Through the clarity brought by the piercing shriek of his intuition that ripped apart the heady effects of spice in his system, Arctus knew that he was well and truly karked the moment the pilot droid of his rented rust bucket of a speeder was struck down by a well-placed blaster bolt.
The smuggler was well aware that the trip to Tatooine was doomed from the very beginning. His intuition had been tripping every alarm bell in his brain – something bad's gonna happen, you shouldn't have taken the job, but fecking stars the pay is so damn good! But not worth the amount of trouble you'll be in! – and yet he was too stubborn to ignore the warning. Arctus trusted the contact, got acquainted with a pretty chill customer-slash-local dealer, and even got to share some of his delivery with the client.
High as a kriffing kite, he scoffed at the intuition that saved his criminal arse for years. But karma had been quick to bite that very same arse the moment he left the client and made his way to Mos Espa.
Arctus crumpled in a heap on the sandy grounds of Tatooine, arms wrapped around his middle. The bandits – eight of them, kriff – jeered at him, some of them already looting his cargo while the others proceeded to haul him back up on his feet. The leader, a seedy-looking human male, grabbed Arctus' by the jaw and shot the smuggler a toothy grin.
"Ain't this guy loaded with the good stuff!" exclaimed the bastard, squeezing Arctus' cheeks with his bony fingers before letting him go. "Who'd have thought we'll find a smuggler 'round these parts... and just in time for a resupply in our med supply!"
Said smuggler shot the bandit his most winning smile, showing bloody teeth. He reared back from the man's hold, just far enough to make the kriffer's nose bleed when he swung his head forward with an awful crack against the bandit's face.
Arctus saw stars for a moment, head pounding along with the ruffians' jeers. The lead bandit let him go to clutch at his broken nose, spitting out one curse after another as he let the smuggler go, with Arctus falling back down and given a savage kick on the ribs.
"Motherkriffer!"
The smuggler giggled manically through the pain, curling in on himself as another booted foot struck him on the stomach. One hand shot forward to grab the offending foot, yanking forward and making his assailant crash. With a quick draw of one of his blasters, Arctus made the offender eat a blaster bolt as he scrambled up, woozy, to his own feet.
His vision swam, the bandits all but near-abstract noodle sticks in his eyes (thank the fecking spice). The setting binary suns seemed to grin wildly down at him. Intuition going haywire as it fought against the spice's effects, Arctus moved to shoot an approaching bandit but missed by a huge margin. He could only block the knife that was meant for his throat, the blade slicing his right arm. The pain was nothing compared to the blaster bolt to his right thigh, sending him crashing back down the sand.
Dazed, he missed the knife sticking to his left side – someone must have thrown it at him before he could fall. The pain flaring throughout his body brought him back to awareness, but it also made the acquaintance brief. Through gritted teeth, Arctus weakly lifted his weapon to fire another shot in retaliation, but the blaster was kicked out of his grasp before he could get the chance to squeeze the trigger.
Oh, well. Looked like Tatooine would be his burial place.
If only he could see his mum and little brothers for the last time. Maybe he could finally admit what he had been up to these past few years, tell them how messed up he'd been the moment he moved out of their place. Admit where the creds he'd been sending them were coming from. Tell Mum he'd been a spice addict and remind the triplets, Ansem, Alden, and Armin, please don't be like me, go be the good sons Mum deserve, don't be like me, don't be like me, please don't all thirty years has been wasted on me–
A piercing shriek broke through the murky haze that threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. Hazel grey eyes opened just in time to see one bandit fall after the other, his vision struggling through the growing darkness as one sun disappeared into the horizon followed by its twin.
The bandits tried to scatter, firing blindly in the dark at an enemy they couldn't see. Arctus' eyes slid shut, a slow grin stretching his lips in appreciation. Well, at least he wasn't the only one dying here. He would've thanked whoever his savior was but he wanted to close his eyes and sleep more...
The smuggler did not know how long he'd been lying here, bleeding to death, and he would've jumped in surprise when he felt a pressure on his shoulder – granted, he was getting weaker with each passing moment, but still. Arctus struggled to open his eyes, fought to keep them open, to look at whoever the kriffing hell was trying to loot his would-be corpse.
"A lit– little respeeeect here?" he mumbled, dazed, hand slapping against something cold and hard. "'M still mo–moments from kickin' the b-bucket an' you're already lootin' meeee..."
