Things had reached their most dire point. Desperation hung thick in the air here in Landing Bay Besh. There was talk of cutting through the docking clamps on one of the ships and blasting their way out. It was a reckless plan—risky and loud. Cutting through all three of the reinforced metal clamps would take time, and there was no telling how long the missing guards would go unnoticed. It was a classic case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. Still, there was no turning back. Everyone steeled themselves for what came next.
But what came next was not what anyone expected. It wasn’t Stormtroopers. Instead, two figures emerged—heavily armed and clad in black armor that gleamed under the harsh docking bay lights. They moved with precision, too disciplined for mercenaries, too silent for standard troops. Just a cold, deliberate presence that made everyone freeze.
They did wear insignias—small, stylized emblems of a curled tail and crowned eye. Teemo the Hutt. The slug who ran Mos Shuuta like his personal fiefdom, Imperial presence be damned.
The pair stopped just inside the docking bay, blaster rifles at the ready but not raised. Their leader stepped forward. His armor was worn in places, like it had seen real action—not parade-ground polish. His voice cut through the tense silence. "What the hell are you people doing?"
No one answered right away. The welding torch’s hum died as one of the crew instinctively killed the power. The question hung in the air like a live wire. Teemo’s enforcers weren't known for their patience—or mercy.
Den Nasi was always ready for a scrap. The moment the question left the enforcer’s mouth, Den’s vibrosword was in his hand, humming with lethal intent. The blade caught the flickering bay lights, casting a faint glow on his tense stance. In a heartbeat, the armored pair responded. Both rifles snapped up, barrels aimed squarely at Den’s chest. No words. Just the cold, mechanical threat of violence.
The leader didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to. "Bad move," he said flatly, eyes locked on Den. "Real bad."
Behind Den, the rest of the crew stayed frozen. No one dared speak. The plan to cut the clamps now seemed a lifetime ago.
Den took a step forward, sword raised. He didn’t get to take another. A blue pulse slammed into his chest—fast, clean, efficient. The leader’s blaster had been set to stun. Den’s body went rigid mid-stride, the vibrosword slipping from his grip.
Almost simultaneously, the second enforcer unleashed a furious spray from his heavy blaster rifle. The bolts scorched the durasteel floor in front of the group, sending sparks and heat washing over their boots. A not-so-subtle warning: next time, it wouldn’t be the floor.
"Anyone else want to be a hero?" the leader barked, lowering his weapon but not holstering it. Silence followed. Thick. Tense. Den groaned faintly. The message was clear: Teemo’s reach didn’t need numbers—just the right ones.
It was Proiah Pron who finally broke the silence. The Sullustan stepped forward slowly, hands raised just enough to show he wasn’t armed, his dark eyes shifting between the two enforcers. His voice was calm, measured, but firm.
"Alright. You've made your point. Now how about you tell us who you are—and why you're here?"
The leader gave Proiah a long, appraising look, then finally lowered his weapon.
"That was our question to you," he said coolly. "You're in deep trouble, and you've got a choice." He stepped closer, boots echoing on the metal deck, and gestured casually toward the wounded Den.
"Come with us. Work for Teemo. Or stay here and deal with the Imps on your own. Your call." He paused, letting the silence press in before continuing.
"The Imperials sniffing around for rebels? They'll be gone soon. We don’t care what happens to them. But you—" he pointed a finger at the group, "—you killed two of the locals. Teemo’s going to have to work on smoothing that over."
He glanced toward the docking bay entrance. "You've got minutes. Maybe less. Choose fast."
The group exchanged glances. No one spoke, but the answer was clear in their eyes: none of them had the fight left for thirty Stormtroopers.
Proiah sighed, his voice low. “We’ll go. Lead the way.”
The enforcers didn’t gloat. They didn’t have to. The second one gave a short nod, then turned on his heel and started toward the entrance of the docking bay. The leader lingered for a moment, eyeing the group like he was sizing up cargo—then followed. Everyone walked in silence, flanked by the black-armored escorts.
Eventually, the towering sandstone structure of Teemo’s palace came into view—half fortress, half luxury den, perched on a bluff overlooking the dust-choked sprawl of Mos Shuuta. Gaudy banners with Teemo’s sigil hung limp in the dry heat. A pair of Gamorrean guards flanked the entryway, eyeing the newcomers with dull suspicion.
