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.
Pron's fingers danced across the throttle console with the practiced ease of a Sullustan who'd spent more hours in a cockpit than on solid ground. The Vagrant's sublight engines responded instantly—not with the smooth purr of military-grade stabilizers, but with the gut-rattling growl of a freighter that had been pushed past its specs one too many times. "They're accelerating," he muttered, watching the shuttle's thrusters flare brighter through the viewport. "Probably want to board us."
"Good luck," Xander hissed through clenched teeth, his neural jack still spitting jagged feedback into his optic nerve.
The Imperial shuttle's thrusters flared crimson as it surged forward, its angular prow carving through the void like a vibroblade. Pron's fingers danced across the throttle console—not increasing speed to flee, but deliberately increasing their vector to let the T-4A close the gap.
"Take us firing range," Roona observed, her suction-tipped fingers tightening around the copilot's firing controls.
"Wanted to see if they'd flinch," Pron muttered, watching the shuttle's targeting sensors paint the Vagrant's hull in harmless scanning beams. "They didn't."
Xander's neural jack spat sparks as he brute-forced his way into the shuttle's open comms—Imperial encryption crumbling like stale ration bars under his assault. His pupils dilated unnaturally as raw data flooded his optic nerves: maintenance logs showing pristine systems, internal comms chatter between bored troopers, and—most damning—a looping recording of Lieutenant Drake's 'distress call' queued up for continuous broadcast.
Koraz's claws tightened around the firing yoke—one slow breath—then he squeezed the trigger. The Vagrant's quad-lasers screamed, superheated plasma carving through the void in twin lances of molten light. The first bolt clipped the shuttle's starboard wing, sending it into a drunken lurch. The second punched clean through its dorsal sensor array in a shower of sparks.
Roona didn't cheer. She adjusted for the shuttle's wobbling trajectory and fired again, her shot shearing off a chunk of hull plating that spun away into the black. "Shields 60%," she noted coolly, her Rodian eyes tracking debris patterns. "Rerouting power —"
Xander's fingers twitched in the air like a conductor guiding an invisible orchestra, his neural jack pulsing with amber warning lights as he forced the Imperial shuttle's shield generators into a feedback loop. "Not for long. Got them chasing their own tail," he hissed. The shuttle's defensive systems were now cannibalizing themselves—diverting power from forward shields to reinforce rear, then reversing the flow in a frantic, self-defeating dance.
FL-AR3 observed the cascading failures through stolen sensor data. "Fascinating," the droid intoned. "Their shield modulation frequency now matches their own engine harmonics. A 97.2% chance of shield failure."
The Imperial shuttle's retaliatory barrage hit like a hammer to the ribs—two precise bursts from its chin-mounted cannons raking the Vagrant's starboard flank. Enhanced shields flared electric blue as they absorbed the worst of the impact, but the freighter still bucked violently, throwing Spanner against the bulkhead hard enough to taste blood. Overhead panels spat sparks as conduits ruptured, painting the corridor in jagged shadows.
FL-AR3's diagnostics flared crimson across engineering. "Minor damage rendering ship overall efficiency down to 92%," the droid announced, his vocabulator unnaturally calm as a severed coolant line sprayed vapor across his chassis. "Secondary power couplings destabilized."
Koraz flexed around the quad-gun yoke then squeezed. Twin lances of superheated plasma tore through the void, the first punching clean through the T-4A's starboard stabilizer in a spray of molten durasteel. The second bolt slammed into the front of the shuttle, the weakened shields unable to deflect the full power of the blast.
Roona's suction-tipped fingers danced across her targeting interface, her large dark eyes narrowing as she adjusted for the shuttle's destabilized trajectory. Her shot was surgical—a single bolt from the ventral cannon spearing through the shuttle's primary engine housing. Secondary explosions rippled along its hull as the drive sputtered and painted the black with spiraling exhaust trails.
Pron's fingers flew across the controls with the precision of a concert pianist mid-cadenza. The Vagrant lurched into a corkscrew spin, her battered hull groaning as artificial gravity fought to keep up. Through the viewport, Nar Shaddaa's neon sprawl became a smear of garish colors—a useful distraction as the Imperial shuttle's targeting sensors struggled to recalibrate. "They want boarding tubes?" he muttered, kicking the ventral thrusters to life. "Let them chew on exhaust fumes."
In engineering, FL-AR3's magnetic servos whined under the strain of a severed coolant conduit. The droid's left forearm telescoped outward, revealing a welding torch that spat blue-white plasma as it fused the ruptured line. Secondary systems flickered—life support stuttered for half a second before stabilizing—as the droid rerouted power with mechanical indifference. "Temporary repair efficacy: 68.3%," FL-AR3 announced to no one in particular. A sparking wire brushed against his chassis, making his photoreceptors flare crimson. "Unpleasant."
Xander's fingers slammed the jamming sequence with the force of a hydraulic press, his neural jack spitting static as it flooded local frequencies with white noise. The comms console erupted in a symphony of distorted screeches—enough to scramble Imperial communications for several minutes . Not that he believed these were real Imps. Real Imps wouldn't announce their plasma leaks like bad holodrama villains.
The supposed Imperial's next barrage streaked toward them—twin lances of ruby energy that splashed across the Vagrant's forward shields in fractal patterns. The reinforced deflectors held, dispersing the energy in a corona of electric blue ripples that made Pron's ear canals ache. "Shields at 87%," the Sullustan reported, his voice tight.
The Vagrant banked hard, her maneuvering thrusters screaming like a gutted bantha as Pron wrenched the freighter into a turn that would've sheared the wings off anything less than a YV-series hull. Through the starboard viewport, the Imperial shuttle streaked past close enough that Spanner could count the scorch marks on its hull plating—thirteen, by his quick tally—before it vanished behind them in a blur of angular gray.
Koraz's quad-lasers churned the void behind the fleeing shuttle, superheated plasma carving jagged red scars through the black. The Iktotchi's targeting reticule danced across the shuttle's destabilized engines, his claws adjusting for the erratic thruster pulses. "Come on, you overgrown tin can," he growled, squeezing off another burst that clipped the shuttle's ventral stabilizer. Molten durasteel sprayed into the vacuum like metallic blood.
