Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private Charter Through the Uncharted


~~ PRELUDE ~~
-- Theme --


-- En reute to Yavin's Lode Star Utopia


"So, there's this uncharted planet called Iliabath, that sits outside the rim of the Stygian Caldera," blinking lights across the flight console had him stop mid-sentence. "How do I know of its existence if it's uncharted? What kind of dumb question was that? Uncharted does not mean unknown! There are records of it on the HoloNet, people just forgot how to safely get there!"

The console flashed red and beeped a few times.

"No, of course I also don't know! But I can find a way to get there," the male Zeltron said with a grin, while rubbing his thumb against his index and middle fingers, with deliberate intent, "and that's why we're being paid!... or will be... Well, once we get there we will be!"


The flight panel went off into another multi-colored display of discontentment.

"That's not even the worst part," Spek said while getting up from the pilot's seat. His seat, and the only one on the entire ship being used. "Did you not hear me mentioning the Stygian Caldera? Yes," he said, while reaching inside a cargo container for a bag of snacks, "you get it now don't you? After rummaging through your astrogation buffer - which really needs to be updated, by the way - that the Caldera is the nebula that encloses the Sith Worlds." He opened the bag and began to take out and eat the chips inside.


This time, the entire cockpit cabin took part in the response. Lights dramatically blinking on and off all across the walls and ceiling, and all sorts of beeps and boops ringing everywhere, for a couple of seconds.

"Sorry, do you want some nerf-flavored chips as well?" He held one in front of him, in jest, as if offering it to the ship's computer.


Spek Zhio's starship, a retrofitted yet (somewhat) fully operational relic of a CEC YT-1930 Transport, lacked a proper navicomp - among other, less critical, technological components - since back when he had found it on an abandoned Corellian shipyard. Technically, calling it a junkyard would be more fitting, but Spek would never admit to it out loud in the presence of LC-1.

LC-1 - or Alcyone, as friends called her (i.e., Spek) - was once a near-decommissioned RX-Series second-degree pilot droid, found near the ship, from which Zhio took out the heuristic processor and repurposed it as ship's computer. Alas, since he had never managed to get the droid's vocabulator to work with the ship, Alcyone was relegated to communicate via other less - sometimes, arguably more - direct means.

To an outsider, the ship would most likely appear to be on the fritz. But Spek knew that it was the only way in which LC-1 could communicate with him. And what an incessant communicative co-pilot she could be!

He liked to believe that he was, in fact, able to understand her. Though whether that was true or not, not even he could tell. Still, it was better than talking to himself during his many long space hauls, all on his lonesome, confined inside a titanium-chromium hull.


"It's fine if you do, you can even have the whole bag if you want! After all, we still have tons of the stuff left to eat!" He glanced over his shoulder to the corridor behind, filled floor-to-ceiling with shipping crates, overflowed from the cargo areas. "It's all... we have... to eat..."


Alcyone told him just how much she appreciated the joke, by momentarily dimming the cockpit's ambient light. Spek imagined it as if she was glaring at him. He threw himself back onto his pilot's seat, rubbed his hand against the cockpit as if petting it, and carried on with his side of the dialogue...

"There, there... let me recap and explain everything to you.

"We've just intercepted this low-frequency broad transmission back in Krylon, right? It was encrypted but we still had those keys that Riamah gave us, way back - it's an older code, but it checks out...

"It started with the usual,
if you're able to listen to this transmission, then you are just the kind of smuggler I need," he pantomimed while speaking in a lower register. "Yeah I know, such a derogatory term, right? Smugglers? We're just independent contractors! Freelance space haulers!... But aaaaaaaanyway... I responded, and we got the job, and that's why we hopped onto the Yavin Bypass. One short jump away from our destination. Yeah, Yavin, where else?


"The job?" he looked down and brushed off some crumbs from his bare naked chest. "Nothing much. Just the usual, charter me to this uncharted, untraveled to, and most certainly definitely very much dangerous planet, and I'll pay the agreed upon price."

He ate another handful of chips, chewing loudly, to help ignore the cacophonous complaints of the ship.

"It's really simple, Alcy. Don't worry, I've looked it up.

