There is just one thing you need to stay alive in the galaxy. More than strength, skill, or intelligence, this thing defines the course of history. Hell, this thing often is history itself. The galaxy spins around a supermassive core of credits. If you want to survive, you need credits.
Credits are precisely what Ferus currently lacks. Having just left the Aranov for the first time, he sat aboard the Nebula Ranger pondering what should be his next step. The way he saw it, there were two options: either he could head to the Outer Rim looking for immoral work as a bounty hunter, or he could head to the Core Worlds looking for immoral work as a bounty hunter. So not much of a decision after all.
Nonetheless, there is one obvious point here. Khusēh had spent his life attempting to drive Ferus away from the senseless violence and villainy that ran rampant on the Outer Rim, so heading back there straight away seemed almost an insult to his father’s memory. Ferus held no delusions that the Core Worlds did not play host to its very own brand of senseless violence and villainy, but he also hoped that therein he could also find an opportunity to build something lasting. And if the idea of the moment is building, then there’s just one place to go.
Ferus had never set foot on an ecumenopolis before, and he couldn’t help but be filled with childish glee as he landed the Nebula Ranger. His mind rushed in wonder, pondering the immeasurable effort of engineering, logistics, and sociology it must have taken to allow such a massive organism to thrive. However, another side of him beckoned something completely different; this wicked place had once been the seat of power of the Galactic Empire. Coruscant represented galactic imperialism, the immoral imperative that allowed the Empire to massacre his people. This kind of place is precisely what his father had trained him to fight.
His incessant stream of thought is quickly pushed aside by a rumbling. Not a loud rumbling, but one so encompassing that it can instinctively stop even the most brilliant of minds dead on its tracks. “I’m so kriffing hungry.” Ferus said as he reached for a purse with nothing more than a handful of credits. He desperately needed work, so the order of affairs is pretty straightforward: go to a cantina, eat something, get a layover of the city and find someone to hire him. Ferus holstered one of his DG-34 Peacemakers and removed his helmet, holding it tightly under his arm. He descended the cargo door of his ship, allowing the sunlight and the bustling noise of the city to wash over him.
Several heads turned towards him when Ferus walked into the cantina. Aliens from all corners of the galaxy united in cheerful drinking stopped abruptly in apprehension, sizing the Mandalorian to assess his intentions. Although a Mandalorian without his helmet did not seem as threatening, Ferus nonetheless is a huge, heavily armored man, even by Mandalorian standards. He shyly hesitated for a brief moment, wondering if he should’ve removed his armor. “Nonsense,” he thought to himself as he brushed the anxiety away. He is a Mandalorian, and he should wear the armor with pride, and it surely would help him find gainful employment.
Ferus calmly made his way over to the counter. The people in the cantina regained their calmness and resumed their business as quickly as they had lost it. “Not every day we see a Mandalorian ‘round these parts” said the bartender jokingly, a burly besalisk whose breath smelled particularly foul. This man did not fear the Mandalorian, and even allowed a devious laugh out as if he had thought of something wickedly funny. Ferus placed his helmet on the table, scanning the menu for something to eat. “To be fair, not many of you people ‘round to be seen.” Another laugh, this one particularly grating to Ferus’ ears. He felt like punching the besalisk on the throat, the Mandalorian genocide is no laughing matter.
“A plate of parwan nutricake and a glass of blurrgfire.” Ferus said, staring directly into the besalisk’s eyes.
“Dwang, you people really don’t have a sense of humour, huh?” The bartender retorted, and shuffled away into the kitchen to fix the Mandalorian’s food.
The besalisk returned after a couple of minutes, bearing a plate full of nutricakes and a glass of bright red blurrgfire. Ferus didn’t even leave the counter before he ravaged the food, eating with the reckless abandon that only a famished Mandalorian giant could display. He washed it all down with the drink, taking a moment to let out a loud burp before finishing. The Mandalorian tossed the last of his credits on the counter, which the besalisk quickly scooped up. "I'm looking for work," Ferus interjected before the bartender could say anything else.
“Hah! When you people not looking fo’ work Mando?” Responded the besalisk. “Why don’t ya go to the guild’s office, huh?”
“I’m not with the guild.” Ferus answered.
“That complicates things fo’ you, don’t it?" The bartender asked as he polished Ferus’ glass with a stained cloth. “Rarely work for someone such as yo’self outside the guild these days. But this might be ya lucky day…” The besalisk said, and laughed deviously again. “Couple hunters passed through earlier, talkin’ about a job at that fancy Blackwell place. Some engineer hotshot hiring mercs for a… uh… Expondation? Extrapolation? Expeniation?”
“Expedition?”
“Yeah, expedition. What did I say Mando?” The besalisk answered, clearly frustrated. “Swear to the Force, ya people try to be superior at everything.” He exhaled loudly in frustration. “Tha hunters said the job paid very well, but it was suicide. They’d never do it. But they was weequay trash no? You a Mando, right? Best of the best! Should be a cakewalk fo’ ya.” The besalisk concluded, bursting out into laughter with his usual deviant tone.