FL-AR3's welding torch spat another gout of blue-white plasma as he fused the last ruptured coolant line, his photoreceptors cycling through diagnostic wavelengths. The severed conduit hissed in protest before sealing with a sound like cauterized flesh. "Primary repairs complete," the droid announced, retracting his welding attachment with a smooth hydraulic whir. His cranial unit tilted toward the sparking wire brushing against his chassis—an annoyance, not a threat. With clinical precision, he pinched the live cable between durasteel fingers and shoved it back into its housing. "Secondary systems now operating at 78.9% efficiency. Highly acceptable."
At the comms console, Xander's neural jack spat a final burst of static before disengaging. He slumped forward, forehead pressing against the computer's cold display as optic nerve feedback painted afterimages of Imperial encryption algorithms across his vision. The taste of copper flooded his mouth—he'd bitten his lip at some point. "Their comms are scrambled," he rasped, swiping blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "I'll try to slice their shields again."
Roona's antennae twitched in satisfaction as the shuttle's shield harmonics flickered across her targeting display—fractured, unstable. She exhaled, fingers tightening around the firing controls just as Pron rolled the Vagrant into position. The freighter's ventral cannons groaned with the strain of realignment before unleashing twin lances of emerald plasma. The shots punched through the shuttle's compromised deflectors like vibroblades through flimsiplast, shearing off its portside maneuvering array in a shower of molten alloy. Emergency klaxons blared through their stolen comms feed as the Imperial vessel listed violently, its drive sputtering like a dying engine-beast. "Tagwa!" the Rodian exclaimed.
"Primary systems failing," FL-AR3 observed from engineering, his vocabulator dripping with mechanical smugness. "Their reactor output has dropped to 1.8% efficiency. Highly suboptimal."
The shuttle's forward bridge section detached with a hydraulic scream, emergency bolts firing in precise sequence as the command pod severed itself from the dying vessel. Pron slowed the Vagrant instantly—with the calculated circling of a predator sizing up wounded quarry. Through the digitized viewport, the escape pod's maneuvering thrusters spat erratic bursts of blue flame, its trajectory wobbling like a drunkard stumbling through Nar Shaddaa's back alleys.
"Lifeboat has fractured stabilizer," Roona observed, her suction-tipped fingers dancing across the sensor display. The holographic projection painted jagged red lines across her Rodian features.
The shuttle's escape pod crackled to life on comms, 'Lieutenant Drake's' voice frayed with static but dripping with Imperial theatrics. "*Vagrant*, this is Delta-84 command pod—our life support is failing! For the Emperor's mercy—"
FL-AR3 severed the transmission mid-plea with a hydraulic click of his comms override. "Analysis: 89.7% probability of continued deception." His photoreceptors pulsed amber. "Their 'failing' life support registers nominal oxygen levels and stable thermal readings."
Koraz's voice crackled over the comms with all the warmth of a vibroblade against bare skin. "Imperial pod," he growled, his Iktotchi accent sharpening each syllable, "you seem capable enough to reach Nar Shaddaa's traffic zone unassisted." A pause—just long enough for the implication to settle—before adding, "Unless you'd prefer a hard push?"
Through the Vagrant's viewport, the escape pod's erratic thruster pulses painted jagged blue streaks against the smog-choked backdrop of Nar Shaddaa's orbital lanes. FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered as he analyzed the pod's flight path—unstable, but not uncontrolled.
The escape pod's comms crackled again, this time with a different tone—less Imperial starch, more desperate wheedling. "Wait! You're spacers, yeah? Freelancers?" The voice dropped into a conspiratorial rasp. "We've got... transferable skills. Heavy weapons. Slicing. Ex-ISB counterintel protocols." A pause filled with static. "Just saying. Could be worth a pickup."
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered yellow as he analyzed the vocal patterns. "Stress indicators suggest genuine panic," the droid observed. "Also, 83% probability they'll shoot us in the back within three standard weeks."
Pron didn't bother responding. His fingers tapped a sequence on the comms panel—just three clicks, deliberate. The Vagrant's engines roared to life, her sublight drives kicking up to full burn. Through the aft viewport, the escape pod shrank to a speck against Nar Shaddaa's neon-scarred skyline.
"Welcome, Nar Shadaa," Roona stated with a shrug.
Technical Difficulties (Episode 25)
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: Technical Difficulties (Episode 25)
Nar Shaddaa, nicknamed the "Smuggler's Moon," was the notorious moon of the planet Nal Hutta, homeworld of the Hutt species. It was home to a large criminal underworld dominated by bounty hunters and Hutt crime lords. An ecumenopolis, the entire surface of Nar Shaddaa was covered in urban sprawl. Nar Shaddaa was known for being polluted and possibly one of the most dangerous places in the galaxy, as its inhabitants embraced almost every sort of illegal activity with almost no interference from law enforcement or officials of any galactic government.
The Vagrant's cargo hold smelled like a medcenter after a spice raid—sharp antiseptic undertones fighting a losing battle against the cloying sweetness of raw ryll. Pron counted the crates again for the third time, his fingers brushing against stenciled Aurebesh letters reading NYN - RL-7X. Seven for the Twi'lek, three for them. A small reward in unprocessed bliss, if they could find a buyer who wouldn't rat them out to the Pykes or slice their throats mid-negotiation.
"Fortunate we've got little to do here," Koraz muttered, leaning against a stack of crates with the casual menace of a vibroblade balanced on its tip. His rugged reinforced jacket rippled as he adjusted the holster holding his freshly upgraded blaster pistol. Imik's modifications gleamed dully in the hold's flickering work lights. "Just find a buyer. Simple."
With the necessary details out of the way, a happy buyer paid 4600 credits to the account for Nyn and the people of New Meen. The crew had decided that with their best negotiator, Spanner, stil suffering the effects of that powerful drink provided by Bollin the Grey and a bit of hyperspace sickness, that they would keep their three crates of ryll securely in the cargo bay. It could always be sold later.
