Edge of the Empire, Part the First: Relics of the Old Republic

Shaito - Praetor Cells.

To the discerning eye, there isn’t much difference between a holding cell in the Praetor and any other rathole in the galaxy, except perhaps for maintenance. The cells are simple bunk beds shoved into the corner of a tiny room, the rusty walls. But hey, the food’s just as bad as the one that cantina sells, so there are least some silver linings.

The doors of Shaito’s cell slid open, revealing a Besalisk◊, his dark green skin clashing strangely with the red lighting of the cell. He was wearing a suit of worn bounty hunter’s armor, and carried two sets of blasters on his hips. His voice was coarse, like sandpaper on metal:

“I hope you appreciate the kind of trouble you’ve gotten the boss into, little man.”

Scene Aspects: Dingy, Run-Down and Rusty.

---

Satine, Dellig, Neríf, The Praetor Cantina

The Praetor’s cantina wasn’t much too different from any that you’d find in other Outer Rim star systems. The tables were perpetually dirty, colorful drinks were served to every flavor of alien, and the whole uncomfortably cramped establishment stank of swiftly-discarded drinks, sweat and just a hint of ionized oxygen - the hallmark smell of blaster fire.

And, of course, like any Outer Rim cantina, it was filled with people from all walks of life in the galaxy, all with blasters on their hips and eager trigger fingers. Neríf had found himself a nice corner from which to tell fortunes, and a new customer was sliding into the chair opposite him. He was a human wearing a black flight jacket, the top unbuttoned. His braided, light-brown hair contrasted somewhat with his darker skin. He didn’t look to be armed.

“What do you know. I had heard the station was visited by a ‘prophet’, but I thought that was just local gossiping.”

Around a nearby table, Dellig finds herself playing sabacc with an Ithorian, a translation module crudely grafted to the alien’s mouth, as well as a short, blue-skinned Duro wearing a wide hat. The Duro slams its hands on the table in protest.

“That’s the third round you’ve won today, you Rodian pest. You must be cheating!”

Meanwhile, Satine heard the tell-tale sound of a glass sliding across a surface, more specifically a glass containing a kind of local alcoholic drink sliding towards her. Another human, this one a rather tall, broad-shouldered fellow, wearing clothes that could best be described as...patchwork. The basis of it was clearly an old red Republic fleet uniform, reinforced with some bits of armor that looked scavenged and blaster-ridden. The blaster on his hip, too, was old Republic gear. He dipped his head in Satine’s direction.

“Been a while since this station saw a Mando. You, by any chance, looking for a job?”

Scene Aspect(s): Wretched Hive, Paranoia In The Air

---

Florens, Eli, Aren, Docking Bay.

Any space station worth its salt has a flurry of activity happening inside its docking bay, and the Praetor, remote as it was, was no exception to that rule. Starships of all sizes and stripes, from refurbished Republic starfighters to local designs to small blockade runners, dotted the hangar.

One of these ships was Eli’s, having just arrived in the docking bay, a waiting Aren watching the landing from the corridors just outside the ray-shielded bay.

Meanwhile, the ship Florens found himself on, a medical shuttle ferrying injured people from systems without a medical bay to any space stations who had one. Assuming, of course, you were willing to pay for it.

Though strangely enough, the men and women onboard, most of them human, hadn’t really suffered that significant injury. A few wounds from what he had been told had been defective plasma torches were about the worst of it. The shuttle captain, a short, skinny Corellian somewhere in his fifties put a hand on Florens’ shoulder as the ship drifted into the station.

“This looks like your stop, kid. If you’re still adamant about getting off this boat, that is.”

Scene Aspect(s): Something's Not Right Here, Hustle and Bustle, Full Of Containers

---

Vislor, Living Quarters

The living quarters onboard the Praetor could be charitably described as ‘pods’. They were capsules with just barely room enough to sit up and sleep in, and could contain a single person doing one of either. It was not exactly comfortable living, but it was affordable - and more importantly, quiet - living.

Generally, it was also pleasantly quiet. But not this time. Someone was rather insistently hammering against the door of Vislor’s capsule.

“Old man. Old man, you in there?! Think we got trouble coming!”