Ferus pondered for a moment, is this wise?
“Tell me. Where I can find this Blackwell?”
Credits are precisely what Ferus currently lacks. Having just left the Aranov for the first time, he sat aboard the Nebula Ranger pondering what should be his next step. The way he saw it, there were two options: either he could head to the Outer Rim looking for immoral work as a bounty hunter, or he could head to the Core Worlds looking for immoral work as a bounty hunter. So not much of a decision after all.
Nonetheless, there is one obvious point here. Khusēh had spent his life attempting to drive Ferus away from the senseless violence and villainy that ran rampant on the Outer Rim, so heading back there straight away seemed almost an insult to his father’s memory. Ferus held no delusions that the Core Worlds did not play host to its very own brand of senseless violence and villainy, but he also hoped that therein he could also find an opportunity to build something lasting. And if the idea of the moment is building, then there’s just one place to go.
______________________________________________________________
CORUSCANT
CORUSCANT
Ferus had never set foot on an ecumenopolis before, and he couldn’t help but be filled with childish glee as he landed the Nebula Ranger. His mind rushed in wonder, pondering the immeasurable effort of engineering, logistics, and sociology it must have taken to allow such a massive organism to thrive. However, another side of him beckoned something completely different; this wicked place had once been the seat of power of the Galactic Empire. Coruscant represented galactic imperialism, the immoral imperative that allowed the Empire to massacre his people. This kind of place is precisely what his father had trained him to fight.
His incessant stream of thought is quickly pushed aside by a rumbling. Not a loud rumbling, but one so encompassing that it can instinctively stop even the most brilliant of minds dead on its tracks. “I’m so kriffing hungry.” Ferus said as he reached for a purse with nothing more than a handful of credits. He desperately needed work, so the order of affairs is pretty straightforward: go to a cantina, eat something, get a layover of the city and find someone to hire him. Ferus holstered one of his DG-34 Peacemakers and removed his helmet, holding it tightly under his arm. He descended the cargo door of his ship, allowing the sunlight and the bustling noise of the city to wash over him.
Several heads turned towards him when Ferus walked into the cantina. Aliens from all corners of the galaxy united in cheerful drinking stopped abruptly in apprehension, sizing the Mandalorian to assess his intentions. Although a Mandalorian without his helmet did not seem as threatening, Ferus nonetheless is a huge, heavily armored man, even by Mandalorian standards. He shyly hesitated for a brief moment, wondering if he should’ve removed his armor. “Nonsense,” he thought to himself as he brushed the anxiety away. He is a Mandalorian, and he should wear the armor with pride, and it surely would help him find gainful employment.
Ferus calmly made his way over to the counter. The people in the cantina regained their calmness and resumed their business as quickly as they had lost it. “Not every day we see a Mandalorian ‘round these parts” said the bartender jokingly, a burly besalisk whose breath smelled particularly foul. This man did not fear the Mandalorian, and even allowed a devious laugh out as if he had thought of something wickedly funny. Ferus placed his helmet on the table, scanning the menu for something to eat. “To be fair, not many of you people ‘round to be seen.” Another laugh, this one particularly grating to Ferus’ ears. He felt like punching the besalisk on the throat, the Mandalorian genocide is no laughing matter.
“A plate of parwan nutricake and a glass of blurrgfire.” Ferus said, staring directly into the besalisk’s eyes.
“Dwang, you people really don’t have a sense of humour, huh?” The bartender retorted, and shuffled away into the kitchen to fix the Mandalorian’s food.
The besalisk returned after a couple of minutes, bearing a plate full of nutricakes and a glass of bright red blurrgfire. Ferus didn’t even leave the counter before he ravaged the food, eating with the reckless abandon that only a famished Mandalorian giant could display. He washed it all down with the drink, taking a moment to let out a loud burp before finishing. The Mandalorian tossed the last of his credits on the counter, which the besalisk quickly scooped up. "I'm looking for work," Ferus interjected before the bartender could say anything else.
“Hah! When you people not looking fo’ work Mando?” Responded the besalisk. “Why don’t ya go to the guild’s office, huh?”
“I’m not with the guild.” Ferus answered.
“That complicates things fo’ you, don’t it?" The bartender asked as he polished Ferus’ glass with a stained cloth. “Rarely work for someone such as yo’self outside the guild these days. But this might be ya lucky day…” The besalisk said, and laughed deviously again. “Couple hunters passed through earlier, talkin’ about a job at that fancy Blackwell place. Some engineer hotshot hiring mercs for a… uh… Expondation? Extrapolation? Expeniation?”
“Expedition?”
“Yeah, expedition. What did I say Mando?” The besalisk answered, clearly frustrated. “Swear to the Force, ya people try to be superior at everything.” He exhaled loudly in frustration. “Tha hunters said the job paid very well, but it was suicide. They’d never do it. But they was weequay trash no? You a Mando, right? Best of the best! Should be a cakewalk fo’ ya.” The besalisk concluded, bursting out into laughter with his usual deviant tone.
Ferus pondered for a moment, is this wise?
“Tell me. Where I can find this Blackwell?”
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