The Vagrant shuddered, once more, into hyperspace with all the grace of a drunkard stumbling into a cantina—engines whining, hull plates groaning, and one particularly loose hydrospanner cable in engineering spitting angry blue sparks every third second. FL-AR3 observed the erratic sparking with detached interest, his photoreceptors cycling through diagnostics. "Fascinating," the droid remarked to no one in particular. "An improvisational lighting system."
Spanner braced himself against the bulkhead as the freighter's artificial gravity fought against the hyperspace jump's gut-wrenching lurch. Through the viewport, the smog-choked sprawl of Nar Shaddaa stretched, warped, then snapped out of existence like a bad holonet connection. "Next stop: Kwenn Space Station," he muttered, swiping at the sweat beading on his forehead. "Assuming we don't shake apart first."
A few hours later, the YV-666 tore itself from hyperspace with the violent shudder of a dying beast, Kwenn Space Station's angular docking arms looming ahead like skeletal fingers grasping for prey. Pron exhaled through his nose—four quick puffs that Sullustans used to recalibrate inner ear pressure—as the sublights throttled down. "Docking request sent," he muttered, watching the station's automated response flicker across the comms panel.
Before the acknowledgement ping could sound, the holoprojector flared to life with an electric crackle. Tara Nightshade's image resolved with holographic precision—her sharp cheekbones casting angular shadows, lips curled in that perpetual half-smile that never reached her eyes. "Ah," she purred, fingers steepled. "You're alive. Good."
Pron's fingers froze over the navicomputer as Tara Nightshade's holographic face flickered into existence—that familiar scar slicing diagonally from the bridge of her nose to her left cheekbone like a chalk mark on durasteel. The imperfection somehow amplified her other features—the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the predatory gleam in her amber eyes—rather than diminishing them. Roona's suction-tipped fingers tightened around the copilot's yoke, her Rodian pupils dilating as she took in the woman's calculated smile.
"Tell me you've resolved that transponder issue," Tara Nightshade said, her holographic fingers gesturing in a manner that somehow managed to convey both amusement and threat.
Pron's ear twitched—a tell Roona had learned meant the Sullustan was suppressing irritation. "Literally just about to dock," he said, gesturing to the viewport where Kwenn's angular service arms loomed outside. "We're here to—"
"—get it handled, yes, excellent." Tara interrupted with the practiced ease of someone used to conversations being monologues. Her hologram flickered as she leaned forward, the light catching the sleek scar across her nose. "Which means you'll be free for a job soon."
FL-AR3's photoreceptors pulsed amber from the corridor below them. "Tara Nightshade," the droid exclaimed excitedly and cut into the conversation..
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flared a shade bluer than standard diagnostic amber—the droid equivalent of flushed cheeks—as his vocal processor emitted an uncharacteristically high-pitched burst of static. "Tara Nightshade!" he repeated, magnetic clamps whirring as he propelled himself into the engineering center. A stray spark from his patched-up wiring arced dramatically behind him like a comet's tail. "Your facial scar exhibits a 12.3% improvement in aesthetic symmetry since our last encounter. Statistically improbable for human tissue regeneration rates unless..." His head tilted with a hydraulic whine. "...you've acquired superior medical services?"
Pron's ear twitched violently. Roona's suction-cup fingers slipped off the yoke. FL-AR3's cranial unit rotated with an eager hydraulic whir, his photoreceptors cycling through an absurd spectrum of colors.
Tara's smile deepened—not the predatory grin of a hunter, but the indulgent curl of someone watching a particularly clever tooka bat at a dangling toy. "Thanks for the compliment, Flare," she purred, her voice dripping with the kind of amusement reserved for favorite pets and malfunctioning assassin droids.
FL-AR3's cranial unit twitched with a hydraulic chirp, his photoreceptors cycling through a rapid chromatic sequence that Xander recognized as the droid equivalent of preening. "Observation: Your vocal cadence suggests 78% sincerity," FL-AR3 announced, his vocabulator modulating into something suspiciously close to bashfulness. "Hypothesis: You find my analysis—"
"—endearing," Tara finished, waving a holographic hand before the droid could spiral into another statistical tangent. Her expression then shifted to business. "Speaking of analysis—my contact aboard the Relentless has been busy."
The hologram flickered, resolving into a tactical schematic of an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer. Tara continued, tapping the image to highlight a human female in Imperial grays. "Deep cover for three months. There's something important,... about pirates." Her smirk returned. "But I don't have all the information from our agent yet. I'll be in touch as soon something further happens. The Relentless is undertaking repairs to its hyperdrive, so it will be there for a few more days at least."
Pron's fingers drummed against the console. "Pirates," he repeated flatly. "We running cargo or corpses this time?"
Tara's chuckle was the sound of ice cracking underfoot. "Would I ever send you somewhere boring?" The holoprojector hissed static as she leaned closer. "Stand by at Kwenn. My agent reports in eighteen hours. Until then—" Her image dissolved into pixelated mist before Pron could protest.
The Vagrant's cargo hold smelled like a medcenter after a spice raid—sharp antiseptic undertones fighting a losing battle against the cloying sweetness of raw ryll. Pron counted the crates again for the third time, his fingers brushing against stenciled Aurebesh letters reading NYN - RL-7X. Seven for the Twi'lek, three for them. A small reward in unprocessed bliss, if they could find a buyer who wouldn't rat them out to the Pykes or slice their throats mid-negotiation.
"Fortunate we've got little to do here," Koraz muttered, leaning against a stack of crates with the casual menace of a vibroblade balanced on its tip. His rugged reinforced jacket rippled as he adjusted the holster holding his freshly upgraded blaster pistol. Imik's modifications gleamed dully in the hold's flickering work lights. "Just find a buyer. Simple."
With the necessary details out of the way, a happy buyer paid 4600 credits to the account for Nyn and the people of New Meen. The crew had decided that with their best negotiator, Spanner, stil suffering the effects of that powerful drink provided by Bollin the Grey and a bit of hyperspace sickness, that they would keep their three crates of ryll securely in the cargo bay. It could always be sold later.