"The most direct route would be to take the Daragon Trail from Yavin to Korriban, smack dab inside Sith territory. From there, we switch lanes to the Nache Bhelfia all the way to Athiss, then fly along the Descri Wris until finally hitting Nfolgai on the nebula's edge. After that, it's a simple matter of using my instinctive astrogation expertise, to plot a jump to Iliabath. That would take us on a pilgrimage through Sith space to come out the other side."


He gave the ship a complicit, nerf-chip colored, grin. The flight console let out a harmonious bleeping sound in response.

"Ah ah! You know me all to well, my old friend! Of course we're not going to do any of that. We'll stay well clear of Sith space, don't you worry your little heuristic circuitry! And that, is why we get paid the big buck... ets of nerf-flavored chips..."

The instruments blinked and bleeped again, this time to actually inform that they were about to exit hyperspace into the Yavin system. With all astrogation computations being correct, less than one minute away from their destination, the Lode Star Utopia mining space station.

Zhio got up and walked towards the cabin's exit.


"So, I'm off to see a man about a job, at the nearest cantina. A so-called Drane fellow who's waiting for me at the Golden Nugget. And, hopefully, get him to buy me a drink to push down these tasteless chips."

At a loud beep from his ship, he stopped and glanced back.

"What's in Iliabath? I dunno," he shrugged, "but I assume probably some Jedi or Sith relic. Who cares which one it is and why? It's all the same in the end! Balance to the Force and all that jazz... Thing is, you can't really have balance if it's always the same side winning, am I right?"

Yet another beep as he was almost out the cabin.

"Don't worry, I won't forget to take my jacket, mining space stations are as cold as a wampa's ass" beep, "nor the bracelet," beep, "blasters, right, blasters," beep, "the lightsabers! I was going to! I swear!" BEEP, "Alright already! I'll take the whole damn belt!" BEEEEEEEEEP! "Oh," he said, looking down at his fully naked body. "Pants. I won't forget pants, this time..."
 
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Lode Star. The station's name made Drane think of a lone star out in space, then the name of his spaceship, Darkstar. Where he was going, however, the warrior needed a better pilot and navigator; a transport more than a gunship.

Golden Nugget.
The bar was aptly named not just when it came to a mining space station. Where Drane was going, there would be gold galore and much more to explore.

Place was busy, some patrons being miners taking a break. Drane sat at the bar counter, with a relatively drunken woman on his left and a suspiciously intoxicated man at his right. Two adjectives that could mean the same thing, perhaps, except that the woman had a half-empty glass and the man had spice in his eyes.

“I love a man in black leather pants,” the lady winked at the Thyrsian. “And that jacket. Hoo-wee, honey.”

The guy on his right frowned. “How about you stop talking to him and keep talking to me, sweets?”

Drane gazed his way without any speech. Look away. The man blinked, nerves suddenly burning, and finished his drink. “Sorry, miss. I need to piss.” He got up and left.


“Charming chap, that one.” Drane sipped from his own glass. It tasted like Pinot but was supposed to be Merlot. He wasn’t terribly fazed given this mining place appeared to cater more toward beer and whiskey rather than wine. “He won’t be back.”

He watched the viewscreen above the bar. Drat. There goes my favorite racer. Good thing he wasn’t a gambling man. He just happened to like the podracer in black that had crashed.

“Hey,” came the inebriated lady’s voice his way. “Can you stand up so I can grab your ass?”

“You don’t want to grab my ass." Drane waved a hand. “You want to get up and dance.”

Though a man of pleasure, at this moment he was here for business, couldn't afford to be distracted, and this woman could do with some movement.

“I don’t wanna grab your ass.” She waved a lazy hand dismissively. “I wanna get up and dance.”

With that, Drane had an empty stool on either side and no further interruptions. He was waiting for someone, could appreciate a private conversation at a corner table over the counter, but for now the podrace cradled his gaze.

Something about the rush of adrenaline, high risk at high speeds, when it came to racing that just did it for him. The Sith spread his lips and took a sip, tasting black cherry. The wine was sweet.

Spek Zhio Spek Zhio
 
Zhio stepped inside the cantina, where some sort of racing competition was playing on all screens. The Zeltron always wondered whether his skills as a pilot would translate well into racing. Maybe that was a better way of making a quick buck. Moreover, even considering all the high-speed colisions and serious injuries - or deaths - that the activity was well-known for, all things considered, it was much safer than what he did to get by.