The doors groaned open. Whatever came next, it was out of their hands now.
The Price of Freedom (Episode 3)
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: The Price of Freedom (Episode 3)
Teemo the Hutt's audience chamber reeked of incense and indulgence. Slaves moved through the shadows, music hummed from hidden speakers, and a motley crew of fringers walked in, escorted by two of Teemo's enforcers.
Teemo lounged on his dais, the metal rings of his tail scraping softly against the polished floor as he shifted his bulk. His eyes gleamed with amusement—or perhaps calculation—as he regarded the crew assembled before him. "So," he rumbled, voice thick with slime and smugness. "You killed Stormtroopers. Stirred up Imperial trouble. And walked into my palace looking for protection."
He leaned forward slightly, multiple chins bunching. "Now you owe me."
No one spoke. Teemo tapped a claw against the arm of his throne. A holoprojector near him activated, displaying a lush, dense forest world—Myrkr.
"I want a mated pair of vornskr and ysalamiri brought to me alive," he said. "Creatures of great... value."
The image shifted, highlighting the vornskr’s sleek, predatory form—eyes glowing with primal intelligence—and the slender, passive shape of the ysalamiri clinging to a tree trunk, its neural bubble visibly pushing back against Force energy even in the simulation.
"They are hard to catch. Harder to keep alive. But you will do it."
Proiah finally stepped forward. “And if we refuse?”
Teemo’s laugh was wet and unpleasant. “Then I hand you over to the Empire and let them pull you apart to see what’s left.”
Silence settled over the chamber like a heat wave.
"You leave at dawn," Teemo said, the finality in his tone unmistakable. “Succeed, and your debt is paid. Fail…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
The shuttle wasn’t in a sterile landing bay. No, it sat on a platform that hung precariously off the side of the towering mesa that Mos Shuuta was built upon. The wind whipped fiercely against the exposed metal, the distant hum of engines echoing from other ships as they too made their way in and out of the floating platform.
Den grimaced as he stepped out onto the platform, his eyes darting to the rusted, insectoid shuttle that awaited them. The shuttle's design was crude—built more for function than comfort—and its exterior looked as though it had been pieced together from scrap parts. But what bothered Den more than the ship’s state was the very creature that ran it.
Vl'Grax.
The insectoid proprietor was already waiting at the ship’s entrance, his black, compound eyes gleaming with an unsettling intelligence. He clicked his mandibles as the crew approached, and Den visibly shuddered.
"Vl'Grax," Proiah greeted, his tone neutral. “Good to see you again.”
Vl'Grax gave a low, resonant hum in response, his limbs moving with an eerie fluidity. "Always a pleasure, Proiah," he said, his voice a clicking, rasping sound that grated on Den’s nerves. "This way, please."
Den’s hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his vibrosword as he stepped onto the shuttle. He kept his distance from the insectoid as much as possible, his disgust clear. The shuttle’s interior wasn’t much better—a cramped, dim space with seats bolted to the floor in no particular order. The air smelled faintly of incense and oil, a mixture Den couldn’t quite place.
Vl'Grax, however, seemed completely at ease, his mandibles clicking in amusement as he scuttled toward the cockpit.
“Comfortable?” he asked, an edge of mockery in his tone as he turned to face the crew, his eyes glinting with what could have been amusement or just his species' natural expression. Den narrowed his eyes but said nothing, choosing instead to sit as far away from the insectoid as possible.
The shuttle rumbled as the engines fired up, and slowly, the platform began to retract from the mesa, taking them out into the open air. Den’s stomach churned as the wind kicked up, the towering cliffs of Mos Shuuta fading into the distance.
Proiah, trying to break the tension, spoke up again. "Mos Espa's not far. We should be able to get the payment sorted there. But after this job... we’re going to have to keep our heads down."
Den muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking nervously to the cockpit, where Vl'Grax had taken the pilot's seat. "Yeah, 'cause I’m really looking forward to working for Teemo the Hutt."
Teemo lounged on his dais, the metal rings of his tail scraping softly against the polished floor as he shifted his bulk. His eyes gleamed with amusement—or perhaps calculation—as he regarded the crew assembled before him. "So," he rumbled, voice thick with slime and smugness. "You killed Stormtroopers. Stirred up Imperial trouble. And walked into my palace looking for protection."