The Vagrant shuddered, once more, into hyperspace with all the grace of a drunkard stumbling into a cantina—engines whining, hull plates groaning, and one particularly loose hydrospanner cable in engineering spitting angry blue sparks every third second. FL-AR3 observed the erratic sparking with detached interest, his photoreceptors cycling through diagnostics. "Fascinating," the droid remarked to no one in particular. "An improvisational lighting system."
Spanner braced himself against the bulkhead as the freighter's artificial gravity fought against the hyperspace jump's gut-wrenching lurch. Through the viewport, the smog-choked sprawl of Nar Shaddaa stretched, warped, then snapped out of existence like a bad holonet connection. "Next stop: Kwenn Space Station," he muttered, swiping at the sweat beading on his forehead. "Assuming we don't shake apart first."
A few hours later, the YV-666 tore itself from hyperspace with the violent shudder of a dying beast, Kwenn Space Station's angular docking arms looming ahead like skeletal fingers grasping for prey. Pron exhaled through his nose—four quick puffs that Sullustans used to recalibrate inner ear pressure—as the sublights throttled down. "Docking request sent," he muttered, watching the station's automated response flicker across the comms panel.
Before the acknowledgement ping could sound, the holoprojector flared to life with an electric crackle. Tara Nightshade's image resolved with holographic precision—her sharp cheekbones casting angular shadows, lips curled in that perpetual half-smile that never reached her eyes. "Ah," she purred, fingers steepled. "You're alive. Good."
Pron's fingers froze over the navicomputer as Tara Nightshade's holographic face flickered into existence—that familiar scar slicing diagonally from the bridge of her nose to her left cheekbone like a chalk mark on durasteel. The imperfection somehow amplified her other features—the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the predatory gleam in her amber eyes—rather than diminishing them. Roona's suction-tipped fingers tightened around the copilot's yoke, her Rodian pupils dilating as she took in the woman's calculated smile.
"Tell me you've resolved that transponder issue," Tara Nightshade said, her holographic fingers gesturing in a manner that somehow managed to convey both amusement and threat.
Pron's ear twitched—a tell Roona had learned meant the Sullustan was suppressing irritation. "Literally just about to dock," he said, gesturing to the viewport where Kwenn's angular service arms loomed outside. "We're here to—"
"—get it handled, yes, excellent." Tara interrupted with the practiced ease of someone used to conversations being monologues. Her hologram flickered as she leaned forward, the light catching the sleek scar across her nose. "Which means you'll be free for a job soon."
FL-AR3's photoreceptors pulsed amber from the corridor below them. "Tara Nightshade," the droid exclaimed excitedly and cut into the conversation..
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flared a shade bluer than standard diagnostic amber—the droid equivalent of flushed cheeks—as his vocal processor emitted an uncharacteristically high-pitched burst of static. "Tara Nightshade!" he repeated, magnetic clamps whirring as he propelled himself into the engineering center. A stray spark from his patched-up wiring arced dramatically behind him like a comet's tail. "Your facial scar exhibits a 12.3% improvement in aesthetic symmetry since our last encounter. Statistically improbable for human tissue regeneration rates unless..." His head tilted with a hydraulic whine. "...you've acquired superior medical services?"
Pron's ear twitched violently. Roona's suction-cup fingers slipped off the yoke. FL-AR3's cranial unit rotated with an eager hydraulic whir, his photoreceptors cycling through an absurd spectrum of colors.
Tara's smile deepened—not the predatory grin of a hunter, but the indulgent curl of someone watching a particularly clever tooka bat at a dangling toy. "Thanks for the compliment, Flare," she purred, her voice dripping with the kind of amusement reserved for favorite pets and malfunctioning assassin droids.
FL-AR3's cranial unit twitched with a hydraulic chirp, his photoreceptors cycling through a rapid chromatic sequence that Xander recognized as the droid equivalent of preening. "Observation: Your vocal cadence suggests 78% sincerity," FL-AR3 announced, his vocabulator modulating into something suspiciously close to bashfulness. "Hypothesis: You find my analysis—"
"—endearing," Tara finished, waving a holographic hand before the droid could spiral into another statistical tangent. Her expression then shifted to business. "Speaking of analysis—my contact aboard the Relentless has been busy."
The hologram flickered, resolving into a tactical schematic of an Imperial II-class Star Destroyer. Tara continued, tapping the image to highlight a human female in Imperial grays. "Deep cover for three months. There's something important,... about pirates." Her smirk returned. "But I don't have all the information from our agent yet. I'll be in touch as soon something further happens. The Relentless is undertaking repairs to its hyperdrive, so it will be there for a few more days at least."
Pron's fingers drummed against the console. "Pirates," he repeated flatly. "We running cargo or corpses this time?"
Tara's chuckle was the sound of ice cracking underfoot. "Would I ever send you somewhere boring?" The holoprojector hissed static as she leaned closer. "Stand by at Kwenn. My agent reports in eighteen hours. Until then—" Her image dissolved into pixelated mist before Pron could protest.
Re: Technical Difficulties (Episode 25)
Kwenn Station is a spacers’ haven, home to thousands of sentients catering to those frequenting the space lanes. Everything from luxury liners to slave ships, Imperial Star Destroyers to pirate frigates, and corporate cruisers to independent freighters stop to refuel here before entering or exiting Hutt Space.
Situated in geosynchronous orbit above the planet of the same name, Kwenn Space Station serves as a gateway between the Empire-controlled Mid Rim and the lawlessness of Hutt Space. With its bronze-colored body mottled with patina, arachnid-like dry dock legs, and gleaming eyestalk spires, Kwenn Station is reminiscent of a Despayran crab spider as it scuttles around Kwenn like that predator would circle a helpless gutter-snail. The ancient facility has changed appearances over the years as sections have been added and removed, but it has remained the most heavily trafficked supply depot on the Ootmian Pabol for millennia.