A laugh, amused and... worried? rang in his ears like tinkling bells on a warm summer day, despite the sound being filtered by a voice modulator. Arctus' gaze was met with a T-visor, followed by grey metal – a helmet? – gleaming in the lamp light.
"Not looting," said Helmet, covered head cocked to the side like a curious puppy. Arctus must have been losing blood real quick because, for the love of the gods, he found the action rather cute. And that voice was distinctly feminine, was it not? Helmet needed to talk more so he could–
"Trying to save your backside here, buddy."
Yep, definitely a female.
Arctus closed his eyes, wincing at the movement as Helmet rolled him over. His back met fabric instead of sand... curious. The smuggler's eyes shot open when he felt hands getting rid of his shirt, a hoarse gasp slipping past his lips when he felt the knife's bite on his side disappearing with a quick but careful pull.
"At least buy– buy me d-dinner first, sweetheart?" he teased, groaning when he felt pressure against the stab wound on his side. He hissed in pain when he felt something being sprayed on the wound, then on his right thigh and arm.
A confused hum, then, "Why do I have to do that? Buy you dinner, that is. Did I miss something?"
Disbelief would've made him gape up at Helmet if he wasn't so amused. The smuggler closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her care – if her words were to be trusted, that is.
His intuition hummed pleasantly in the forefront of his mind.
Kind, it said. Safe. Nothing but good intentions. Hands that killed, yes... but now they exist to save you. You're safe, Arctus.
And he believed it.
A couple of years into the smuggling business had Arctus sharpening his intuition, up to the point where he could somehow tell if someone interacting with him had good intentions or sought to harm him. He couldn't explain it fully, how said intuition worked differently than normal. It would speak to him, warn him of danger or assure him that it was safe. It hadn't let him down so far, so he knew that it was something that could be trusted.
And ignoring it in favor of the job and the promise of a good pay landed him into, what?
Banged up and under the mercy of a woman clad in a helmet and... armor?
Arctus had lost count of opening his eyes in surprise as he tilted his head to take a good look at his savior. That T-visor should have rang a bell the first time he'd laid eyes on it, much less the armor's appearance and that weird groove resembling a diamond in the center of that chestplate. He'd heard tales about that T-visored helm, how those who wore such a thing were practically walking, living killing machines who could squeeze the life out of their targets in more ways than he could ever count on his fingers.
Mandalorian.
The smuggler was well aware that the trip to Tatooine was doomed from the very beginning. His intuition had been tripping every alarm bell in his brain – something bad's gonna happen, you shouldn't have taken the job, but fecking stars the pay is so damn good! But not worth the amount of trouble you'll be in! – and yet he was too stubborn to ignore the warning. Arctus trusted the contact, got acquainted with a pretty chill customer-slash-local dealer, and even got to share some of his delivery with the client.
High as a kriffing kite, he scoffed at the intuition that saved his criminal arse for years. But karma had been quick to bite that very same arse the moment he left the client and made his way to Mos Espa.
Arctus crumpled in a heap on the sandy grounds of Tatooine, arms wrapped around his middle. The bandits – eight of them, kriff – jeered at him, some of them already looting his cargo while the others proceeded to haul him back up on his feet. The leader, a seedy-looking human male, grabbed Arctus' by the jaw and shot the smuggler a toothy grin.
"Ain't this guy loaded with the good stuff!" exclaimed the bastard, squeezing Arctus' cheeks with his bony fingers before letting him go. "Who'd have thought we'll find a smuggler 'round these parts... and just in time for a resupply in our med supply!"
Said smuggler shot the bandit his most winning smile, showing bloody teeth. He reared back from the man's hold, just far enough to make the kriffer's nose bleed when he swung his head forward with an awful crack against the bandit's face.
Arctus saw stars for a moment, head pounding along with the ruffians' jeers. The lead bandit let him go to clutch at his broken nose, spitting out one curse after another as he let the smuggler go, with Arctus falling back down and given a savage kick on the ribs.
"Motherkriffer!"
The smuggler giggled manically through the pain, curling in on himself as another booted foot struck him on the stomach. One hand shot forward to grab the offending foot, yanking forward and making his assailant crash. With a quick draw of one of his blasters, Arctus made the offender eat a blaster bolt as he scrambled up, woozy, to his own feet.
