TAGS: OPEN
Braze carried the explosives to the only real pawn shop in town, an aging structure tucked between a closed-down eatery and a spice den, its sign half-lit and humming with static. He stepped through the door and looked around.
The bell over the door gave a reluctant
clink, more rusted hinge than chime. The air inside was thick with dust, ozone, old grease, and the faint tang of copper. A wall-mounted fan turned lazily above, doing little to move the stale atmosphere.
The interior was dim, lit mostly by an overworked ceiling strip that flickered every few seconds. The place was cramped with shelves and lockboxes of varying security levels, many with unknown provenance: salvaged blasters, outdated droid parts, mysterious canisters, vintage credits pressed into clearseal, and even a jar full of what looked suspiciously like teeth.
Behind a scuffed counter stood the proprietor.
Vorn was a human of indeterminate age with cybernetic eyes that clicked softly as they adjusted to Braze. His lower jaw had been replaced entirely with durasteel plating, lending a constant rasp to his voice. He didn't flinch at the sight of the explosives. If anything, his interest sharpened.
He leaned forward, hands braced on the counter.
Vorn: "Well now… either you've got something to sell, or I need to hit the panic switch. You tell me which it is, sunshine."
Braze blinked as he took in his surroundings, an uneasy sentiment settling over him as he spotted a jar with... teeth?
He looked up at the shopkeeper and offered a smile.
"Oh, ah... I'm just hoping to get a few creds for a meal, if that's all right... uh, sir?"
Braze was by no means an intimidating figure. He was lithe and svelte, with a narrow waist, standing only around 5'4", with pale white skin and snow-white hair.
Vorn squinted at Braze, then down at the explosives, then back again, his gaze like a grease-slick scalpel.
"Meal money, huh?" he grunted.
"That's a damn fancy lunch you're cartin' in. What is that—detonite compound? Thermex fuse?"
He leaned forward slightly, the dim light catching on his gold tooth.
"You don't look like you built it... but you also don't look dumb enough to carry it in here lit. So tell me, kid, where'd you get it?"
He tapped the glass jar of teeth like a nervous tic.
"No lies. My security droid's got a faster draw than I do, and he ain't sentimental."
"Hmm," he grunted, one gloved hand tapping against the counter.
"You don't look like the type to find explosives, so either someone's being sloppy... or you're about to make my week more interesting." He reached under the counter, not for the panic button, Braze might notice, but for a cracked pair of magnifying goggles he settled over his eyes.
"Let's see what you've got, Snowdrop. And pray it ain't something that'll kill us both if I sneeze wrong."
He held out a warped tray lined with synthcloth and gestured for Braze to lay the goods down.
Braze offered a nervous smile at that.
"Oh? You don't say..." He glanced toward the droid in question standing by the front.
"Found it wired to an old ship... I'm not entirely sure what it might be, but it's not armed."
"That so?" he muttered, watching Braze place the item down.
He leaned in, the goggles whirring as they zoomed in and out with a chirping hum. He sniffed once.
"Hmph. Old, all right. Re-wired. Homemade trigger patch. You're lucky it didn't vaporize your fingers, son."
He tapped one edge of the device with a gloved finger, thoughtful now.
"…Tell you what. I can give you seventy credits, and a warning not to sell anything like this to the wrong shop again. Could've been someone twitchier."
He glanced at the droid still standing silent near the door.
"…Or I can give you twenty, and a bit of advice that won't get you shot before sundown. Your pick."
Braze nodded lightly, having brought the items over to set gently on the tray.
"Wow… you're really smart to know all that. I'm impressed. Uh… I only need a few credits to get a nice meal. Color me interested in your advice, sir."
He offered an awkward smile.
The shopkeeper snorted, his grizzled face creasing like cracked leather.
"Flattery, huh? That and twenty creds'll get you a bowl of synth-bean soup and maybe a single night without someone picking your pockets."
He reached beneath the counter, slid the tray away with practiced ease, and then thunked a chipped cred-chit onto the surface.
"Here's your twenty."
Then he leaned forward, voice lowering to something almost conspiratorial.
"Advice is free, but that don't mean it's cheap."
He tapped the counter with one thick finger, each knock punctuated like a lesson.
"One. Don't carry shiny things you can't explain. Looks like loot? People'll treat you like a looter.
Two. That pretty face of yours? Great way to get mugged, or worse, if you keep showing it around with that innocent little smile.
And three…"
He leaned back, eyes flicking toward the front window where a hover-sled rumbled past.
"…If someone offers you a job and they won't look you in the eye while doing it? Say no. Or say yes, and bring something heavier than that toy blaster you've got tucked under your belt."
He gave a wink, then reached for a tin mug beside the register.
"Now go eat. You look like you could use it."
Braze paid the man rapt attention and nodded curtly, listening to the gritty advice.
"I appreciate your wisdom. Thank you," he said, looking the man directly in the eye as he moved to take the credit chit.
He turned to leave.
"Hey."
The word came low and sharp behind him, enough to pause a man mid-step. Vorn didn't raise his voice, but there was a gravity in it that tugged like a slow riptide.
"Next time you come through here… don't bring junk that looks like war crimes. Makes folk nervous."
There was no malice in the old man's tone, just caution.
Then he added, almost as an afterthought,
"And if you're ever lookin' for work… come back after dusk. The shop stays open late for certain types."
"Thanks... I'll keep that in mind," he offered with a mock salute, then stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the ash-laden streets.
It was a good thing Braze knew breath control... otherwise, he'd be choking in a place like this.
He gave a cautious glance around for his handler. Still no sign of
Okuma Milogen
. He must still be grappling with what to do when faced with the impenetrable Black Wall around Sith space.
The wind cut low and warm, thick with the scent of scorched sulfur, and that ever-present volcanic dust that clung to everything like regret. The sky overhead was a dull, reddish bruise, the sun a dim coin behind layered ash clouds.
To Braze's left, a swoop gang in rusted leathers roared past, laughing too loud, the whine of their bikes sharp against the dull hush of the city. A few pedestrians kept their heads low, wrapped in scarves and synth-hide cloaks, eyes flicking up only long enough to make sure they weren't the next trouble.
Braze stepped down and padded back to the market stalls he had been perusing earlier, but a sort of sadness clung to him, one he was having a harder time shaking.
The market had resumed its rhythm. Vendors hawked their wares beneath stained tarps, voices rising over the hiss of steam grates and the low thrum of distant industry. The air still carried that burnt-metal scent, but to Braze, it seemed heavier now, almost stale. The colors looked duller, the sounds a little more grating.
A familiar merchant, the old Devaronian selling scraps and charms, caught sight of him and gave a nod, but even that seemed distant, like Braze was walking through a dream with too-sharp edges.
Somewhere nearby, a street performer let out a reedy note from a broken flute, and it reminded him, absurdly of home.