The top section of Kwenn space station contains many forms of entertainment and recreation for the weary space traveler. This large city-like structure rests upon a platform consisting of scores of individual space docks. Each docking bay is modular and can be varied in size to accommodate different ships by removing or adding walls. Inside, a series of interconnecting corridors lead from each bay airlock into the heart of the station. Repulsorlift tubes travel down into the main dry dock, a grid work hexagon built to fit ships as large as Imperial Star Destroyers. Here, these ships can dock for overhauling, refitting,and repairs, as well as for recreation leave and to take on supplies.
Within the clamshell-shaped hull of Kwenn Station lie countless hangar bays, cargo facilities, and living areas. The station’s exterior is speckled with docking ports, refueling stations, repair depots, chop shops, and more cargo facilities. Within the interior lies a maze of shops, bars, hotels, and casinos crammed into nearly every centimeter of habitable space. The corridors are caked in grease and dried-up coolant, and cluttered with broken starship parts and garbage piles. Central is in a constant state of disrepair. Many turbolifts don’t function properly or at all. Air scrubbers, long overdue for replacement, struggle in vain to wash the stink of the unkempt masses out of the warm and stale recycled air.
Kwenn Station has been decreed neutral territory between the Hutts and the Empire, and an entire deck is reserved for maintaining their uneasy peace. As such, the station hosts dozens of hidden shadowports that smugglers use while transporting contraband. These facilities are tucked in garbage chutes, conduit tunnels, and life support vents buried deep within Kwenn Central.
Tara has given the team the name of one Gobel, a Bothan slicer and ship enthusiast. He resides on Kwenn Station, as it is a place where he can ply his wares and keep a level of anonymity. Being very adept at tweaking transponders has allowed him to pay his way through life. However, he is also highly aware that his actions are highly illegal.
Therefore, getting to Gobel in the first place is a task within itself. He is paranoid and nervous and a bit reluctant to help just anyone who approaches him. Tara went on to explain that if approached directly, he is liable to bolt due to his paranoia kicking in to overdrive. Such is the life of one successful criminal career on Kwenn Space Station. Her recommendation was to find an intermediary to make the introductions and to name drop her name as she has provided satisfactory clients to the Bothan a few times before. And it's best to "lubricate" his tongue with a few drinks when discussing the job.
Tara recommended the Talifax Inn as a starting point. It is a sports bar and pub which has been a fixture on Kwenn for decades. Talifax has changed hands over the years, but it is currently owned by smashball’s infamous enforcer, the Corellian Dreadnaught’s number 001, Mallsam O’ne. The smashballer traded shoving players for serving drinks and reminiscing about the glory days to his adoring customers. Smugglers and freighter pilots come from all around to relax and cheer for their teams, but the local favorite is none other than the Corellian Dreadnaughts, and anyone rooting for another team is likely to be met with violence.
Situated in geosynchronous orbit above the planet of the same name, Kwenn Space Station serves as a gateway between the Empire-controlled Mid Rim and the lawlessness of Hutt Space. With its bronze-colored body mottled with patina, arachnid-like dry dock legs, and gleaming eyestalk spires, Kwenn Station is reminiscent of a Despayran crab spider as it scuttles around Kwenn like that predator would circle a helpless gutter-snail. The ancient facility has changed appearances over the years as sections have been added and removed, but it has remained the most heavily trafficked supply depot on the Ootmian Pabol for millennia.
The top section of Kwenn space station contains many forms of entertainment and recreation for the weary space traveler. This large city-like structure rests upon a platform consisting of scores of individual space docks. Each docking bay is modular and can be varied in size to accommodate different ships by removing or adding walls. Inside, a series of interconnecting corridors lead from each bay airlock into the heart of the station. Repulsorlift tubes travel down into the main dry dock, a grid work hexagon built to fit ships as large as Imperial Star Destroyers. Here, these ships can dock for overhauling, refitting,and repairs, as well as for recreation leave and to take on supplies.
Within the clamshell-shaped hull of Kwenn Station lie countless hangar bays, cargo facilities, and living areas. The station’s exterior is speckled with docking ports, refueling stations, repair depots, chop shops, and more cargo facilities. Within the interior lies a maze of shops, bars, hotels, and casinos crammed into nearly every centimeter of habitable space. The corridors are caked in grease and dried-up coolant, and cluttered with broken starship parts and garbage piles. Central is in a constant state of disrepair. Many turbolifts don’t function properly or at all. Air scrubbers, long overdue for replacement, struggle in vain to wash the stink of the unkempt masses out of the warm and stale recycled air.
Kwenn Station has been decreed neutral territory between the Hutts and the Empire, and an entire deck is reserved for maintaining their uneasy peace. As such, the station hosts dozens of hidden shadowports that smugglers use while transporting contraband. These facilities are tucked in garbage chutes, conduit tunnels, and life support vents buried deep within Kwenn Central.
Tara has given the team the name of one Gobel, a Bothan slicer and ship enthusiast. He resides on Kwenn Station, as it is a place where he can ply his wares and keep a level of anonymity. Being very adept at tweaking transponders has allowed him to pay his way through life. However, he is also highly aware that his actions are highly illegal.
Therefore, getting to Gobel in the first place is a task within itself. He is paranoid and nervous and a bit reluctant to help just anyone who approaches him. Tara went on to explain that if approached directly, he is liable to bolt due to his paranoia kicking in to overdrive. Such is the life of one successful criminal career on Kwenn Space Station. Her recommendation was to find an intermediary to make the introductions and to name drop her name as she has provided satisfactory clients to the Bothan a few times before. And it's best to "lubricate" his tongue with a few drinks when discussing the job.
Tara recommended the Talifax Inn as a starting point. It is a sports bar and pub which has been a fixture on Kwenn for decades. Talifax has changed hands over the years, but it is currently owned by smashball’s infamous enforcer, the Corellian Dreadnaught’s number 001, Mallsam O’ne. The smashballer traded shoving players for serving drinks and reminiscing about the glory days to his adoring customers. Smugglers and freighter pilots come from all around to relax and cheer for their teams, but the local favorite is none other than the Corellian Dreadnaughts, and anyone rooting for another team is likely to be met with violence.
