Hound from the Underground

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Music played through the intercom as Yuri loaded a fairly large stash of crates into the cargo hold of his freighter. After everything that went down, he needed a proper break from the galaxy's tribulations, and ferrying some questionable cargo was as good a chance as any. Onderon had left him scarred in more ways than one, and the Manda didn't seem to give him a break as one interaction after the other left him with one hell of a moral and ethical dilemma. Some nights he couldn't help but feel like this was a sick joke to make up for his bad decisions.
With another crate loaded, the Shistavanen adjusted his tank top and walked back to the last crate. With a grunt he lifted it, only to drop down with a hiss as a sharp pain pulled through his left arm.
The pain was excruciating enough to force him onto the crate as he clutched the cybernetic arm. He had heard of phantom pains from others, but to experience it was nothing short of painfully irritating. "How the kriff did she live like this?" He asked himself through his whimpers as he tried his best to massage the cybernetic limb. It didn't matter what came next in his life, if he ever met that damned Jedi or the Kryze again, he would break their arms. The pain finally subsided and he drew a cigarette from his pocket with a heavy sigh. After a few moments of focus, his new hand opened up and exposed a plasma cutter to light his cigarette.
He had hoped that time would ease the cramps and spasms, but it never dulled. Every now and again it would flare up. But despite the pain and trauma that came with it, he couldn't deny that the utility was pretty slick. "That's probably why she was such a psycho, huh?" He smirked as he glanced over his shoulder to the large machine covered by a tarp. A low, metallic drone emerged from the machine, earning a laugh from Yuri. He shook his head and took another puff, leaning back against the crate to stare up at the bleak sky for a moment. He needed this job. Not for the money, simply to get away from it all and do something he knew. His existential crisis could wait for a few days.
A glance was spared at the cargo. Some of it was weaponry and other sketchy items, that much he knew. But one or two crates were designated as special cargo. More risky to run but worth a lot more. He knew better than to ask questions.