn't look up. His claws clicked against the blaster's new electronic sights. "Thoughts are free. Bullets cost credits."
Seng stepped forward, his new rifle hanging loosely in one hand. "Credits can be arranged." His voice carried the quiet certainty of someone who'd seen too many worlds burn. "We're moving deeper into resistance work. Could use fighters who know how to vanish afterward."
Spanner froze mid-motion. The silence stretched just long enough for FL-AR3 to note the elevated respiration rates in all organic crew members.
Pron broke the silence with a Sullustan curse. "You're what? Rebels? Corellian Resistance?" he breathed, staring at Imik's grease-stained hands like they might suddenly produce thermal detonators. Which, Spanner realized, they very well might.
Imik wiped his hands on his coveralls, leaving fresh smears of engine grease across the fabric. "Let's say we've got mutual friends in all sorts of places." His dark eyes flicked to FL-AR3. "Even bolt-buckets with questionable memory banks."
Koraz holstered his blasters with deliberate slowness. The click of each weapon settling into its modified sheath sounded louder than it should've. "Rebel work pays in corpses."
Seng stepped forward, his rifle hanging loosely at his side—not threatening, but not quite relaxed either. "It also pays in freedom," he countered, voice low. "And credits that don't smell like Imperial blood money."
FL-AR3's photoreceptors cycled through several hues before settling on an inquisitive yellow. "Rebellion is statistically improbable," the droid observed. "Yet..." His cranial unit tilted slightly. "You appear sincere. Curious."
Imik wiped his hands on an already-grimed rag, the gesture ending with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Not ready to dive in the deep end? Fine." His dark Sullustan eyes gleamed under the workshop's flickering lumas. "But we'll still ping you when juicy jobs surface—the kind that pay in untraceable credits and piss off the right people."
Seng leaned against a half-disassembled power converter, his scarred fingers drumming a silent rhythm against its casing. "Think of it as... freelance philanthropy." His smirk was all teeth. "With better guns."
On the Road Again... (Postlude Episode 24)
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: On the Road Again... (Postlude Episode 24)
The Silent Shadow smelled like recycled sweat and stale engine coolant—a far cry from the Nebula Raptor's lingering scent of citrus and smuggled spices. Spanner pressed his forehead against the viewport, watching Geonosis' rust-colored horizon swell through the scratched transparisteel. No pirate ambushes, no Imperial patrols—just five hours of hyperspace monotony punctuated by Captain Vos’ monosyllabic grunts and the droning hum of overworked stabilizers.
FL-AR3 stood rigid in the cargo hold, his upgraded photoreceptors analyzing dust motes in the air vents with the intensity of a scholar studying ancient texts. "Disappointing," the droid announced. "Our transit lacked even basic attempts at interdiction." His vocabulator emitted a staticky sigh. "Captain Vos operates with a 94% reduction in dramatic tension compared to standard smuggling protocols."
The Vagrant crouched on gantry AB14 like a giant blocky disposal unit —dust settling on her hull, fuel lines stiff from disuse, and a pair of Geonosian sentries perched on her starboard wing with all the vigilance of bored vultures. Their chitinous carapaces gleamed under the hangar's flickering lumas, but their compound eyes kept drifting toward the spice den across the landing field.
Groaning like an old man with bad knees, the boarding ramp descended—the exact same sound Spanner remembered from two weeks ago, which meant nobody had tampered with the hydraulic seals. "Still sounds like my uncle after harvest season," he muttered, kicking a loose panel that had never quite seated properly.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered across the hull plating in precise scanning patterns. "Minor corrosion on ventral seams," the droid announced, tracing a scratch near the starboard thruster that definitely hadn't been there when they left.
Xander was already inside, fingers dancing across the cockpit console with the nervous energy of a bomb tech defusing a thermal detonator. "Boot sequence nominal," he reported, watching the diagnostics scroll faster than any human could read. "No new partitions in memory cores... wait." He shook his datapad for a moment.
Xander's fingers hovered over the diagnostics screen, the blue light casting sharp shadows across his furrowed brow. The system showed no anomalies—no hidden partitions, no unauthorized access logs, no tracking pings. Yet the hair on his neck stood rigid as durasteel bristles. The Vagrant's main computer had accepted his slicer's handshake but it was slightly askew, like a locked door swinging open before he'd finished picking it.
"Boot sequence complete," FL-AR3 intoned from the co-pilot's seat, his photoreceptors flickering across the same readouts. "All systems nominal. Your respiratory rate suggests distress inconsistent with—"
"I know what my damn lungs are doing," Xander snapped, scrolling through nested directories with increasing aggression.
