"Grey" is not a crack about my hair color.
In Margaret's considered opinion, Hutts were among the most repulsive beings in the galaxy. Not because of their eating habits, mind. Or their general lack of hygiene. Or their resemblance to overgrown slugs. No, her distaste was borne from long years of experience. If every Hutt in the galaxy was to suddenly transform into the human ideal of beauty overnight, they'd still be the slimiest creatures around.
She knew that, however well founded her prejudice might be, it still wasn't right. Not in a moral sense. All creatures deserved to be judged on their own merits, not for the collective sins of their species. Unfortunately, every Hutt she'd ever met had been determined to live down to the stereotypes.
This one was no different. Garbola or Granola or some crap like that. Big, nasty bastard a few centuries old. He had a thing for running spice and using teenage slaves as mules. The roving Jedi Master had caught wind of the plan when a 13 year old boy, scared out of his mind and stuffed with so much spice that it was a wonder he could move. Customs picked him out as being nervous, and in a panic, he tried to run. Ruptured one of the containers and died of a massive overdose. What was supposed to be a fun trip back home had turned into a murder mystery. Margaret hated murder mysteries.
Three months later, here she was on Nar Shaddaa. Go fricking figure.
She had been around enough that she wasn't much bothered by a bit of spice smuggling. Generally, Margaret found that attempts to control the stuff were pointless. If anything, they just drove the prices up and made the business more lucrative. As far as she was concerned, what people put into their bodies was their own business, and if someone wanted to provide it to them, well, there were worse ways to make a living.
But using slaves, using kids, to run the stuff, now that pissed her off. And so, here she was, in a seedy hotel lobby, waiting for her backup. Some Jedi woman she'd never met was supposed to meet her here. That was all the help she'd been promised when she notified one of the nearby Orders. There was a war on, after all. Killing Sith was apparently more important than saving kids.
She snorted, then lit up a cigarette. Whoever was supposed to show up, hopefully they'd get here soon. They had a long day ahead of them tomorrow, and it was past her bedtime.
[member="Adelle Bastiel"]
She knew that, however well founded her prejudice might be, it still wasn't right. Not in a moral sense. All creatures deserved to be judged on their own merits, not for the collective sins of their species. Unfortunately, every Hutt she'd ever met had been determined to live down to the stereotypes.
This one was no different. Garbola or Granola or some crap like that. Big, nasty bastard a few centuries old. He had a thing for running spice and using teenage slaves as mules. The roving Jedi Master had caught wind of the plan when a 13 year old boy, scared out of his mind and stuffed with so much spice that it was a wonder he could move. Customs picked him out as being nervous, and in a panic, he tried to run. Ruptured one of the containers and died of a massive overdose. What was supposed to be a fun trip back home had turned into a murder mystery. Margaret hated murder mysteries.
Three months later, here she was on Nar Shaddaa. Go fricking figure.
She had been around enough that she wasn't much bothered by a bit of spice smuggling. Generally, Margaret found that attempts to control the stuff were pointless. If anything, they just drove the prices up and made the business more lucrative. As far as she was concerned, what people put into their bodies was their own business, and if someone wanted to provide it to them, well, there were worse ways to make a living.
But using slaves, using kids, to run the stuff, now that pissed her off. And so, here she was, in a seedy hotel lobby, waiting for her backup. Some Jedi woman she'd never met was supposed to meet her here. That was all the help she'd been promised when she notified one of the nearby Orders. There was a war on, after all. Killing Sith was apparently more important than saving kids.
She snorted, then lit up a cigarette. Whoever was supposed to show up, hopefully they'd get here soon. They had a long day ahead of them tomorrow, and it was past her bedtime.
[member="Adelle Bastiel"]