Re: Technical Difficulties (Episode 25)
The YV-666's landing struts groaned as Pron guided the freighter into Kwenn Space Station's underbelly. Through the viewport, the grime-streaked docking bay stretched before them—a cavern of flickering work lights and mismatched hull plates welded haphazardly over decades of patch jobs. No customs droids. No ident scans. Just the stale reek of recycled air and engine coolant that seeped through the cockpit recycler vents.
"Too easy," Koraz rumbled from one of the jump seats. The Iktotchi's nostrils flared as he scanned the bay's shadowed corners. "Stations this size usually want credits or blood. Sometimes both." The docking readout indicated a fee of 50 credits per day.
The docking clamps hissed like pressurized steam escaping a failing coolant line as the Ugnaughts secured the YV-666 in place. Their grimy fingers danced across the manual override panel—too fast for standard procedure, too practiced for honest work. One glanced up at the freighter's battered hull, his snout wrinkling at the fresh scoring along her starboard flank. "Fifty creds a day," he grunted, tapping the credit chit reader mounted on the docking arm with a grease-stained hand. "First day paid. Rest before release." The device blinked red twice—a warning disguised as confirmation.
Pron's ears twitched in synchronized irritation as he transferred the credits. The reader chirped green, but the second Ugnaught was already shuffling toward the Vagrant's ventral maintenance hatch—the one with the faulty mag-lock that still hadn't been repaired since Geonosis. Koraz's shadow fell across the viewport before the Ugnaught could reach it, his silhouette stretching across the docking bay floor like a vibroblade unsheathed in dim light. The Ugnaught froze mid-step, sniffed the air, and scurried back to his partner without a word.
Xander's neural jack hissed as it penetrated the terminal's access port—less a slicer's delicate intrusion than a back-alley mugging of data streams. The console flickered in protest before surrendering its maps in jagged blue holograms that cast spiderweb shadows across his face. "Talifax Inn," he muttered, watching the route unfold—a convoluted tangle of service corridors, half-functional turbolifts, and one depressingly labeled "atmospheric recycling bypass" that likely smelled like a Hutt's laundry hamper. "Six levels up. Because of course it is."
Spanner leaned over his shoulder, still pale from hyperspace sickness. His fingers traced the path through the hologram—right at the leaking coolant pipe, left after the suspiciously organic-looking stains. "That's not a route," he observed. "That's an obstacle course."
The service corridor eventually dumped them into a cavernous atrium where gravity seemed to fluctuate—one moment Spanner's boots stuck to the grated floor, the next his stomach lurched as inertial dampeners hiccuped. Ahead, the Talifax Inn's neon sign buzzed like an angry insect colony, its flickering letters casting sickly green light across puddles of dubious origin. One hundred yards never felt so far.
"Watch third puddle," Roona murmured, her Rodian eyes tracking the viscous liquid's unnatural surface tension. It shimmered rainbow hues where the light hit—beautiful, if you ignored the floating hair clump.
As the group went about their business, an unusually large number of stormtroopers wandering about the area is noticed. Working in pairs, they caution everyone to stand back from any droids, as rogue droids are reportedly on the loose, carrying concealed weapons.
As the crew pass by, the Stormtroopers fire an ozone-smelling, spherical blue burst of light at a nearby droid. The astromech droid is hit by the burst and it begins to rattle, smoke, and cease functioning. That’s all that can be made out before the stormtroopers descend on the
helpless droid.
The stormtrooper's boot cracked against the smoking astromech's dome with a hollow clang, sending shards of scorched metal skittering across the station's deck plating. FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered yellow—diagnostic protocols whirring—as he analyzed the spherical weapon's residual energy signature. "Fascinating," the droid murmured, servos tensing. "Electromagnetic pulse variant. 87.4% effective against unshielded droid neural networks."
Koraz nudged Spanner behind a corroded cargo container just as another pair of white-armored figures rounded the corner. Their helmeted heads swiveled in synchronized suspicion, black eye lenses glinting under the Talifax Inn's flickering neon. One trooper's gloved finger tapped the side of his blaster rifle—tap-tap-tap—like a chrono counting down to detonation. The Stormtroopers moved on scanning the crowd and Koraz noticed a hovering spy eye droid watching the proceedings.
That's when they noticed FL-AR3 despite his concealing robes. Standing there watching the poor astromech get demolished was his undoing—his photoreceptors pulsed too brightly in the dim common area, cycling through rapid diagnostic wavelengths with telltale mechanical curiosity. The stormtrooper's helmet snapped toward the movement with predatory precision.
"Secondary droid!" The modulated voice barked through cracked helmet speakers. Black-tipped fingers tightened around the blaster carbine. "Step away from the droid. It may be dangerous."
A few of the crew chuckled—low, dark sounds that bounced off the station's corroded bulkheads. FL-AR3 was definitely dangerous, but the team didn't budge. Koraz's clawed fingers twitched near his blaster, not drawing yet, just letting the stormtroopers see the motion. The Iktotchi's nostrils flared as he inhaled the ozone stench of the earlier discharge still hanging in the recycled air.
"Secondary warning issued," the lead trooper barked, his modulator cracking on the high notes. The normal-looking carbine hummed to life with an unexpected cadence, casting jagged blue reflections across his white plastoid chest plate. "Comply or be neutralized."
Roona moved faster than anyone expected—her Rodian reflexes snapping her body into the path of the spherical energy bursts with the precision of a vibroblade parry. The blue-white orbs splashed across her chest in fractal patterns, crackling over her moisture-wicking tunic like liquid lightning. For one frozen heartbeat, everyone expected her to crumple—organic circuitry frying under the electromagnetic onslaught—but she simply shuddered, exhaled sharply, and remained standing. The stormtroopers' blaster barrels dipped in visible confusion.
"E Chu ta," Roona muttered, pulling out her weapon and firing back at the 'Troopers. "Ineffective."