He leaned forward slightly, multiple chins bunching. "Now you owe me."
No one spoke. Teemo tapped a claw against the arm of his throne. A holoprojector near him activated, displaying a lush, dense forest world—Myrkr.
"I want a mated pair of vornskr and ysalamiri brought to me alive," he said. "Creatures of great... value."
The image shifted, highlighting the vornskr’s sleek, predatory form—eyes glowing with primal intelligence—and the slender, passive shape of the ysalamiri clinging to a tree trunk, its neural bubble visibly pushing back against Force energy even in the simulation.
"They are hard to catch. Harder to keep alive. But you will do it."
Proiah finally stepped forward. “And if we refuse?”
Teemo’s laugh was wet and unpleasant. “Then I hand you over to the Empire and let them pull you apart to see what’s left.”
Silence settled over the chamber like a heat wave.
"You leave at dawn," Teemo said, the finality in his tone unmistakable. “Succeed, and your debt is paid. Fail…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.
The shuttle wasn’t in a sterile landing bay. No, it sat on a platform that hung precariously off the side of the towering mesa that Mos Shuuta was built upon. The wind whipped fiercely against the exposed metal, the distant hum of engines echoing from other ships as they too made their way in and out of the floating platform.
Den grimaced as he stepped out onto the platform, his eyes darting to the rusted, insectoid shuttle that awaited them. The shuttle's design was crude—built more for function than comfort—and its exterior looked as though it had been pieced together from scrap parts. But what bothered Den more than the ship’s state was the very creature that ran it.
Vl'Grax.
The insectoid proprietor was already waiting at the ship’s entrance, his black, compound eyes gleaming with an unsettling intelligence. He clicked his mandibles as the crew approached, and Den visibly shuddered.
"Vl'Grax," Proiah greeted, his tone neutral. “Good to see you again.”
Vl'Grax gave a low, resonant hum in response, his limbs moving with an eerie fluidity. "Always a pleasure, Proiah," he said, his voice a clicking, rasping sound that grated on Den’s nerves. "This way, please."
Den’s hand instinctively gripped the hilt of his vibrosword as he stepped onto the shuttle. He kept his distance from the insectoid as much as possible, his disgust clear. The shuttle’s interior wasn’t much better—a cramped, dim space with seats bolted to the floor in no particular order. The air smelled faintly of incense and oil, a mixture Den couldn’t quite place.
Vl'Grax, however, seemed completely at ease, his mandibles clicking in amusement as he scuttled toward the cockpit.
“Comfortable?” he asked, an edge of mockery in his tone as he turned to face the crew, his eyes glinting with what could have been amusement or just his species' natural expression. Den narrowed his eyes but said nothing, choosing instead to sit as far away from the insectoid as possible.
The shuttle rumbled as the engines fired up, and slowly, the platform began to retract from the mesa, taking them out into the open air. Den’s stomach churned as the wind kicked up, the towering cliffs of Mos Shuuta fading into the distance.
Proiah, trying to break the tension, spoke up again. "Mos Espa's not far. We should be able to get the payment sorted there. But after this job... we’re going to have to keep our heads down."
Den muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking nervously to the cockpit, where Vl'Grax had taken the pilot's seat. "Yeah, 'cause I’m really looking forward to working for Teemo the Hutt."
Re: The Price of Freedom (Episode 3)
The shuttle touched down in Mos Espa with a soft thud, the dusty streets outside barely visible through the shuttle's grimy viewport. The air felt heavier here—thick with the scent of the desert and the faint trace of burning fuel.
The crew stepped out, adjusting to the heat and the sharp, bright sunlight that cut through the dusty haze. As they made their way through the bustling streets, a somber silence hung over the group. The mess in Mos Shuuta still weighed heavily on their minds, but the promise of pay in Mos Espa kept them moving forward.
However, when they reached the Black Hole Cantina, their hopes were dashed. It continued to sit lifeless, a few workers in the area hauling debris and boards, trying to fix the damage from the battle that had raged there only days earlier.
"Great," Den muttered, glancing at the wreckage. "Where the hell is Tara Nightshade supposed to be now?"