Scene Aspects: Worse Living Through Cramped Spaces, Air of Anxiety

edited 27th Dec '15 11:12:12 AM by math792d

Still not embarrassing enough to stan billionaires or tech companies.

Living Quarters

Vislor's eyes open groggily. He'd been meditating, or napping, one of the two, and the sudden pounding and shouting wasn't exactly a pleasant wake up. Shouting usually meant that things were going to get complicated, again. He spins around in the pod, crawls to the entrance and opens it, giving the noisy sophont on the other side a grouchy glare and a flat "what." Maybe they'd believe him this time and leave him alone.

edited 27th Dec '15 1:11:37 PM by kingtiger522

Shaito sat at the center of the cell, legs crossed as he meditated: his expression neutral. He's pulled his hood down, shock of red hair oddly discolored, and though the cell is filthy, it seems not a speck of it has rubbed off on him anywhere.

He only bothers one eye, taking a gander at the alien before closing it. "You'll have to elaborate. I lack a boss of any kind, let alone one to frustrate."

"You are never taller then when standing up for yourself"

Eli climbed down the access ladder from her fighter. Flipping open the small pilot-cargo compartment as she was down, she retrieved some gear before punching in the security code for the anti-theft systems.

Shoving her sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose, she felt a slight shiver on her shoulders. Born on a world where the average temperature was higher than what the rest of the galaxy considered 'average', she always found it a little bit cool wherever she went. As a result, she had cranked the climate control of her fighters cockpit as far up as the little life-support plant could. Space stations on the other hand tended to go for a little bit colder than normal to conserve energy.

With a sigh, she put on her lined and warm pilot's jacket and then closed the weapons belt over her hip. The big, nasty and unfriendly blaster that now hung at her thigh was more to scare people off from looking for an easy score than a testament to her own skills in that department. The black synth-case hanging on the opposite thigh on the other hand...

Well. It wouldn't come to her needing what was inside it, she was sure. Instead it was time to meet the recipient of that little datachip she had safely hidden on her person as she breathed in to blend her presence into the crowd as she always did just to be on the safe side.

Time for work...

edited 27th Dec '15 11:48:15 AM by 3of4

"You can reply to this Message!"

Satine — Cantina

Satine inspected the glass quickly before putting it back on the table, untouched. She ran a finger on the lower side of her helmet, roughly where her chin was, and arced an eyebrow (not the the ex-Republic Navy would see it). "No, I'm here for the scenery and vile fumes," she said dryly. "Of course I am looking for a job. The stronger the mark, the higher the bounty, the better. Whatchu need?"

The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground

Docking Bay
RN-56 stood on the corridor side of the ray-shielded bay doors, looking at the newly arrived ships. It was a bit strange that the medical ship was unloading such normal-looking people, rather than carting off horrifically maimed bodies and diseased patients in isolation pods, but it was not his concern. At least, not for the moment. He made a mental note to look to look around the situation later today or tomorrow, once his other business was done - there were always profits to be made in the bacta trade. Aside from that, there was the small ship where a girl wearing sunglasses, inside a space station of all places, emerged. This would be the courier he had been waiting for, now it was simply a matter of making the exchange.

He moved from his own place in the crowd until he was walking alongside her. "Hello miss, welcome to the Praetor," he said to Elithea. Sticking to the script, he continued to say his canned lines for establishing contact. "I can conduct a tour for a reasonable price. For instance, do you know that the Praetor served as inspiration for the setting of the popular holonet program," he slightly tilted his head "Three Nights of the Krayt Dragon?"

Eli raised an eyebrow at the droid. "I did not know that." That was her contact? She was used to dealing with a variety of people in the receiving end of her cargo, but rarely droids. Mostly because by their very nature everything they saw was recorded. Still, only one way to check. "But I fell asleep halfway through that holopic, I have to admit. I think Murder on the Corellia Express is far better."

"You can reply to this Message!"

Docking Bay
"Unfortunately, you would have to travel halfway across the galaxy to learn more about that particular production and meet those involved in its creation," RN-56 replied. "A selonian doesn't stray from her family."

"But never tell a Corellian the odds" Eli completed the ID-exchange. "Well, you're my client. Want to do this here or somewhere more private?" She asked with a nod toward the bustling hangar.

