Every society Doc Painless had ever seen - and he'd seen more than a few in his travels across the galaxy before settling on Denon - had grappled with the problem of street people, folks who just fell through the cracks. How they
handled those people was the key difference. The Doc had been places with extensive night shelters, soup kitchens, addiction counseling, job training, all the resources the government could muster to help transients move off the streets and into safer lives. It didn't work for
everyone, because no solution ever did, but the street people on those planets and in those cities were generally few, and with low rates of crime both
by and
against them.
The Corporate Authorities of Denon didn't go that route. Around here, people who had been
born into wealth talked a big game about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, which seemed pretty impractical to the Doc given... y'know...
gravity. Some folks rose from the middle class to fabulous wealth by ruthlessly exploiting other people, sure, but nobody from the street was going to end up a DireX. It was all just an excuse to ignore street people, to blame them for their problems and declare that they deserved what they got because of their assumed laziness and criminality. There were no homeless services on Denon, unless you counted press gangs and the ends of CorpSec batons.
So when a disaster like this hit, transient folks had nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
That was why the Doc had chosen East Palpamore, the rundown end of District 9 that had never quite been rebuilt from the huge syndicate wars some forty years earlier. There had been plans, sure, but that had been in the days of the Republic; when the CAD came to power, they'd found the cost-benefit analysis for the renovation plan unfavorable, and it'd been scrapped. The place had been left a tangle of cracked duracrete, broken windows, and carbon-scored walls, and the locals had just had to make do. The neighborhood had thinned out as everyone who
could leave
did, and street people had soon found that they could squat in the area without anyone bothering them.
And that was why the Doc wasn't surprised to see a street kid drifting into the tent, not the first that day and almost certainly not the last. What was different about this one was their clear adeptness with technology. Most folks grabbed their blanket and lantern and moved on, but not this kid. They tinkered with their lantern, adjusting the heating coils and power distribution until the thing radiated half again as much warmth. Given that everyone needed heat far more than light at the moment, it was a damn good idea, and proved it by melting the snow beneath it in seconds. The Doc offered them a little round of applause, his smile showing that it was genuine rather than mocking.
"That was impressive!" he told them, walking over to chat. There was a brief lull in the crowds coming through.
The Doc had expected street urchins, but he certainly
hadn't expected the language that came out of this one's mouth. It took a second for his translation implant to kick in - where did a Denon kid learn Jawaese, anyway? - but when it did, he chuckled; they were quoting that limerick that the Bard of the Hyperlanes had written about him. Apparently his reputation preceded him.
"Yeah, that's me," he replied.
"And you're welcome." It hurt his heart to see the frostbite meds rubbed onto the cartilage of their face, the nose and ears that could all too easily turn blue and then necrotic black. So he made no issue of it when they tucked the rest of the tube into their sock. They'd need it.
But maybe he could keep them in the tent a little longer. Denon's street kids tended to value their independence, to hate being tied down anywhere for long, but he might be able to frame it a different way.
"Don't suppose I could persuade you to boost the rest of my lanterns like you did with that one," the Doc said, his expression friendly and guileless.
"I can give you thirty credits a lantern." That was 20% of their purchase price, so not a bad deal when there was no materials cost and relatively little labor in the modifications. He could spare the credits. Probably. Unless there was an emergency. Long-term planning was hard when the short term had so much need.
"Hey, this the 'give chit out for free'-tent?" Someone new stepped inside... clearly not someone in need.
The Doc's demeanor changed instantly, becoming guarded. He subtly stepped between Skeevi and the new arrival, shielding her with his body, and dropped a hand to the butt of his blaster.
"Something like that," he cautiously replied, unsure of where the conversation was going. And then it got worse.
"Alichos the Hutt sends their regards," the red-headed stranger told him, slamming down the three crates she was carrying on the table. The Doc's hand tightened on his gun. Was he trespassing on some syndicate's turf? Had they decided to take a cut of his supplies as payment? Did they expect him to load up those crates with the emergency supplies he'd bought?
But then the woman opened the crates, and his gun hand relaxed. They were
full, not empty, and contained more medical supplies - along with
food, something the Doc would have liked to give out but hadn't had the time or the hands to manage. A few more gangsters - or so the Doc assumed - came in as well, bearing more crates, and a cautious smile returned to the street medic's face. He was not too proud to take a gift from a Hutt, especially at a time like this. Sometimes gangsters just wanted to get the locals on their side; it helped with dodging law enforcement. He would just have to be careful to make sure that this
was a gift, not a contract.
"Well, I'm grateful for Alichos's generosity," the Doc replied.
"If you're sticking around, can you set up a food line?"