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Sector M-18, open space near the Hydian-Rimman Intersection
Aboard the Straight Shot merchant freighter. . .
The cargo bay of the YG-300 freighter was not the most spacious of those that Joffoc had been in. Full of durasteel and plasteel crates of goods that were certain to be less than legal, the hold also played host to cargo of a different sort: four Jedi, mission-borne, lying in wait with equipment in tow. The creaks and groans of the ship provided a comforting break to the drone of the engines—that is, if one is accustomed to traveling in stuffy cargo holds. Otherwise, the sounds the ship made were certain to unsettle, showing age and wear and lack of maintenance—though, to Joffoc, that meant character.
And character was something of which this ship had plenty. The ‘captain’ of the craft, a shady Twi’leki merchant named Low Dan (a clever appropriation of his birth name, Lodann, which he hated growing up) was a friend of Joffoc’s, and nearly as eccentric as the Jedi himself. By ‘friend’, it is of course implied that Joffoc nearly had him in half during a smuggling operation in which Jedi were assigned to intervene, and by ‘eccentric’ it is of course meant simply that he was perpetually furious, whether agitated or not. Indeed, Low Dan was among the crankiest people Joffoc had ever had the pleasure of thoroughly irritating; the task of disrupting his business was carefully sidestepped, much to the chagrin of the Council, almost entirely because Joffoc enjoyed pissing in the man’s pudding. But then, there was the added benefit of having a lucky, connected smuggler available and kept under-thumb for transporting to all the galaxy’s hard to reach nooks and crannies (a logic that pleased the Council considerably more than Joffoc’s pudding-pissing ideology).
Their plan was simple enough. The Straight Shot was likely to garner the attention of the pirate operating heavily in the area due to its numerous easily-identifiable galactic code violations (scoundrels generally preferred to target opposing scoundrels, as there was rarely any law enforcement backlash), at which time the Jedi would jettison and drift through the void to reach the pirate craft’s hull. They were fortunate to have been given an acquired Republic hull-cutting laser; bulky as it was, it would be simple enough to move through space via the thrusters to their pressure suits. Once there, magnets would engage their suits and the laser to the hull, where they would make entry. More than that was difficult to say; the technology aboard the pirate craft was unknown, so while it was preferable to maintain stealth aboard the ship, it was also equally likely that a pressure alarm would be tripped upon hull penetration and the proverbial jig would immediately be up.
Joffoc was at peace with that option, too. He idly felt the hilt of his lightsaber, clipped to the belt on the exterior of his pressure suit.
With his helm laying in his lap as he reclined against a crate of questionable goods, he glanced to his compatriots. He had met none of them before; there was an attractive Jedi Knight named Coryn in the party, who had admittedly soaked up the majority of his observational skills, along with her young—extremely young—padawan whose name he did not catch. In truth, Joffoc was uncertain as to why a teenager would be dispatched for a combat mission, particularly one in which brutal close-quarters engagements were practically guaranteed. The infinite wisdom of the Council, perhaps, he thought. He then looked upon the last man of the party; a man that, while they had never met, he had seen at many events—even a few of his own conduct hearings, he was fairly certain. The man was Sihkar Tarei, a respected Jedi general and someone who was an even stranger choice for this mission than the adolescent sprite with the toy lightsaber.
He idly wondered if anyone knew who he was. Was he anyone? No, not really, though he had quite a reputation among the Jedi for his quirks. And also his behavior. And his style—that is to say, the fact that he had any, considering his objection to wearing brown coupled with a lighter shade of brown followed by a darker shade of brown, with perhaps a bit of really dark brown to accent. To Joffoc, color was vibrance, and vibrance was interesting. Joffoc never understood why Jedi chose such droll attire—one would think a band of roving magic space ninjas would have better taste. Brown was a color made for hiding in forests and concealing sharts, and magic space ninjas did very little of both. Joffoc made a mental note to confiscate all the brown things he could find when he returned to the temple.
”Awright, you kryffing sots, we got a nibble,” came the unmistakable voice of Low Dan over the announcement system. Dirty and wet and gravelly like a collapsed Coruscanti housing project, Low Dan’s voice and signature Outer Rim accent belied his origins, and indeed his legal standing within the Republic. His words, however, were indicative only of his attitude toward the Jedi, Joffoc in particular. ”Looks like one o’ those Trandoshan haulers, early model. Hard to tell at this distance. Standby, and I’ll let you lot know when they’re closer.”
Standing to his feet and holding his helmet aloft, Joffoc commented, ”Well, that matches the description. Are we all clear on the plan? His reflection in his helmet shield smiled back at him and nodded, as if to reply, I’m ready! A little hungry, and I should have peed before we came down here, but I’m ready!