Proiah scanned the area, hands in his pockets, looking around the cantina's immediate vicinity for any sign of their contact. Killian set about checking any contacts to learn where Shara might be and the next cantina turned out to be successful, the Cosmic Whirl.
A Twi'lek woman with dark green skin and striking tattoos on her face leaned casually against the wall, smoking a small pipe. Shara. "She might know where Tara is," Killian added, starting toward her.
The rest of the group followed, and as they approached, Shara looked up, her lekku twitching. A sly smile crept across her lips as she took in the crew. "I thought I’d see you again," she said, exhaling a thin plume of smoke. "Still sticking your noses where they don’t belong?"
Killian raised an eyebrow but kept his tone even. "We need to find Tara Nightshade. We were supposed to be paid for a job, and we’ve had no luck finding her yet here in Mos Espa."
Shara pushed off the wall and stepped closer, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and caution. "Tara’s a slippery one. She’s not exactly the type to stick around in the same place for long. You didn’t hear it from me," she added, her voice lowering conspiratorially, "but she’s kilely at one of the other cantinas."
Shara paused, letting the information sink in before continuing. "But, fair warning—if you’re looking for a clean handoff, you might want to rethink it. Things are... complicated for her right now. She has a few enemies sniffing around."
Den scowled, clearly already irritated by the lack of straightforward answers. "Complicated how?"
"Let's just say," Shara said, flicking her lekku, "there’s a few people in this city who don’t appreciate Tara’s business methods. Including the Hutt who’s been pushing her around. But, hey, you're the ones who wanted to find her. Good luck with that."
With that, she pushed herself off the wall and turned to go, leaving them with little more than a direction and a pile of questions.
The crew made their way through the crowded streets of Mos Espa, a sense of urgency hanging in the air. With the Black Hole Cantina still closed for repairs, they knew Tara Nightshade wouldn’t be hiding out in some back room or isolated apartment. No, she was the kind of person who thrived in the chaos of Mos Espa’s underworld, and the cantinas were the beating heart of that chaos.
It wasn’t long before they found the cantina, a smoky, dimly lit establishment tucked in the less-traveled part of the city. The sign outside flickered weakly, and the low hum of conversation and laughter spilled out into the street as the door swung open.
Inside, the cantina was crowded—patrons seated at grimy tables, a few gambling in the corners, and the sharp clink of glasses echoed throughout the room. A band played a fast-paced jizz tune in the corner, adding to the already buzzing atmosphere. In the midst of all of this sat Tara Nightshade, leaned back against the bar, one leg casually crossed over the other. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes scanned the room with the practiced vigilance of someone who had seen it all.
As the crew walked in, a few eyes turned, but it was clear that no one in the cantina was particularly concerned about their arrival. This was Tara’s domain.
FLA-R3 immediately perked up upon seeing her. His optical sensors whirred, his metal frame almost trembling as he wheeled over toward her. "Mistress Nightshade," he said, voice almost cracking with excitement. "It is so wonderful to see you again!"
Tara’s lips curled into a smirk as she swiveled her chair to face the droid. “FLA-R3, you smooth-talking machine,” she said, her tone playful but with a hard edge. Tara’s expression shifted as she glanced up at the crew, her cool demeanor never faltering. “You came looking for me, and now you’ve found me. You’ve done the job, so let’s get this done.”
Proiah stepped forward, his voice steady and businesslike. “We're here for the payment for the job in Mos Shuuta. Things went sideways. We need to settle up.”
Tara gave a slight nod, acknowledging the tension in his voice. She waved over to the bartender, who gave her a brief nod in return. She turned back to the group, her eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and caution.
“Job went sideways, huh?” she said, her lips curving into a small smile. “Sounds like the lot of you are still breathing. Guess that’s worth something.”
She reached into the pouch on her belt and tossed a hefty amount of credits onto the bar. The clink of the credits was satisfying, but there was a hard edge to her voice when she spoke again. “Here’s your payment. Consider it a fair share for what happened. You managed to keep your heads on straight and not end up in a gutter somewhere, so that’s something.”
Den snatched the credits with a grin, his fingers itching to feel the weight. “Appreciate it,” he muttered, already eyeing the exit.
But Tara wasn’t done. Her gaze flicked over to FLA-R3, and she leaned forward just slightly. "As for you, droid," she said, her voice smooth but firm, “I wouldn’t get too sentimental on me. But I’ll admit, I’m flattered by your... devotion.”