"You can reply to this Message!"

Docking Bay
"It shouldn't be too hard to have some privacy, as this area is full of containers," RN said. He pointed to one such container, and started to walk towards and behind it.

Eli just shrugged and crossed her arms under her chest as she followed him. "It's your turf." She admitted. At least there was no apparent custom service here...

"You can reply to this Message!"

Docking Bay
"Very well, half now, half after," RN said, holding out a credit chip.

"Half later for what?" Eli put her arms in the sides. "I'm supposed to deliver something to you here. Or are you offering me a follow-up job?"

"You can reply to this Message!"

Docking Bay
"The fee for completing a delivery, of course," the droid replied. "Half paid upfront, half credit on delivery. But since I haven't gotten the delivery yet, the last half of my half is for after you hand it over."

"Ah." Well, wonder who short-juiced his motivator to be this complicated. She thought and then shrugged again and then put two finger down the neckline of her top. A moment later she displayed the small datachip held between index and middle finger.

"You can reply to this Message!"

Dellig rolled her eyes. It was an involved process. Rodians have a lot of eye to roll. "If I played sabbac as badly as you do, I'd have gotten used to losing. But my people have a saying. There are people in this galaxy who go about demanding to be killed. And there's always someone ready to oblige them. So if you want a fight with someone whose capabilities you don't know over a few lousy hands in sabbac, I ain't gonna stop you."

Provoke result of +2 to scare the Duro into backing down.

Cells

“Ah, but I do.” The besalisk paced into the cell, the doors closing behind him. The alien could just barely stand up inside the cell. “The one who runs this station. And see, he gets to keep the station as long as he can keep order.”

The besalisk folded both pairs of arms. “Which gets awkward when suddenly one of his guards is lying on the floor with a crushed windpipe. Especially when everyone then points in your direction, and says you did it without putting a hand on him.” It pointed an accusatory finger at Shaito. “So do illuminate me on why we shouldn’t follow procedure like good Imperial citizens and keep you in here until someone can pick up a little baby Jedi?”

---

Living Quarters

"Listen, listen, it's serious, alright?" There's a young Rodian on the other side, fidgeting and shaking. "I think something's happening to the station. I have this bad feeling, right? Like someone's gonna attack or a system's gonna blow or-" he trails off into a long list of possible doomsday scenarios.

---

Docking Bay

The docking bay hardly seems to notice Eli and Aren in the corner. More people are arriving now, only adding to the already-existing chaos. Many of the new arrivals are carrying containers about, most of them large, coffin-shaped durasteel crates. But something about the ships the new arrivals came in on seems...off. Something's not right here...

---

And that would be the docking bay crew’s cue to roll a Notice check for the GM.

---

Cantina

“Well, see, you’re in luck.” The man dressed as a fleet officer slides a holodisk onto the table next to the drink. It flares to life, showing a projection of what looks like a besalisk, eerily similar to the one currently keeping Shaito company.

“I have some...friends, who are unhappy with the leadership aboard this station. Especially with the head of security. He’s here, on the station, and we’ll pay very handsomely for him to meet a very swift death. Interested?”

The Duro at the sabacc table takes a look at Dellig, then notices that she isn’t backing down, and grumpily sits back and tosses his hand to the side. “I’m done here. Collect your winnings, pest.” The Ithorian gives the Duro a sideways glance as he leaves the table. He sighs, the metallic noise from his translator making him sound like a droid. “Sore loser. Good thinking, confronting him before it escalated.” The Ithorian leans back in its chair. “Tell me, why are you on the Praetor? Looking for work, perhaps?”

Still not embarrassing enough to stan billionaires or tech companies.

Maybe it was the strange droid, maybe it was just a healthy sense of paranoia, but Eli just really started to have a bad feeling about this.

Biting her lower lip, she took a look over her shoulder to see if something was out of what.

Notice Roll: [0++-]+2 (From Skill) = +3

edited 27th Dec '15 4:48:03 PM by 3of4

"You can reply to this Message!"

Living Quarters

Vislor sighs deeply and rubs his eyes. It's clearly going to be one of those days.