Pron leaned over his shoulder, still smelling faintly of engine grease and Sullustan stomach acid. "Problem?"
"No." Xander jabbed a finger at the screen. "That's the problem. There was a hiccup while I was running the tracking program." He tapped a sequence that should've triggered his custom monitoring suite. The console chirped pleasantly and displayed the ship's public holonet access codes. "I don't see what that hiccup even was."
"A fixer-upper," Pron wheezed, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. The Sullustan's sly grin was a welcome change after his previous stomach emptying issues. A hollow clang echoed through the cockpit as he smacked the overhead controls lightly with his fist, followed by the distinct sound of something metallic rattling loose inside the housing. "See? Personality."
Spanner crouched to peer into an exposed cavity, where a frayed hydrospanner cable dangled like a dead vine. "That's not personality," he said, poking the sparking wires. "That's entropy winning." The cable spat a shower of blue sparks that danced across his fingertips before fizzling out against the floor.
Satisfied the ship was intact, safe and not being tracked, it was time to top off fuel reserves. The fuel nozzle clicked off with a finality that made Spanner's teeth ache. Not because of the sound—because of the price. The credit chit in his hand felt gave him a strange feeling, like someone had skimmed a few digits while he wasn't looking. "This much for tibanna?" he hissed at the Geonosian fuel master, who merely blinked his compound eyes and extended a chitinous hand for payment.
Behind him, Koraz leaned against the Vagrant's landing strut, cleaning his nails with the tip of a blade. "Be grateful it's not siphoned," the Iktotchi rumbled. "Last time I fueled here, my engines coughed up someone's jewelry collection."
The Mirialan politician—whose name Spanner still couldn't remember—adjusted his embroidered cloak with the precision of a man used to servants. "The Core Worlds will be safer for me," he said, handing Xander a data chit engraved with what looked like genuine Chandrilan platinum. "Your payment awaits upon my arrival." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Assuming no... complications arise during transit. Thank you for saving me from those savage Rodians." Roona just grunted from nearby and the politician gulped and moved away quickly, looking to book himself passage.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered yellow as he scanned the chit. "Encryption level suggests either legitimate banking protocols," the droid observed, "or an exceptionally well-funded trap."
Once everything was complete, the Vagrant's sublight engines roared to life with a shudder that rattled Spanner's teeth. Through the viewport, Geonosis' rust-colored sky peeled away like old paint, replaced by the star-smeared black of high orbit. FL-AR3 stood ramrod straight at the nav console, his photoreceptors cycling through hyperspace calculations with mechanical precision.
"Coordinates locked," the droid announced. "Hyperspace jump in three... two..."
FL-AR3 stood rigid in the cargo hold, his upgraded photoreceptors analyzing dust motes in the air vents with the intensity of a scholar studying ancient texts. "Disappointing," the droid announced. "Our transit lacked even basic attempts at interdiction." His vocabulator emitted a staticky sigh. "Captain Vos operates with a 94% reduction in dramatic tension compared to standard smuggling protocols."
The Vagrant crouched on gantry AB14 like a giant blocky disposal unit —dust settling on her hull, fuel lines stiff from disuse, and a pair of Geonosian sentries perched on her starboard wing with all the vigilance of bored vultures. Their chitinous carapaces gleamed under the hangar's flickering lumas, but their compound eyes kept drifting toward the spice den across the landing field.
Groaning like an old man with bad knees, the boarding ramp descended—the exact same sound Spanner remembered from two weeks ago, which meant nobody had tampered with the hydraulic seals. "Still sounds like my uncle after harvest season," he muttered, kicking a loose panel that had never quite seated properly.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered across the hull plating in precise scanning patterns. "Minor corrosion on ventral seams," the droid announced, tracing a scratch near the starboard thruster that definitely hadn't been there when they left.
Xander was already inside, fingers dancing across the cockpit console with the nervous energy of a bomb tech defusing a thermal detonator. "Boot sequence nominal," he reported, watching the diagnostics scroll faster than any human could read. "No new partitions in memory cores... wait." He shook his datapad for a moment.
Xander's fingers hovered over the diagnostics screen, the blue light casting sharp shadows across his furrowed brow. The system showed no anomalies—no hidden partitions, no unauthorized access logs, no tracking pings. Yet the hair on his neck stood rigid as durasteel bristles. The Vagrant's main computer had accepted his slicer's handshake but it was slightly askew, like a locked door swinging open before he'd finished picking it.
