"Kriff-" Davik let out an exasperated sigh as he watched from his cockpit how two local customs officers walked into the hangar. He had barely time to engage the shutdown procedure for the engines of his beloved Catscratch and here came the datapad-humping rulesticklers of Glavis. "-I hate to be back."
Three years ago he had given up his cozy lifestyle on New Alderaan and rededicated himself to the Ossein lifestyle, selling arms for his close Hutt friend. Although -knowing Hutts- the latter only ever regarded him as a convenient acquaintance. Nor'baal the Hutt. The giant slug went from a smalltime business partner of the Crymorah Syndicate, to taking over his own clan from the dead clutches of his mother and eventually got to rule the entirety of Hutt Space with an iron fist. Head-honcho of the Hutt species. Who would've thunked?
Meanwhile the Catscratch had purred on. It's name and that of its owner forgotten in the great swaths of space and time. It had been seen inside Hutt Space and on other worlds where the Hutt Clan wanted to sell or buy weapons. Appointments in ledgers of unimportant smalltime hustlers that never left their own planets would read 'Iron Kowak - Armsdealer' and sometimes the modest number of blasters he traded with them to support a local but fledging gang that had shown interest to align themselves with Nor'baal's impressive and continuous flow of the highly addictive and even more profitable spice. For a time it seemed that synthetic spice was one the rise, but the fall of the Zaa Fenn and the collapse of cooperation within the Five Syndicates all progress in its development was halted through explosions, murder and general gang warfare. As usual in galactic history a Hutt had the last laugh.
Davik pushed himself out of his pilot's chair and limped through his ship towards the hatch. Not much had changed in the Catscratch. It's interior still resembled a typical Catharese home on their homeworld of Cathar, although the cushions had once been brightly colored and were now all faded down to its dull gray or yellow-ish fabric. Most of the credits Davik made were spent on keeping the ancient engines up and running, after all. Well, that and a crippling spice habit. He had gotten the limp after a scuffle with a Rodian rancher on Takodana, who had beaten him on the draw and forced Davik to run and leave some merchandise behind. Bad luck seemed to follow him.
Just before reaching the hallway he bumped against an old box of counterfeit holonet movies. "Kark-" Davik paused, looked down at the contents of the box that had spread out over the floor of his ship's common room. On one of the cases was a familiar looking man. A younger version of the rancher, although those rancher types all looked the same anyway. The name was faded, something starting with a P -or maybe a B- and ending it what looked to be Callous. Uh, worthless merch from a lifetime ago.
The hatch opened as he reached it and at the bottom of the ramp stood the two datapad-humping rulesticklers, "We flagged your ship for a random inspection mister-" the customs agent looked down on his datapad and realized that the name registered for the ship wasn't entered in galactic basic, which stumped him for a moment. "Osrol-" Davik smiled as he descended the ramp to give the man a friendly handshake, "Kivad Osrol. Independent Freighter."
Three years ago he had given up his cozy lifestyle on New Alderaan and rededicated himself to the Ossein lifestyle, selling arms for his close Hutt friend. Although -knowing Hutts- the latter only ever regarded him as a convenient acquaintance. Nor'baal the Hutt. The giant slug went from a smalltime business partner of the Crymorah Syndicate, to taking over his own clan from the dead clutches of his mother and eventually got to rule the entirety of Hutt Space with an iron fist. Head-honcho of the Hutt species. Who would've thunked?
Meanwhile the Catscratch had purred on. It's name and that of its owner forgotten in the great swaths of space and time. It had been seen inside Hutt Space and on other worlds where the Hutt Clan wanted to sell or buy weapons. Appointments in ledgers of unimportant smalltime hustlers that never left their own planets would read 'Iron Kowak - Armsdealer' and sometimes the modest number of blasters he traded with them to support a local but fledging gang that had shown interest to align themselves with Nor'baal's impressive and continuous flow of the highly addictive and even more profitable spice. For a time it seemed that synthetic spice was one the rise, but the fall of the Zaa Fenn and the collapse of cooperation within the Five Syndicates all progress in its development was halted through explosions, murder and general gang warfare. As usual in galactic history a Hutt had the last laugh.
Davik pushed himself out of his pilot's chair and limped through his ship towards the hatch. Not much had changed in the Catscratch. It's interior still resembled a typical Catharese home on their homeworld of Cathar, although the cushions had once been brightly colored and were now all faded down to its dull gray or yellow-ish fabric. Most of the credits Davik made were spent on keeping the ancient engines up and running, after all. Well, that and a crippling spice habit. He had gotten the limp after a scuffle with a Rodian rancher on Takodana, who had beaten him on the draw and forced Davik to run and leave some merchandise behind. Bad luck seemed to follow him.
Just before reaching the hallway he bumped against an old box of counterfeit holonet movies. "Kark-" Davik paused, looked down at the contents of the box that had spread out over the floor of his ship's common room. On one of the cases was a familiar looking man. A younger version of the rancher, although those rancher types all looked the same anyway. The name was faded, something starting with a P -or maybe a B- and ending it what looked to be Callous. Uh, worthless merch from a lifetime ago.
The hatch opened as he reached it and at the bottom of the ramp stood the two datapad-humping rulesticklers, "We flagged your ship for a random inspection mister-" the customs agent looked down on his datapad and realized that the name registered for the ship wasn't entered in galactic basic, which stumped him for a moment. "Osrol-" Davik smiled as he descended the ramp to give the man a friendly handshake, "Kivad Osrol. Independent Freighter."