Koraz's blaster cleared its holster before the final syllable of the stormtrooper's threat had finished echoing through the corridor. His first shot punched through the lead trooper's chest plate with surgical precision—not center mass, but the sweet spot where plastoid thinned near the armpit. The trooper crumpled like a puppet with severed strings, his blaster carbine clattering harmlessly across the deck plating.
Pron's pistol barked twice from behind a support beam, his shots slamming into the second trooper's visor in quick succession. The first cracked the helmet's photoreceptor; the second burned through the fissure with a hiss of vaporizing circuitry. The trooper staggered back, arms flailing blindly until Roona's follow up shot dropped him. White armor darkened with arterial spray as the body hit the ground with a wet thud.
FL-AR3's cloak billowed open like the wings of a mechanical raptor, revealing the sleek durasteel frame beneath—and more importantly, the freshly modified DLT-19 heavy blaster rifle Imik had made even more frighteningly efficient. The droid's photoreceptors flared crimson as targeting algorithms calculated optimal firing vectors in 0.3 seconds.
The first stormtrooper barely had time to register the movement before three consecutive bolts punched through his chest plate—each impact precisely 2.4 centimeters apart in a vertical line that severed primary life support systems. The second trooper spun toward the threat just in time to catch a burst of superheated plasma through his visor, the shot entering at a perfect 37-degree angle to exploit the helmet's weakest optical grade. The third managed half a scream before FL-AR3's final round disintegrated his vocal modulator along with most of his throat. Flare was definitely dangerous.
Xander's shot was less a blaster bolt and more a surgical strike—a single crimson streak that bisected the floating spy eye's central lens with pixel-perfect precision. The remote exploded in a shower of sparks and molten alloy, its wreckage clattering against the station's corroded deck plating like broken chrono gears.
"Nice shot," Koraz growled, already pivoting toward the nearest maintenance hatch. His blaster swept the corridor in tight arcs, nostrils flaring as he inhaled the acrid scent of burnt circuitry. "Hopefully we don't have more incoming."
Koraz's pupils contracted as a flicker of movement caught his peripheral vision—four technicians quickly abandoning their work on diagnostics datapads with the synchronized panic of banthas scenting a krayt dragon. Their boots squealed against the metal grating in a staccato rhythm of pure terror. One tech glanced back just long enough for Koraz to catch the whites of his widened eyes before disappearing around a jagged conduit.
"Could be trouble," Koraz growled, his blaster tracking the empty space where the technicians had been.
A brief moment later as the crew starts to head for the Talifax Inn, an ASP labor droid lumbers up and begins collecting the dead stormtroopers’ weapons. A few questions are asked, but the labor droid speaks using only the words “affirmative” and “negative”. Not getting much information, the crew turns to leave.
FL-AR3 watches for a moment as the others turn away. As the ASP trudges along, it stops and looks back and beckons with a mechanical claw for the team to follow.
------------------------------------------
Unused XPS (earned 15 from heist and shuttle combat)
Spanner - 25 (+10) [spent]
FL-AR3 - 10 (+15)
Pron - 10 (+10) [spent]
Koraz - 10 (+15) [spent all but 5]
Xander - 10 (+15) [spent]
Roona - 0 (+15) [spent]
Vagrant Group Funds - 2650 credits
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 crates of ryll (500 ea)
"Too easy," Koraz rumbled from one of the jump seats. The Iktotchi's nostrils flared as he scanned the bay's shadowed corners. "Stations this size usually want credits or blood. Sometimes both." The docking readout indicated a fee of 50 credits per day.
The docking clamps hissed like pressurized steam escaping a failing coolant line as the Ugnaughts secured the YV-666 in place. Their grimy fingers danced across the manual override panel—too fast for standard procedure, too practiced for honest work. One glanced up at the freighter's battered hull, his snout wrinkling at the fresh scoring along her starboard flank. "Fifty creds a day," he grunted, tapping the credit chit reader mounted on the docking arm with a grease-stained hand. "First day paid. Rest before release." The device blinked red twice—a warning disguised as confirmation.
Pron's ears twitched in synchronized irritation as he transferred the credits. The reader chirped green, but the second Ugnaught was already shuffling toward the Vagrant's ventral maintenance hatch—the one with the faulty mag-lock that still hadn't been repaired since Geonosis. Koraz's shadow fell across the viewport before the Ugnaught could reach it, his silhouette stretching across the docking bay floor like a vibroblade unsheathed in dim light. The Ugnaught froze mid-step, sniffed the air, and scurried back to his partner without a word.
Xander's neural jack hissed as it penetrated the terminal's access port—less a slicer's delicate intrusion than a back-alley mugging of data streams. The console flickered in protest before surrendering its maps in jagged blue holograms that cast spiderweb shadows across his face. "Talifax Inn," he muttered, watching the route unfold—a convoluted tangle of service corridors, half-functional turbolifts, and one depressingly labeled "atmospheric recycling bypass" that likely smelled like a Hutt's laundry hamper. "Six levels up. Because of course it is."
Spanner leaned over his shoulder, still pale from hyperspace sickness. His fingers traced the path through the hologram—right at the leaking coolant pipe, left after the suspiciously organic-looking stains. "That's not a route," he observed. "That's an obstacle course."
The service corridor eventually dumped them into a cavernous atrium where gravity seemed to fluctuate—one moment Spanner's boots stuck to the grated floor, the next his stomach lurched as inertial dampeners hiccuped. Ahead, the Talifax Inn's neon sign buzzed like an angry insect colony, its flickering letters casting sickly green light across puddles of dubious origin. One hundred yards never felt so far.
"Watch third puddle," Roona murmured, her Rodian eyes tracking the viscous liquid's unnatural surface tension. It shimmered rainbow hues where the light hit—beautiful, if you ignored the floating hair clump.
As the group went about their business, an unusually large number of stormtroopers wandering about the area is noticed. Working in pairs, they caution everyone to stand back from any droids, as rogue droids are reportedly on the loose, carrying concealed weapons.