"Boot sequence complete," FL-AR3 intoned from the co-pilot's seat, his photoreceptors flickering across the same readouts. "All systems nominal. Your respiratory rate suggests distress inconsistent with—"
"I know what my damn lungs are doing," Xander snapped, scrolling through nested directories with increasing aggression.
Pron leaned over his shoulder, still smelling faintly of engine grease and Sullustan stomach acid. "Problem?"
"No." Xander jabbed a finger at the screen. "That's the problem. There was a hiccup while I was running the tracking program." He tapped a sequence that should've triggered his custom monitoring suite. The console chirped pleasantly and displayed the ship's public holonet access codes. "I don't see what that hiccup even was."
"A fixer-upper," Pron wheezed, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. The Sullustan's sly grin was a welcome change after his previous stomach emptying issues. A hollow clang echoed through the cockpit as he smacked the overhead controls lightly with his fist, followed by the distinct sound of something metallic rattling loose inside the housing. "See? Personality."
Spanner crouched to peer into an exposed cavity, where a frayed hydrospanner cable dangled like a dead vine. "That's not personality," he said, poking the sparking wires. "That's entropy winning." The cable spat a shower of blue sparks that danced across his fingertips before fizzling out against the floor.
Satisfied the ship was intact, safe and not being tracked, it was time to top off fuel reserves. The fuel nozzle clicked off with a finality that made Spanner's teeth ache. Not because of the sound—because of the price. The credit chit in his hand felt gave him a strange feeling, like someone had skimmed a few digits while he wasn't looking. "This much for tibanna?" he hissed at the Geonosian fuel master, who merely blinked his compound eyes and extended a chitinous hand for payment.
Behind him, Koraz leaned against the Vagrant's landing strut, cleaning his nails with the tip of a blade. "Be grateful it's not siphoned," the Iktotchi rumbled. "Last time I fueled here, my engines coughed up someone's jewelry collection."
The Mirialan politician—whose name Spanner still couldn't remember—adjusted his embroidered cloak with the precision of a man used to servants. "The Core Worlds will be safer for me," he said, handing Xander a data chit engraved with what looked like genuine Chandrilan platinum. "Your payment awaits upon my arrival." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Assuming no... complications arise during transit. Thank you for saving me from those savage Rodians." Roona just grunted from nearby and the politician gulped and moved away quickly, looking to book himself passage.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered yellow as he scanned the chit. "Encryption level suggests either legitimate banking protocols," the droid observed, "or an exceptionally well-funded trap."
Once everything was complete, the Vagrant's sublight engines roared to life with a shudder that rattled Spanner's teeth. Through the viewport, Geonosis' rust-colored sky peeled away like old paint, replaced by the star-smeared black of high orbit. FL-AR3 stood ramrod straight at the nav console, his photoreceptors cycling through hyperspace calculations with mechanical precision.
"Coordinates locked," the droid announced. "Hyperspace jump in three... two..."
Re: On the Road Again... (Postlude Episode 24)
If Coruscant had a dark twin, it would be the moon named Nar Shaddaa. The Smuggler’s Moon is a smog-filled, massive city and the center of commerce in Hutt Space. Its lush jungles and sparkling oceans were long ago wiped away to feed the endless appetite of Hutt ambition. The skies above Nar Shaddaa are clogged with ships of all types. Nothing is off-limits in the spires of Nar Shaddaa, for as the smugglers’ saying goes, “All is found on Nar Shaddaa, though some things are better left lost.”
The moon is an important refueling depot for transports heading farther into the Outer Rim. The kajidics enjoy the legitimate profit from this enterprise (in addition to the illicit trade it supports). The close relationship between the Hutts and the Dugs of Malastare keeps fuel supplies fully stocked.
While the increased Imperial presence in parts of Hutt Space has many on edge, Nar Shaddaa enjoys a relatively Empire-free existence thanks to
recent events exposing Imperial corruption on a grand scale. The Empire has gone to great lengths to cover up the so-called “Battle of Nar Shaddaa,” but word has spread through the underworld, hinting that perhaps the Empire is not as invincible as many believe.
Nar Shaddaa is a place where many go to evade the troubles that plague them. The hunted, the broken, and myriad others seek the anonymity of the moon’s sprawl. They seek to become yet another face among the masses that go through each day out of sight and out of mind as they move about the city. There is always a constant stream of beings who never elicit a second look—the hopeless and downtrodden who barely manage to eke out what passes for a life on the filth-ridden streets. Many with bounties on their heads hide among these beings, using the cover of a forgotten soul to evade capture or death. The person one steps over in the gutters of Nar Shaddaa might once have been a mighty warrior, perhaps even long ago a Jedi Knight, now hiding out to avoid the great purge with the other members of the lost.
