He was leaking, that much was apparent. 7Z-3 stared straight ahead at one of the few pieces of furniture in his apartment, wires straining and sunglow receptors narrowing as he tried to identify the source of his ‘pain’. Of course the droid didn’t feel pain in any conventional sense but was more than acutely aware that there was a gentle, constant dripping at the base of his rust-coloured torso. Coolant or battery fluid? He couldn’t be sure and the pin-sized hole hadn’t caused enough damage for there to be obvious symptoms. No companions to rely on, no friends to trust and the small problem of his existence being illegal - what did they even do with illegal droids these days?
His first port of call was the local information terminal - slicing that was simple for the droid and gave him access to whatever APIs it was connected to. Maybe there was something to be found there? A moderately laboured scan through the ones and zeros of common binary revealed nothing of interest except for some Huttese fragments that impressed upon the criminal ‘community’ on Nar Shaddaa to ‘leave the Blackwell boffin alone’, along with some times and dates. Perfect. He knew where the corporate housing was and with that, he was also familiar with the quality of Blackwell’s offerings - at least out here, a sector seldom visited by the suits. Still. Even though breaking into them was easy, he needed more tangible information about the engineer - was he packing heat? Did he have a security detail? Droids with him? Survival sometimes meant patience and 7Z-3 was a monk.
7Z-3 donned his ‘clothes’ - an oversized coat, custom-made shoes and large hood to cover his head. The sickly yellow emanating from beneath the shadow of the face covering reminded others of Jawas and he was sometimes mistaken for one despite the large size discrepancy. Kind of how most people that haven’t seen one, think a moose is the size of a donkey. A plated hand gripped the thermal detonator, housing it in a roomy pocket of the coat, his other hand slung the blaster rifle over his shoulder, as one would grab a rucksack and the droid finally stepped outside of his apartment. He didn't bother to secure the door - he had nothing worth stealing.
A half hour’s travel and he was there. 7Z-3 found a nice dark alleyway that still gave him view over the front entrance to Blackwell’s block of apartments - the engineer, by his calculations, would be there within the next hour with some variation around that. He deposited his blaster rifle in a nearby trash receptacle and began to wait. His plan was simple:
There was no need for bloodshed - 7Z-3 didn’t need the corporate might of Blackwell on his back; all he needed was the careful, attentive help of a frightened engineer to do some keyhole welding on his internals. The thermal detonator would help with the ‘frightened’ part.
His first port of call was the local information terminal - slicing that was simple for the droid and gave him access to whatever APIs it was connected to. Maybe there was something to be found there? A moderately laboured scan through the ones and zeros of common binary revealed nothing of interest except for some Huttese fragments that impressed upon the criminal ‘community’ on Nar Shaddaa to ‘leave the Blackwell boffin alone’, along with some times and dates. Perfect. He knew where the corporate housing was and with that, he was also familiar with the quality of Blackwell’s offerings - at least out here, a sector seldom visited by the suits. Still. Even though breaking into them was easy, he needed more tangible information about the engineer - was he packing heat? Did he have a security detail? Droids with him? Survival sometimes meant patience and 7Z-3 was a monk.
7Z-3 donned his ‘clothes’ - an oversized coat, custom-made shoes and large hood to cover his head. The sickly yellow emanating from beneath the shadow of the face covering reminded others of Jawas and he was sometimes mistaken for one despite the large size discrepancy. Kind of how most people that haven’t seen one, think a moose is the size of a donkey. A plated hand gripped the thermal detonator, housing it in a roomy pocket of the coat, his other hand slung the blaster rifle over his shoulder, as one would grab a rucksack and the droid finally stepped outside of his apartment. He didn't bother to secure the door - he had nothing worth stealing.
A half hour’s travel and he was there. 7Z-3 found a nice dark alleyway that still gave him view over the front entrance to Blackwell’s block of apartments - the engineer, by his calculations, would be there within the next hour with some variation around that. He deposited his blaster rifle in a nearby trash receptacle and began to wait. His plan was simple:
- Observe the engineer and what he arrives with. Droids? Obvious weapons? Biological security?
- Infiltrate the block of flats (7Z-3 had taken some time to research the door locks employed by the building in advance)
- Break into the engineer’s apartment after dark, when he was likely to be asleep.
There was no need for bloodshed - 7Z-3 didn’t need the corporate might of Blackwell on his back; all he needed was the careful, attentive help of a frightened engineer to do some keyhole welding on his internals. The thermal detonator would help with the ‘frightened’ part.
