Still on Tattooine. The repair guy had said his ship would take four days to fix… Two weeks ago. From what he could get out of the old Ithorian, the blaster impacts had sent a back-charge through the electrical system and fried the power converters. It would take longer to fix than he’d thought, and the price would be double.
Rather than use the rest of his credits on a room in whatever accommodations Mos Eisley had to offer, he slept on one of the two meager bunks in his IFST-17 Light Courier, the Icewind. He didn’t have much to pass the time other than a couple of bars nearby, occasional holonet feeds. He hadn’t been sleeping well, and he had some sense that it wasn’t just the booze. Strange dreams of snowy places, memories of his birthworld he thought he’d buried.
An opportunity had presented itself, though. An overheard conversation in one dingy bar had brought him an offer. Shady as hell, no doubt, but he wasn’t picky. In the absence of criminals to apprehend, or criminals he felt he could apprehend, there was always smuggling. On someone else’s ship, this time, but he couldn’t be picky.
Ol’ reliable, he thought of his frequent side-gig, sitting atop one of the bunks in his ship, idly flipping the safety on and off his EE-3 blaster pistol. He sat it aside for the moment, staring at his webbed, clawed hands. They were shaking again. He’d been hitting the bottle too hard, even he would admit. He’d better get past it, he had a meeting in… Fak I’m already late.
He slammed the blaster into his leg holster, tossing on his green blast jacket as he made towards the exit ramp.
—------------------------------
The place where he was to meet the pilot was another bar, not the famed Mos Eisley Cantina, but a smaller one, darker, dirtier. Something about the place made the fur stand up on the back of his neck. There was nobody there save for the bartender droid, a cylindrical machine with four arms.
A cautious hand drifting near the blaster on his leg, he approached the bar.
“Whiskey,” he said. He’d heard a human say once, “Whiskey is for business,” a rule he’d stuck by. For all their oddities, in Karath’s opinion, humans made the best booze.
He sat down at the bar, drinking slowly, waiting for his contact to appear.
Rather than use the rest of his credits on a room in whatever accommodations Mos Eisley had to offer, he slept on one of the two meager bunks in his IFST-17 Light Courier, the Icewind. He didn’t have much to pass the time other than a couple of bars nearby, occasional holonet feeds. He hadn’t been sleeping well, and he had some sense that it wasn’t just the booze. Strange dreams of snowy places, memories of his birthworld he thought he’d buried.
An opportunity had presented itself, though. An overheard conversation in one dingy bar had brought him an offer. Shady as hell, no doubt, but he wasn’t picky. In the absence of criminals to apprehend, or criminals he felt he could apprehend, there was always smuggling. On someone else’s ship, this time, but he couldn’t be picky.
Ol’ reliable, he thought of his frequent side-gig, sitting atop one of the bunks in his ship, idly flipping the safety on and off his EE-3 blaster pistol. He sat it aside for the moment, staring at his webbed, clawed hands. They were shaking again. He’d been hitting the bottle too hard, even he would admit. He’d better get past it, he had a meeting in… Fak I’m already late.
He slammed the blaster into his leg holster, tossing on his green blast jacket as he made towards the exit ramp.
—------------------------------
The place where he was to meet the pilot was another bar, not the famed Mos Eisley Cantina, but a smaller one, darker, dirtier. Something about the place made the fur stand up on the back of his neck. There was nobody there save for the bartender droid, a cylindrical machine with four arms.
A cautious hand drifting near the blaster on his leg, he approached the bar.
“Whiskey,” he said. He’d heard a human say once, “Whiskey is for business,” a rule he’d stuck by. For all their oddities, in Karath’s opinion, humans made the best booze.
He sat down at the bar, drinking slowly, waiting for his contact to appear.