FLA-R3’s optical sensors blinked rapidly, clearly flustered. "Mistress... I assure you, my... my affection is purely professional." He seemed to be tripping over his words, causing a few nearby patrons to snicker.
Tara chuckled, clearly amused. “You’ve got a soft spot, I’ll give you that. Just make sure you don’t get caught up in all this... emotion.” She waved her hand in the air dismissively. “It can get a person killed in this line of work.”
FLA-R3, his mechanical pride bruised but still intact, gave her a stiff bow. “Understood, Mistress Nightshade. I will continue to operate within the bounds of professionalism.”
Proiah gave a half-smile, seeing the interaction unfold. “Well, now that we’re settled, we’ll be on our way.”
Tara nodded once. “Good. You’ve got your credits. Don’t go spending them all in one place... and if you find yourselves looking for more work again, I’m sure we’ll cross paths.” She stood up, tipping her head to the crew before turning back to the bar.
The crew turned to leave, but Den couldn’t help but mutter as they walked out. “I still don’t trust her.”
Proiah shot him a glance. “Doesn’t matter. We’re paid, and we’re out. Let’s keep moving.”
The crew stepped out, adjusting to the heat and the sharp, bright sunlight that cut through the dusty haze. As they made their way through the bustling streets, a somber silence hung over the group. The mess in Mos Shuuta still weighed heavily on their minds, but the promise of pay in Mos Espa kept them moving forward.
However, when they reached the Black Hole Cantina, their hopes were dashed. It continued to sit lifeless, a few workers in the area hauling debris and boards, trying to fix the damage from the battle that had raged there only days earlier.
"Great," Den muttered, glancing at the wreckage. "Where the hell is Tara Nightshade supposed to be now?"
Proiah scanned the area, hands in his pockets, looking around the cantina's immediate vicinity for any sign of their contact. Killian set about checking any contacts to learn where Shara might be and the next cantina turned out to be successful, the Cosmic Whirl.
A Twi'lek woman with dark green skin and striking tattoos on her face leaned casually against the wall, smoking a small pipe. Shara. "She might know where Tara is," Killian added, starting toward her.
The rest of the group followed, and as they approached, Shara looked up, her lekku twitching. A sly smile crept across her lips as she took in the crew. "I thought I’d see you again," she said, exhaling a thin plume of smoke. "Still sticking your noses where they don’t belong?"
Killian raised an eyebrow but kept his tone even. "We need to find Tara Nightshade. We were supposed to be paid for a job, and we’ve had no luck finding her yet here in Mos Espa."
Shara pushed off the wall and stepped closer, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and caution. "Tara’s a slippery one. She’s not exactly the type to stick around in the same place for long. You didn’t hear it from me," she added, her voice lowering conspiratorially, "but she’s kilely at one of the other cantinas."
Shara paused, letting the information sink in before continuing. "But, fair warning—if you’re looking for a clean handoff, you might want to rethink it. Things are... complicated for her right now. She has a few enemies sniffing around."
Den scowled, clearly already irritated by the lack of straightforward answers. "Complicated how?"
"Let's just say," Shara said, flicking her lekku, "there’s a few people in this city who don’t appreciate Tara’s business methods. Including the Hutt who’s been pushing her around. But, hey, you're the ones who wanted to find her. Good luck with that."
With that, she pushed herself off the wall and turned to go, leaving them with little more than a direction and a pile of questions.
The crew made their way through the crowded streets of Mos Espa, a sense of urgency hanging in the air. With the Black Hole Cantina still closed for repairs, they knew Tara Nightshade wouldn’t be hiding out in some back room or isolated apartment. No, she was the kind of person who thrived in the chaos of Mos Espa’s underworld, and the cantinas were the beating heart of that chaos.
It wasn’t long before they found the cantina, a smoky, dimly lit establishment tucked in the less-traveled part of the city. The sign outside flickered weakly, and the low hum of conversation and laughter spilled out into the street as the door swung open.
Inside, the cantina was crowded—patrons seated at grimy tables, a few gambling in the corners, and the sharp clink of glasses echoed throughout the room. A band played a fast-paced jizz tune in the corner, adding to the already buzzing atmosphere. In the midst of all of this sat Tara Nightshade, leaned back against the bar, one leg casually crossed over the other. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes scanned the room with the practiced vigilance of someone who had seen it all.
