- Joined
- Nov 19, 2010
- Messages
- 262
- Reaction score
- 0
Mandolore.
Keldabe.
Midmorning.
The air was full of the humming of repulsorlifts, ships preparing to take off or land. Around the fringes of the landing pads clustered service technicians, merchant repulsortrucks, and loafers with nothing better to do. Not all were true Mando here, there was the usual collection of waifs and strays that clung to spaceports the way mynocks clung to ship wiring.
One such bundle of rags squinted up at some outgoing merchants. "Can't ye afford a coin?" the old man whined. "I just want to afford a proper blanket. Please, kind sir, can't ye..."
One merchant clouted the moocher with the back of his hand, and he lapsed into silence. They boarded, fired up the engines, and left.
Again, the old man tried appealing to his fellow beings, two men wearing mechanic's coveralls. They didn't even spare him a glance, walking past without pausing their conversation. His voice grew shriller as they faded into the distance, but neither paid him any heed.
"A cruel world, is it not?"
The begger turned, bleary eyes fastening on a man he'd only seen from a distance before. "Aye, it is," the old man said, head bobbing in agreement. "Forgive me if I don' rise to greet ye, but me joints are a-painin' in this weather."
The stranger shrugged. "I have little patience for customs."
"Couldn't spare..."
A glance cut the usual whine short. "I've got something better in mind, old man. Listen carefully. You see the mando in the red beskar, right there?"
Again, the white head bobbed in agreement.
"What is his name?"
"What's it to you?" the begger countered, shrewdly.
The stranger glared at the old man, then flipped him a credit chip.
"Aye, that's Ratc Marholf," the begger grinned.
"And where does he live?"
"Ach, me poor head..." the begger caught another chip. "Tori Street. Third unit down from the red 'un."
"And the best time to find him..."
The begger shrugged. "How would I know?"
Instead of shining at credits, his eyes popped and crossed as a blaster muzzle ticked the end of his nose. "I figure you'd know."
"Th-th-three hours!" the begger squeaked, terrified. "H-h-he always goes home to eat lunch! Carn't see why--he's g-g-g-got no woman around!"
The stranger nodded, making the blaster vanish again. "Very good. Thank you for your cooperation."
He walked off, towards a tapcaf.
Behind him, the eyes of Chace Skirata watched him go.
Keldabe.
Midmorning.
The air was full of the humming of repulsorlifts, ships preparing to take off or land. Around the fringes of the landing pads clustered service technicians, merchant repulsortrucks, and loafers with nothing better to do. Not all were true Mando here, there was the usual collection of waifs and strays that clung to spaceports the way mynocks clung to ship wiring.
One such bundle of rags squinted up at some outgoing merchants. "Can't ye afford a coin?" the old man whined. "I just want to afford a proper blanket. Please, kind sir, can't ye..."
One merchant clouted the moocher with the back of his hand, and he lapsed into silence. They boarded, fired up the engines, and left.
Again, the old man tried appealing to his fellow beings, two men wearing mechanic's coveralls. They didn't even spare him a glance, walking past without pausing their conversation. His voice grew shriller as they faded into the distance, but neither paid him any heed.
"A cruel world, is it not?"
The begger turned, bleary eyes fastening on a man he'd only seen from a distance before. "Aye, it is," the old man said, head bobbing in agreement. "Forgive me if I don' rise to greet ye, but me joints are a-painin' in this weather."
The stranger shrugged. "I have little patience for customs."
"Couldn't spare..."
A glance cut the usual whine short. "I've got something better in mind, old man. Listen carefully. You see the mando in the red beskar, right there?"
Again, the white head bobbed in agreement.
"What is his name?"
"What's it to you?" the begger countered, shrewdly.
The stranger glared at the old man, then flipped him a credit chip.
"Aye, that's Ratc Marholf," the begger grinned.
"And where does he live?"
"Ach, me poor head..." the begger caught another chip. "Tori Street. Third unit down from the red 'un."
"And the best time to find him..."
The begger shrugged. "How would I know?"
Instead of shining at credits, his eyes popped and crossed as a blaster muzzle ticked the end of his nose. "I figure you'd know."
"Th-th-three hours!" the begger squeaked, terrified. "H-h-he always goes home to eat lunch! Carn't see why--he's g-g-g-got no woman around!"
The stranger nodded, making the blaster vanish again. "Very good. Thank you for your cooperation."
He walked off, towards a tapcaf.
Behind him, the eyes of Chace Skirata watched him go.