"And what do you want me to do about it, kid? That's what they're there for."

edited 29th Dec '15 10:41:34 AM by kingtiger522

Dellig leaned back and directed a considering gaze at the Ithorian. "I am indeed. Would you happen to have a job for the best damn pilot in the Rim?" She didn't say 'best damn pilot the Galaxy ever saw,' because she recognized the value of modesty. Let people underestimate you a bit and they'll be more impressed when they see what you can really do.

Notice roll of +2 to get aspects using Body Language Reader.

Shaito's smile curls into a sneer. "I am not a Jedi."

He opens his eyes, staring straight into the guard's. There is a sudden...pressure against the man's mind, as if something is pressing hard against the edges of it.

"Jedi are merciful. Jedi are kind. Jedin believe in peace and compassion." He stands suddenly, his cloak raking through the dust on the floor. "A Jedi would probably have given the trooper a chance for mercy."

He closes his and opens them again, looking right into the besalisk's, the force welling around him.

---

Rolling to delv his mind, Force Mastery and invoking Last of the True Sith, so my total roll is +6.

(+OO-)+6=6.

Assuming he doesn't beat that Shaito is looking for his gear, some of the guy's fears/weakness, and an escape route.

"You are never taller then when standing up for yourself"

Satine — Cantina

The Mandalorian rolled her eyes. Just how stupid was this guy? He didn't seriously expect a single Mandalorian, no matter how well-trained, to take on the station's whole security contingent, did he now?
"How much are ya paying, hotshot?" Satine asked, tilting her head. "My services aren't exactly cheap."

---

(Hope I'm doing this right.) Rolling Rapport with a result of 0001 (+1) to see whether Hotshot buys that last lie.

The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground

Docking Bay
"If you will allow me to verify the data then we can complete this transaction and go about our day," RN said, holding out his hand for the data chip. While he waited for a reply, he used his video and audio receptors to check the area for any signs of trouble - those durasteel crates seemed rather strange.

If they were all filled with dead bodies, you would have expected the ship to be unloading large amounts of heavily injured patients in need of urgent care, a doctor and nurse presumably running out and waving down anyone they could for help. People were funny that way.

---

Rolling notice; 00+0 roll; +0 skill; +1 total.

Florenico stood still near one of the windows of the medical shuttle, his hands tight on the front of his leather jacket and his expression obviously nervous. Well, here he was. On a space station far away from the only planet he had ever seen on his life, filled with more lifeforms than he'd known rightfully existed. Some of them looked enough like Zelosians to set his mind at ease...but it didn't last. It was always their eyes that reminded him that he was alone out here. All he had to do was get off when they landed. No excuses. Just...

He jumped as a hand found its way onto his shoulder while he was lost in thought. While only a few inches taller than the Corellian behind him, Florens still managed to seem smaller in comparison. He swallowed a nervous lump and tried to smile. "It's tempting not to. I could learn a thing or two from the medics here," Florens turned his attention away from the man, "But I need to get farther out. It's been nice though. Even with the injured folks. Not that they weren't nice, too, just injured. Which makes chatting a bit difficult. I...I'm blathering. Sorry."

Shush, Flo. You're fine. Deep breaths.

"I just hope I don't yelp when we dock like I did when we took off. Sorry, uh, also. About that. I'd never flown in open space before."

edited 29th Dec '15 3:46:15 PM by KeiranGold

Riffle, pile, cut, fold. Pick them up. Mechanic's grip. Palm the top. What's your card?

Riffle, pile...

There were thirty nine sentient beings in the Cantina, in various states of inebriation. There were two exits, not counting the door to the kitchens. The room was dark, and smelled of sweat and synthohol.

A Sabbak deck danced between Nerif's slender green fingers.

Riffle, pile, fold. Cut. Mechanic's grip. Always the mechanic's grip.

The air had a ripe feel—a pulse of energy. He felt sick to his stomach—always sick to his stomach in bars, but it was good. The pleasant numbness of intoxication, and he hadn't touched a drop. Yet.

The chair scraped. Through his eyes were covered, he could tell he had company. A smile formed on his lips, enigmatic, and he spread the deck in front of him, and untidy mess.

"The stone does not know its ripples, but the fish scatter all the same. You have the look of a man who has come a long way to find something."

edited 29th Dec '15 4:08:49 PM by DrTentacles