As the crew walked in, a few eyes turned, but it was clear that no one in the cantina was particularly concerned about their arrival. This was Tara’s domain.
FLA-R3 immediately perked up upon seeing her. His optical sensors whirred, his metal frame almost trembling as he wheeled over toward her. "Mistress Nightshade," he said, voice almost cracking with excitement. "It is so wonderful to see you again!"
Tara’s lips curled into a smirk as she swiveled her chair to face the droid. “FLA-R3, you smooth-talking machine,” she said, her tone playful but with a hard edge. Tara’s expression shifted as she glanced up at the crew, her cool demeanor never faltering. “You came looking for me, and now you’ve found me. You’ve done the job, so let’s get this done.”
Proiah stepped forward, his voice steady and businesslike. “We're here for the payment for the job in Mos Shuuta. Things went sideways. We need to settle up.”
Tara gave a slight nod, acknowledging the tension in his voice. She waved over to the bartender, who gave her a brief nod in return. She turned back to the group, her eyes narrowing with a mix of amusement and caution.
“Job went sideways, huh?” she said, her lips curving into a small smile. “Sounds like the lot of you are still breathing. Guess that’s worth something.”
She reached into the pouch on her belt and tossed a hefty amount of credits onto the bar. The clink of the credits was satisfying, but there was a hard edge to her voice when she spoke again. “Here’s your payment. Consider it a fair share for what happened. You managed to keep your heads on straight and not end up in a gutter somewhere, so that’s something.”
Den snatched the credits with a grin, his fingers itching to feel the weight. “Appreciate it,” he muttered, already eyeing the exit.
But Tara wasn’t done. Her gaze flicked over to FLA-R3, and she leaned forward just slightly. "As for you, droid," she said, her voice smooth but firm, “I wouldn’t get too sentimental on me. But I’ll admit, I’m flattered by your... devotion.”
FLA-R3’s optical sensors blinked rapidly, clearly flustered. "Mistress... I assure you, my... my affection is purely professional." He seemed to be tripping over his words, causing a few nearby patrons to snicker.
Tara chuckled, clearly amused. “You’ve got a soft spot, I’ll give you that. Just make sure you don’t get caught up in all this... emotion.” She waved her hand in the air dismissively. “It can get a person killed in this line of work.”
FLA-R3, his mechanical pride bruised but still intact, gave her a stiff bow. “Understood, Mistress Nightshade. I will continue to operate within the bounds of professionalism.”
Proiah gave a half-smile, seeing the interaction unfold. “Well, now that we’re settled, we’ll be on our way.”
Tara nodded once. “Good. You’ve got your credits. Don’t go spending them all in one place... and if you find yourselves looking for more work again, I’m sure we’ll cross paths.” She stood up, tipping her head to the crew before turning back to the bar.
The crew turned to leave, but Den couldn’t help but mutter as they walked out. “I still don’t trust her.”
Proiah shot him a glance. “Doesn’t matter. We’re paid, and we’re out. Let’s keep moving.”
Re: The Price of Freedom (Episode 3)
The crew was on their new mission, one that could be their ticket to a better payoff, or at least a clearer understanding of the web they were tangled in. They had been instructed to locate Dr. Maronea, a Selonian xenobiologist with a shadowy history. According to their research, Dr. Maronea once worked for the Zann Consortium, an organization notorious for its underhanded dealings and ruthless business tactics.
The doctor was most likely in a secluded location. The area, known for its network of downtrodden back alleys, low-lit bars, and busy market districts, was a place where secrets and deals exchanged hands in dark corners. It wasn’t the safest place, but the crew was used to that by now.
After gathering enough intel from local sources and tapping into some computer networks, they discovered more about Dr. Maronea's past. She had been a member of the Zann Consortium but had mysteriously fallen out of favor. It seemed she’d been let go after a failed experiment involving Vorntskr and Salamiri creatures, and her relationship with the Consortium had soured. Rumor had it that her data files, containing critical research, were stolen just before she was terminated.
