"Change? Spare some change for a veteran?"
Vega rattled the plastic cup, the few meager credits, coins, chips, and vertices clinking weakly. Crouched in one of the many alleys of Daiyu city, Vega was sitting on a piece of cardplast, hunched over against the omnipresent press of passersby. One pedestrian, a wealthy looking human woman, glared at Vega disdainfully as she clutched her purse. "Get a job you filthy parasite!" A fluffy and perpetually shaking creature in her arms, presumably a pet of some indeterminate origin, yapped at Vega to enunciate its master's disdain.
In response, Vega raised out his arms. After the annihilation of Panatha, many refugees and and soldiers had received medical attention for wounds sustained during the vicious battle; Vega was one of the worst. Grievously wounded, they had replaced his arms and legs, many internal organs, and, for his service to the galaxy, had kept him alive at economic loss. Nevertheless, there was only so much aid money. His limbs were cheap and mass-produced, virtually identical to a B1 battle droid; they shook constantly, and the weak electrostatic receivers meant the limbs always felt numb and fuzzy. "I can't work, ma'am, these limbs aren't good for much."
"Filthy Mod!" The woman pulled back in disgust at the cybernetics, dropping a few coins in the process. "Go do droid work, then, if that's all you're good for!" Not bothering to pick up the coins - they had touched the grime of the street after all, she moved off in a huff, her pet ball of fur growling viciously.
"They don't pay droids." Muttered Vega under his breath, low enough not to be heard. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he scraped at the coins on the ground, his lack of dexterity and the numbness of his metal fingers making him slide the coins across the ground uselessly. With a curse and a quick glance around - even beggars had a shred of dignity - he leaned over and used his tongue and lips to pick the coins up. Spitting each one out into his cup, he idly wished he had something to drink to wash the vile taste of grime out of his mouth. "Beggars can't be choosers." He muttered to himself, holding out the cup and shaking it once more. "They shoulda just let me die."
Vega rattled the plastic cup, the few meager credits, coins, chips, and vertices clinking weakly. Crouched in one of the many alleys of Daiyu city, Vega was sitting on a piece of cardplast, hunched over against the omnipresent press of passersby. One pedestrian, a wealthy looking human woman, glared at Vega disdainfully as she clutched her purse. "Get a job you filthy parasite!" A fluffy and perpetually shaking creature in her arms, presumably a pet of some indeterminate origin, yapped at Vega to enunciate its master's disdain.
In response, Vega raised out his arms. After the annihilation of Panatha, many refugees and and soldiers had received medical attention for wounds sustained during the vicious battle; Vega was one of the worst. Grievously wounded, they had replaced his arms and legs, many internal organs, and, for his service to the galaxy, had kept him alive at economic loss. Nevertheless, there was only so much aid money. His limbs were cheap and mass-produced, virtually identical to a B1 battle droid; they shook constantly, and the weak electrostatic receivers meant the limbs always felt numb and fuzzy. "I can't work, ma'am, these limbs aren't good for much."
"Filthy Mod!" The woman pulled back in disgust at the cybernetics, dropping a few coins in the process. "Go do droid work, then, if that's all you're good for!" Not bothering to pick up the coins - they had touched the grime of the street after all, she moved off in a huff, her pet ball of fur growling viciously.
"They don't pay droids." Muttered Vega under his breath, low enough not to be heard. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he scraped at the coins on the ground, his lack of dexterity and the numbness of his metal fingers making him slide the coins across the ground uselessly. With a curse and a quick glance around - even beggars had a shred of dignity - he leaned over and used his tongue and lips to pick the coins up. Spitting each one out into his cup, he idly wished he had something to drink to wash the vile taste of grime out of his mouth. "Beggars can't be choosers." He muttered to himself, holding out the cup and shaking it once more. "They shoulda just let me die."