Case in point, the person he came to meet.

He scanned the room. Mostly, nothing out of the ordinary. Dancers, patrons, gamblers, pickpockets, the usual. Therefore, he was quickly able to identify the unusual. The black-haired, black-eyed, black-dressed, black-everything-else, sitting at the bar.

Plus, there was that cold tingle running down his spine, as the man had waved his hand.

Spek walked towards the counter and took an empty seat at his side.

"Hey, name's Spek Zhio. Zhio with a 'zh', as in entourage or sabotage," he introduced himself to the man. "You're Drane, right?" Raising a finger at the bartender, he then added, "I'll have what he's having."

Drane T'keen Drane T'keen
 
An empty stool on one side, no one sitting to his left. Just then, a guy came and sat down on his right. Nothing out of the ordinary there and no mistake, save the guy speaking his name. Drane licked his lips after a sip, setting his glass on the bar, his gaze on the bartender.

“Mermaid, right?” Asked the latter.
“Merlot.” Drane answered.

Out came that bottle of Pinot but Drane wasn’t fazed. At the corner of his eye he spotted that one drunken woman dance as if on a stage and with a bit of a bobblehead to her step in her state. He looked away, tasting words on his lips amid red nectar.

“Or massage,” he added as far as pronunciations went. “Drane. Plain as day.” If with a grey face. He confirmed for himself in turn. Wasn’t much to mistake when it came to saying his own name. “They don’t boast the best wine in this establishment.” He shrugged. “But get me to my destination without a scrape and I’ll buy you a crate of the finest vintage this side of space.” There were no lies in his eyes, irises framed as golden as his jacket’s trim, pupils just as black as its fabric. “You do claim to be the pilot for it…right?” His eyes might have flashed with a grin, whether he was testing his companion.

Spek Zhio Spek Zhio
 
"You'll be hard-pressed to find a better navigator, this side of the Salin Corridor," he answered with a grin. A casual smile, a self-assured one and not in any way defensive. "If you're looking for credentials, rest assured by the fact that you haven't heard about me. That alone should be proof enough of my competence."

It is sometimes harder to make a living as a freelancer, while having a reputation than when not having one. The more people aware of you, the more people there are after you.

"Moreover, you won't find another pilot willing to take you where you want to go, any time soon. And, I assume time is of the essence..."


Zhio tasted the wine being served. It would do, for now.

"So tell me, whom are we racing against?"


He briefly glanced at the podracing on-screen, before returning his full attention to Drane.

"That bit of information can be critical, in deciding the best route to take. Though, I already have a good idea on how to get us there in two jumps, avoiding any - overly - dangerous sectors in the process."

Drane T'keen Drane T'keen
 
Confidence dripped from the other man’s lips and underneath his chin. That was good, Drane thought as he took another sip, the Pinot Noir vintage bittersweet. Salin Corridor. Warrior’s Trace was another way of saying it. One of the largest hyperspace trade routes in the Outer Rim, though Spek Zhio’s grin told him there was much and more to it.

Competence, in consequence, wasn’t met by Drane’s having never heard of him. Rather, the proof of Spek’s experience as a navigator would be discovered when flying in his ship in person. That uncertainty was enough for him. Reputation meant as much as crumbs of a truffle cake, whatever that meant.

Drane’s contemporary was right about one thing for certain: time was of the essence. As in, there weren’t many others willing to take him to his destination. They didn’t have to know he was Sith for him to know they might ditch him in the end, and there’s your reputation, whatever that meant.

“Blackjack,” Drane answered as he gave his full attention to the podrace on the viewscreen. “I had my eyes on him and his bike. Then the man crashed and bit the dust.” He shrugged. “He raced against everyone as much as the environment and time itself. Now he is swimming in hell, or wherever podracers dwell in death.”

He turned his head, attention on Spek. “We’re racing against time, my friend.” Drane vaguely gave, even if they weren’t friends. “Whether it means life or death or an unexpected guest. Just get me there in one piece, quick and easy, and I’ll do the rest.”

Spek Zhio Spek Zhio
 

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