The crew, now more informed, tracked her down to a cantina —the River Denca Cantina, a dingy but busy bar known for its rough clientele and cheap drinks. Upon entering, they eventually spotted the Selonian. Dr. Maronea, with her muted orange fur, was easy to miss amidst the crowd, which consisted mostly of furry alien species. She was seated at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink that appeared to be much stronger than what one might expect in a low-class cantina.
As they approached, her yellow eyes narrowed, and a sly grin appeared on her face. She recognized them immediately.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said, her voice tinged with the effects of the alcohol. "You’ve been digging through some messy business, haven’t you?"
FLA-R3 beeped a greeting, his sensors almost jittering as he attempted to calculate her mood. “Dr. Maronea, a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
"Don't call me Doctor," she said in a drunken spat. I'm just 'Maronea' now. No titles for the disgraced," she said, tossing back the rest of her drink in one smooth motion. Her speech was slurred, and her posture was unsteady, but she was still sharp enough to notice the crew’s unease.
“So, you’re looking for my research, huh? Want to see what the Zann Consortium didn’t want you to see?” She chuckled darkly, a mix of bitterness and defiance in her tone. “What a bunch of hypocrites. They never appreciated my work."
The atmosphere in the River Denca Cantina shifted suddenly as a group of five Selonian figures entered, their postures sharp and authoritative. Despite their similar species to some of the cantina’s regulars, their attire and bearing were clearly different. Their movements were synchronized, each of them armed with light blaster pistols and Selonian glaives. Their presence, confident and cold, caught the attention of everyone in the room, but no one dared speak.
One stepped forward, his voice booming over the low hum of conversation as he locked his gaze on Dr. Maronea.
“Dr. Ishal Maronea!” he bellowed. “I am Captain Vereskao of the Prime Den and I am placing you under arrest for crimes against Selonity!”
Dr. Maronea’s eyes flared with frustration, and she shot a quick glance toward the crew. Despite her initial slurred demeanor, she straightened in her seat, a fire igniting in her eyes.
“Crimes against Selonity?” she snapped, leaning forward with a sneer. “That’s preposterous! This is just another smear campaign by the Zann Consortium!”
The Captain stepped closer, unphased by her retort. “You have been accused of crimes involving your research, the unlawful exploitation of native species, and worse, violating the code of conduct for the Zann Consortium. You’re under arrest by order of the Selonian High Council.”
Maronea bristled at the mention of the Consortium. "Those files you’re accusing me of 'stealing'? They were stolen from me! And as for the rest, it’s nothing more than slander. The Zann Consortium never valued my expertise. I was a tool to them, and now you think you can come here and act like this is some formal matter?"
The crew watched in silence as the situation escalated. Captain Veresk continued, his voice barely containing his distaste. “You’re a traitor to your own kind—your crimes go beyond the Consortium. You’ve crossed lines that you can’t just walk away from.”
Maronea was about to respond when the Captain raised his hand, signaling his crew to close in. The air was tense. One of the Selonian officers stepped forward, ready to arrest her.
Before anything could happen, the lead Selonian suddenly halted and turned, addressing the crew with a mocking sneer. “We don’t need you to get involved. Step aside, or we’ll place you under arrest as well for interfering with Selonian law.”
FLA-R3’s servos clicked with frustration as he adjusted his stance, clearly uneasy with the escalating confrontation. His mechanical voice piped up, “Captain, you may want to reconsider. Dr. Maronea has substantial knowledge regarding species vital to your ecosystem—she’s an expert. Wouldn’t it be wiser to let her speak?”
The Captain eyed the droid, but there was no sign of hesitation in his gaze. “Your argument holds no weight.”
The tension between the two groups thickened, and everyone seemed to hold their breath as they waited for what would come next.
Captain Veresk's tone became colder, more dangerous. “Then perhaps we’ll have to make you understand. Take her.”
With that, the five Selonians lunged forward. The crew had mere moments to react, and in that split second, it was clear that they could either back down and let the Selonians take Dr. Maronea, or fight back and escalate things even further.
The doctor was most likely in a secluded location. The area, known for its network of downtrodden back alleys, low-lit bars, and busy market districts, was a place where secrets and deals exchanged hands in dark corners. It wasn’t the safest place, but the crew was used to that by now.