As the crew pass by, the Stormtroopers fire an ozone-smelling, spherical blue burst of light at a nearby droid. The astromech droid is hit by the burst and it begins to rattle, smoke, and cease functioning. That’s all that can be made out before the stormtroopers descend on the
helpless droid.
The stormtrooper's boot cracked against the smoking astromech's dome with a hollow clang, sending shards of scorched metal skittering across the station's deck plating. FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered yellow—diagnostic protocols whirring—as he analyzed the spherical weapon's residual energy signature. "Fascinating," the droid murmured, servos tensing. "Electromagnetic pulse variant. 87.4% effective against unshielded droid neural networks."
Koraz nudged Spanner behind a corroded cargo container just as another pair of white-armored figures rounded the corner. Their helmeted heads swiveled in synchronized suspicion, black eye lenses glinting under the Talifax Inn's flickering neon. One trooper's gloved finger tapped the side of his blaster rifle—tap-tap-tap—like a chrono counting down to detonation. The Stormtroopers moved on scanning the crowd and Koraz noticed a hovering spy eye droid watching the proceedings.
That's when they noticed FL-AR3 despite his concealing robes. Standing there watching the poor astromech get demolished was his undoing—his photoreceptors pulsed too brightly in the dim common area, cycling through rapid diagnostic wavelengths with telltale mechanical curiosity. The stormtrooper's helmet snapped toward the movement with predatory precision.
"Secondary droid!" The modulated voice barked through cracked helmet speakers. Black-tipped fingers tightened around the blaster carbine. "Step away from the droid. It may be dangerous."
A few of the crew chuckled—low, dark sounds that bounced off the station's corroded bulkheads. FL-AR3 was definitely dangerous, but the team didn't budge. Koraz's clawed fingers twitched near his blaster, not drawing yet, just letting the stormtroopers see the motion. The Iktotchi's nostrils flared as he inhaled the ozone stench of the earlier discharge still hanging in the recycled air.
"Secondary warning issued," the lead trooper barked, his modulator cracking on the high notes. The normal-looking carbine hummed to life with an unexpected cadence, casting jagged blue reflections across his white plastoid chest plate. "Comply or be neutralized."
Roona moved faster than anyone expected—her Rodian reflexes snapping her body into the path of the spherical energy bursts with the precision of a vibroblade parry. The blue-white orbs splashed across her chest in fractal patterns, crackling over her moisture-wicking tunic like liquid lightning. For one frozen heartbeat, everyone expected her to crumple—organic circuitry frying under the electromagnetic onslaught—but she simply shuddered, exhaled sharply, and remained standing. The stormtroopers' blaster barrels dipped in visible confusion.
"E Chu ta," Roona muttered, pulling out her weapon and firing back at the 'Troopers. "Ineffective."
Koraz's blaster cleared its holster before the final syllable of the stormtrooper's threat had finished echoing through the corridor. His first shot punched through the lead trooper's chest plate with surgical precision—not center mass, but the sweet spot where plastoid thinned near the armpit. The trooper crumpled like a puppet with severed strings, his blaster carbine clattering harmlessly across the deck plating.
Pron's pistol barked twice from behind a support beam, his shots slamming into the second trooper's visor in quick succession. The first cracked the helmet's photoreceptor; the second burned through the fissure with a hiss of vaporizing circuitry. The trooper staggered back, arms flailing blindly until Roona's follow up shot dropped him. White armor darkened with arterial spray as the body hit the ground with a wet thud.
FL-AR3's cloak billowed open like the wings of a mechanical raptor, revealing the sleek durasteel frame beneath—and more importantly, the freshly modified DLT-19 heavy blaster rifle Imik had made even more frighteningly efficient. The droid's photoreceptors flared crimson as targeting algorithms calculated optimal firing vectors in 0.3 seconds.
The first stormtrooper barely had time to register the movement before three consecutive bolts punched through his chest plate—each impact precisely 2.4 centimeters apart in a vertical line that severed primary life support systems. The second trooper spun toward the threat just in time to catch a burst of superheated plasma through his visor, the shot entering at a perfect 37-degree angle to exploit the helmet's weakest optical grade. The third managed half a scream before FL-AR3's final round disintegrated his vocal modulator along with most of his throat. Flare was definitely dangerous.
Xander's shot was less a blaster bolt and more a surgical strike—a single crimson streak that bisected the floating spy eye's central lens with pixel-perfect precision. The remote exploded in a shower of sparks and molten alloy, its wreckage clattering against the station's corroded deck plating like broken chrono gears.
"Nice shot," Koraz growled, already pivoting toward the nearest maintenance hatch. His blaster swept the corridor in tight arcs, nostrils flaring as he inhaled the acrid scent of burnt circuitry. "Hopefully we don't have more incoming."
Koraz's pupils contracted as a flicker of movement caught his peripheral vision—four technicians quickly abandoning their work on diagnostics datapads with the synchronized panic of banthas scenting a krayt dragon. Their boots squealed against the metal grating in a staccato rhythm of pure terror. One tech glanced back just long enough for Koraz to catch the whites of his widened eyes before disappearing around a jagged conduit.
"Could be trouble," Koraz growled, his blaster tracking the empty space where the technicians had been.
A brief moment later as the crew starts to head for the Talifax Inn, an ASP labor droid lumbers up and begins collecting the dead stormtroopers’ weapons. A few questions are asked, but the labor droid speaks using only the words “affirmative” and “negative”. Not getting much information, the crew turns to leave.
FL-AR3 watches for a moment as the others turn away. As the ASP trudges along, it stops and looks back and beckons with a mechanical claw for the team to follow.
------------------------------------------
Unused XPS (earned 15 from heist and shuttle combat)
Spanner - 25 (+10) [spent]
FL-AR3 - 10 (+15)
Pron - 10 (+10) [spent]
Koraz - 10 (+15) [spent all but 5]
Xander - 10 (+15) [spent]
Roona - 0 (+15) [spent]
Vagrant Group Funds - 2650 credits
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 crates of ryll (500 ea)