The Vagrant shuddered violently as it ripped itself back into realspace, the hyperspace tunnel collapsing behind it in a burst of distorted starlight. Pron had chosen the drop point with surgical precision—far enough from Nar Shaddaa's gravity well to avoid traffic scanners, close enough to see the moon's smog-choked glow staining the void like a festering wound.
"Like jumping into a Hutt's armpit," Spanner muttered, looking closely at the digital viewport. The YV-666 had no actually windows, everything was rendered on digital displays, even for the cockpit. The moon's infamous spires speared upward through layers of atmospheric grime, their neon signs flickering through the haze like drunken fireflies.
Pron's boot hit the sublight throttle just as the proximity alarm screamed—a Lambda-class T-4A shuttle slid into view like a blade from a vibroknife sheath, its angular hull glinting with fresh Imperial paint. The comm crackled to life before Roona could reach for the scrambler.
A holographic image of a human man wearing a rumpled and torn Imperial Officer's uniform appears on the communications projector. Roona quickly patches in the audio to the rest of the crew. The man has buzz-cropped hair, dark eyes and a deep scar running across his forehead and nose. "Attention civilian vessel! This is Imperial Lieutenant Drake of the Imperial Shuttlecraft Delta-84. We have suffered a catastrophic internal plasma explosion and our captain has been gravely wounded. We seek emergency medical assistance. By Imperial authority we command you to slow your vessel and prepare to receive wounded."
The Vagrant's dorsal quad-laser turret powered up but remained retracted as Koraz waited with the predatory patience of an Iktotchi sand-hunter. His claws clicked against the targeting interface—three deliberate taps that calibrated the reticule to account for the T-4A's angular deflector shielding. Through the crosshairs, he watched coolant vents pulse along the shuttle's underbelly. Too steady for a ship supposedly hemorrhaging plasma.
FL-AR3's diagnostics flickered across engineering's secondary console in precise amber glyphs. The droid's assessment was colder than deep space: *Plasma explosion scenario 97.4% improbable. Observed engine signatures indicate nominal function. Deception protocols active.*
Xander meanwhile routed auxiliary power to the forward shields—exactly where Imperial boarding parties liked to concentrate fire. "Plugging in," he muttered, jamming his neural jack into the Vagrant's systems. Feedback seared through his synapses like molten durasteel, painting his vision in jagged scarlet fractals. Somewhere beneath the pain, he registered the telltale ping of an Imperial IFF transponder broadcasting distress codes. Too clean. Too textbook.
FL-AR3's magnetic clamps hissed against engineering's deck plating as the droid interfaced with the plasma regulators. His photoreceptors flickered through diagnostic menus at speeds no organic could follow. "Fascinating," the droid announced to no one in particular. "Our 'catastrophic' explosion appears to have left their containment field at 98.6% efficiency." A servo whirred as he tapped into the shuttle's open comms.
Spanner's stomach lurched violently as the hyperspace vertigo hit—a delayed reaction from their rough exit. The world tilted sideways as he stumbled toward his bunk, swallowing bile. The cot's thin padding smelled faintly of disinfectant and old sweat. Somewhere above him, the dorsal turret's hydraulics groaned.
Koraz's gloved fingers tapped against the targeting interface in a rhythmic pattern—three taps to adjust for shield harmonics, two for minimal atmospheric drag. Through the crosshairs, the Imperial shuttle's portside thruster pulsed with suspicious regularity. His thumb hovered over the firing stud. "Say the word," he growled into the shipwide comm.
The Imperial shuttle hung in the void like a durasteel spider waiting for its web to tremble. Its running lights pulsed steady green—no emergency strobes, no erratic power fluctuations. Just the steady, predatory creep of a vessel that knew exactly how damaged it wasn't. Then it accelerated.
The moon is an important refueling depot for transports heading farther into the Outer Rim. The kajidics enjoy the legitimate profit from this enterprise (in addition to the illicit trade it supports). The close relationship between the Hutts and the Dugs of Malastare keeps fuel supplies fully stocked.
While the increased Imperial presence in parts of Hutt Space has many on edge, Nar Shaddaa enjoys a relatively Empire-free existence thanks to
recent events exposing Imperial corruption on a grand scale. The Empire has gone to great lengths to cover up the so-called “Battle of Nar Shaddaa,” but word has spread through the underworld, hinting that perhaps the Empire is not as invincible as many believe.