After gathering enough intel from local sources and tapping into some computer networks, they discovered more about Dr. Maronea's past. She had been a member of the Zann Consortium but had mysteriously fallen out of favor. It seemed she’d been let go after a failed experiment involving Vorntskr and Salamiri creatures, and her relationship with the Consortium had soured. Rumor had it that her data files, containing critical research, were stolen just before she was terminated.
The crew, now more informed, tracked her down to a cantina —the River Denca Cantina, a dingy but busy bar known for its rough clientele and cheap drinks. Upon entering, they eventually spotted the Selonian. Dr. Maronea, with her muted orange fur, was easy to miss amidst the crowd, which consisted mostly of furry alien species. She was seated at the far end of the bar, nursing a drink that appeared to be much stronger than what one might expect in a low-class cantina.
As they approached, her yellow eyes narrowed, and a sly grin appeared on her face. She recognized them immediately.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said, her voice tinged with the effects of the alcohol. "You’ve been digging through some messy business, haven’t you?"
FLA-R3 beeped a greeting, his sensors almost jittering as he attempted to calculate her mood. “Dr. Maronea, a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
"Don't call me Doctor," she said in a drunken spat. I'm just 'Maronea' now. No titles for the disgraced," she said, tossing back the rest of her drink in one smooth motion. Her speech was slurred, and her posture was unsteady, but she was still sharp enough to notice the crew’s unease.
“So, you’re looking for my research, huh? Want to see what the Zann Consortium didn’t want you to see?” She chuckled darkly, a mix of bitterness and defiance in her tone. “What a bunch of hypocrites. They never appreciated my work."
The atmosphere in the River Denca Cantina shifted suddenly as a group of five Selonian figures entered, their postures sharp and authoritative. Despite their similar species to some of the cantina’s regulars, their attire and bearing were clearly different. Their movements were synchronized, each of them armed with light blaster pistols and Selonian glaives. Their presence, confident and cold, caught the attention of everyone in the room, but no one dared speak.
One stepped forward, his voice booming over the low hum of conversation as he locked his gaze on Dr. Maronea.
“Dr. Ishal Maronea!” he bellowed. “I am Captain Vereskao of the Prime Den and I am placing you under arrest for crimes against Selonity!”
Dr. Maronea’s eyes flared with frustration, and she shot a quick glance toward the crew. Despite her initial slurred demeanor, she straightened in her seat, a fire igniting in her eyes.
“Crimes against Selonity?” she snapped, leaning forward with a sneer. “That’s preposterous! This is just another smear campaign by the Zann Consortium!”
The Captain stepped closer, unphased by her retort. “You have been accused of crimes involving your research, the unlawful exploitation of native species, and worse, violating the code of conduct for the Zann Consortium. You’re under arrest by order of the Selonian High Council.”
Maronea bristled at the mention of the Consortium. "Those files you’re accusing me of 'stealing'? They were stolen from me! And as for the rest, it’s nothing more than slander. The Zann Consortium never valued my expertise. I was a tool to them, and now you think you can come here and act like this is some formal matter?"
The crew watched in silence as the situation escalated. Captain Veresk continued, his voice barely containing his distaste. “You’re a traitor to your own kind—your crimes go beyond the Consortium. You’ve crossed lines that you can’t just walk away from.”
Maronea was about to respond when the Captain raised his hand, signaling his crew to close in. The air was tense. One of the Selonian officers stepped forward, ready to arrest her.
Before anything could happen, the lead Selonian suddenly halted and turned, addressing the crew with a mocking sneer. “We don’t need you to get involved. Step aside, or we’ll place you under arrest as well for interfering with Selonian law.”
FLA-R3’s servos clicked with frustration as he adjusted his stance, clearly uneasy with the escalating confrontation. His mechanical voice piped up, “Captain, you may want to reconsider. Dr. Maronea has substantial knowledge regarding species vital to your ecosystem—she’s an expert. Wouldn’t it be wiser to let her speak?”
The Captain eyed the droid, but there was no sign of hesitation in his gaze. “Your argument holds no weight.”
The tension between the two groups thickened, and everyone seemed to hold their breath as they waited for what would come next.
Captain Veresk's tone became colder, more dangerous. “Then perhaps we’ll have to make you understand. Take her.”
With that, the five Selonians lunged forward. The crew had mere moments to react, and in that split second, it was clear that they could either back down and let the Selonians take Dr. Maronea, or fight back and escalate things even further.