His vision swam, the bandits all but near-abstract noodle sticks in his eyes (thank the fecking spice). The setting binary suns seemed to grin wildly down at him. Intuition going haywire as it fought against the spice's effects, Arctus moved to shoot an approaching bandit but missed by a huge margin. He could only block the knife that was meant for his throat, the blade slicing his right arm. The pain was nothing compared to the blaster bolt to his right thigh, sending him crashing back down the sand.
Dazed, he missed the knife sticking to his left side – someone must have thrown it at him before he could fall. The pain flaring throughout his body brought him back to awareness, but it also made the acquaintance brief. Through gritted teeth, Arctus weakly lifted his weapon to fire another shot in retaliation, but the blaster was kicked out of his grasp before he could get the chance to squeeze the trigger.
Oh, well. Looked like Tatooine would be his burial place.
If only he could see his mum and little brothers for the last time. Maybe he could finally admit what he had been up to these past few years, tell them how messed up he'd been the moment he moved out of their place. Admit where the creds he'd been sending them were coming from. Tell Mum he'd been a spice addict and remind the triplets, Ansem, Alden, and Armin, please don't be like me, go be the good sons Mum deserve, don't be like me, don't be like me, please don't all thirty years has been wasted on me–
A piercing shriek broke through the murky haze that threatened to drag him into unconsciousness. Hazel grey eyes opened just in time to see one bandit fall after the other, his vision struggling through the growing darkness as one sun disappeared into the horizon followed by its twin.
The bandits tried to scatter, firing blindly in the dark at an enemy they couldn't see. Arctus' eyes slid shut, a slow grin stretching his lips in appreciation. Well, at least he wasn't the only one dying here. He would've thanked whoever his savior was but he wanted to close his eyes and sleep more...
The smuggler did not know how long he'd been lying here, bleeding to death, and he would've jumped in surprise when he felt a pressure on his shoulder – granted, he was getting weaker with each passing moment, but still. Arctus struggled to open his eyes, fought to keep them open, to look at whoever the kriffing hell was trying to loot his would-be corpse.
"A lit– little respeeeect here?" he mumbled, dazed, hand slapping against something cold and hard. "'M still mo–moments from kickin' the b-bucket an' you're already lootin' meeee..."
A laugh, amused and... worried? rang in his ears like tinkling bells on a warm summer day, despite the sound being filtered by a voice modulator. Arctus' gaze was met with a T-visor, followed by grey metal – a helmet? – gleaming in the lamp light.
"Not looting," said Helmet, covered head cocked to the side like a curious puppy. Arctus must have been losing blood real quick because, for the love of the gods, he found the action rather cute. And that voice was distinctly feminine, was it not? Helmet needed to talk more so he could–
"Trying to save your backside here, buddy."
Yep, definitely a female.
Arctus closed his eyes, wincing at the movement as Helmet rolled him over. His back met fabric instead of sand... curious. The smuggler's eyes shot open when he felt hands getting rid of his shirt, a hoarse gasp slipping past his lips when he felt the knife's bite on his side disappearing with a quick but careful pull.
"At least buy– buy me d-dinner first, sweetheart?" he teased, groaning when he felt pressure against the stab wound on his side. He hissed in pain when he felt something being sprayed on the wound, then on his right thigh and arm.
A confused hum, then, "Why do I have to do that? Buy you dinner, that is. Did I miss something?"
Disbelief would've made him gape up at Helmet if he wasn't so amused. The smuggler closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her care – if her words were to be trusted, that is.
His intuition hummed pleasantly in the forefront of his mind.
Kind, it said. Safe. Nothing but good intentions. Hands that killed, yes... but now they exist to save you. You're safe, Arctus.
And he believed it.
A couple of years into the smuggling business had Arctus sharpening his intuition, up to the point where he could somehow tell if someone interacting with him had good intentions or sought to harm him. He couldn't explain it fully, how said intuition worked differently than normal. It would speak to him, warn him of danger or assure him that it was safe. It hadn't let him down so far, so he knew that it was something that could be trusted.
And ignoring it in favor of the job and the promise of a good pay landed him into, what?
Banged up and under the mercy of a woman clad in a helmet and... armor?
Arctus had lost count of opening his eyes in surprise as he tilted his head to take a good look at his savior. That T-visor should have rang a bell the first time he'd laid eyes on it, much less the armor's appearance and that weird groove resembling a diamond in the center of that chestplate. He'd heard tales about that T-visored helm, how those who wore such a thing were practically walking, living killing machines who could squeeze the life out of their targets in more ways than he could ever count on his fingers.
Mandalorian.
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