Nar Shaddaa is a place where many go to evade the troubles that plague them. The hunted, the broken, and myriad others seek the anonymity of the moon’s sprawl. They seek to become yet another face among the masses that go through each day out of sight and out of mind as they move about the city. There is always a constant stream of beings who never elicit a second look—the hopeless and downtrodden who barely manage to eke out what passes for a life on the filth-ridden streets. Many with bounties on their heads hide among these beings, using the cover of a forgotten soul to evade capture or death. The person one steps over in the gutters of Nar Shaddaa might once have been a mighty warrior, perhaps even long ago a Jedi Knight, now hiding out to avoid the great purge with the other members of the lost.
The Vagrant shuddered violently as it ripped itself back into realspace, the hyperspace tunnel collapsing behind it in a burst of distorted starlight. Pron had chosen the drop point with surgical precision—far enough from Nar Shaddaa's gravity well to avoid traffic scanners, close enough to see the moon's smog-choked glow staining the void like a festering wound.
"Like jumping into a Hutt's armpit," Spanner muttered, looking closely at the digital viewport. The YV-666 had no actually windows, everything was rendered on digital displays, even for the cockpit. The moon's infamous spires speared upward through layers of atmospheric grime, their neon signs flickering through the haze like drunken fireflies.
Pron's boot hit the sublight throttle just as the proximity alarm screamed—a Lambda-class T-4A shuttle slid into view like a blade from a vibroknife sheath, its angular hull glinting with fresh Imperial paint. The comm crackled to life before Roona could reach for the scrambler.
A holographic image of a human man wearing a rumpled and torn Imperial Officer's uniform appears on the communications projector. Roona quickly patches in the audio to the rest of the crew. The man has buzz-cropped hair, dark eyes and a deep scar running across his forehead and nose. "Attention civilian vessel! This is Imperial Lieutenant Drake of the Imperial Shuttlecraft Delta-84. We have suffered a catastrophic internal plasma explosion and our captain has been gravely wounded. We seek emergency medical assistance. By Imperial authority we command you to slow your vessel and prepare to receive wounded."
The Vagrant's dorsal quad-laser turret powered up but remained retracted as Koraz waited with the predatory patience of an Iktotchi sand-hunter. His claws clicked against the targeting interface—three deliberate taps that calibrated the reticule to account for the T-4A's angular deflector shielding. Through the crosshairs, he watched coolant vents pulse along the shuttle's underbelly. Too steady for a ship supposedly hemorrhaging plasma.
FL-AR3's diagnostics flickered across engineering's secondary console in precise amber glyphs. The droid's assessment was colder than deep space: *Plasma explosion scenario 97.4% improbable. Observed engine signatures indicate nominal function. Deception protocols active.*
Xander meanwhile routed auxiliary power to the forward shields—exactly where Imperial boarding parties liked to concentrate fire. "Plugging in," he muttered, jamming his neural jack into the Vagrant's systems. Feedback seared through his synapses like molten durasteel, painting his vision in jagged scarlet fractals. Somewhere beneath the pain, he registered the telltale ping of an Imperial IFF transponder broadcasting distress codes. Too clean. Too textbook.
FL-AR3's magnetic clamps hissed against engineering's deck plating as the droid interfaced with the plasma regulators. His photoreceptors flickered through diagnostic menus at speeds no organic could follow. "Fascinating," the droid announced to no one in particular. "Our 'catastrophic' explosion appears to have left their containment field at 98.6% efficiency." A servo whirred as he tapped into the shuttle's open comms.
Spanner's stomach lurched violently as the hyperspace vertigo hit—a delayed reaction from their rough exit. The world tilted sideways as he stumbled toward his bunk, swallowing bile. The cot's thin padding smelled faintly of disinfectant and old sweat. Somewhere above him, the dorsal turret's hydraulics groaned.
Koraz's gloved fingers tapped against the targeting interface in a rhythmic pattern—three taps to adjust for shield harmonics, two for minimal atmospheric drag. Through the crosshairs, the Imperial shuttle's portside thruster pulsed with suspicious regularity. His thumb hovered over the firing stud. "Say the word," he growled into the shipwide comm.
The Imperial shuttle hung in the void like a durasteel spider waiting for its web to tremble. Its running lights pulsed steady green—no emergency strobes, no erratic power fluctuations. Just the steady, predatory creep of a vessel that knew exactly how damaged it wasn't. Then it accelerated.