First Reply One Bad Apple Spoils the Bunch

[Til Melarr]

The IG-86 droid's optical lens whirred, zooming in as its microscopic sensors cataloged the ship's interior. Plates of dust, dried moisture stains, and an alarming density of biological bacteria registered across its display made it clear that this ship was filthy. Its head snapped back toward the resting Avarice , its vocoder clicking with disapproval.

"Negative. Suggested designations Emerald, Ramsey, and Gustav fail baseline criteria. They are insufficient. This unit has designated a superior alternative fusing mechanical architecture and organic fuel preparation: Whirrmix." There was no room for argument as Whirrmix turned away from the cot, stepping toward the ship's small galley with three heavy clanks as due to his new owner not providing quanity details, he saw fit to utilize all the food supplies on the ship.

In just a few minutes, every ingredient on board such as dried meats, powdered starships rations, preserved jungle tubers and spice packets was carefully heated. Pots were bubbling, heating coils shone bright white, and the cabin air quickly became thick with the aromas of forty-seven chaotic, simultaneous dishes.

While his former asset was converting a starship galley into a high-yield soup kitchen, Til was shoving his way through the sweltering heat of the Sector Four merchant square. He moved from stall to stall, keeping his eyes moving under the shadow of his collar as he gathered info on the local weapon traders. Most street-level blastersmiths were too small-time, selling refurbished power packs and rusty thermal detonators.

Trying to sell a real Sith antique to these lowlifes would only attract unwanted attention and a bunch of low offers he'd have to deal with harshly. He needed someone with a good credit line and a shady record. His gaze moved past a line of armor displays until it landed on a faded, neon-blue sign flickering through the grease and smoke: Meetzos Pawn Shop.

Til's sneer turned into a smug grin. Old Meetzos. The bug-eyed Rodian owed him three favors from a smuggling job near the Moons of Onderon, and more importantly, the old lizard knew how to keep a deal quiet when local patrols started asking questions.

Til checked the weight of the gem-studded slugthrower against his side one last time, rolled his shoulders in his new durasteel boots, and walked straight toward the shop's barred entrance. He wasn't in the mood to negotiate, and Meetzos was going to buy this damn gun whether he liked it or not.
​

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

"Whirrmix?"

He seemed to nod softly before drifting off to sleep.

Some time later, he returned from the dark embrace of sleep and sat up. It had been more akin to meditation, utilizing the Force to heal himself. He dropped the rest of his worn clothes into a small hamper, then stepped into the compact refresher to freshen up, taking a quick shower to scrub himself clean before drying off and pulling on a fresh pair of dark robes.

He quirked a brow as he eyed everything that had been prepared. He had caught traces of the scents while resting, though he remained uncertain whether the droid possessed any true understanding of cooking. For all he knew, it might have surreptitiously spent its entire existence cataloging different recipes…

Nevertheless, he carefully slipped on a fresh pair of socks and eased into his boots.

"I see you've been busy… May I partake in your creations?" he asked gently, uncertain whether the droid had finished preparing the food.

It could very well be poisoned, though he did not seem particularly bothered by that prospect. He neatly made the cot before moving to settle into the small nook beside the table. Reaching for a water bottle resting in the cup holder, he took a long drink and swallowed a few small medicinal tablets.

"I'm going to take a walk into town and see whether I can find your previous owner… Do you want to come with me and pick out some new ingredients?" he asked.

 

[Til Melarr]

Whirrmix's heavy metallic arm blocked Avarice hand from reaching a bubbling pot of gray, starch-heavy paste. The droid's red eye-lens pulsed with a seemingly angry glow. "Negative," Whirrmix rebuked, its vocoder clicking in disapproval.

"If you attempt to eat something that is not cooked properly, you will die from food poisoning. I have no intention of flying this rust bucket out of Onderon due to the possibility of catastrophic engine failure." The Droid explained in a serious tone to hide the fact that the food was not entirely editable for humans since he had no actual experience in cooking before this moment, though he did know what could kill a person given his assassin programming still buried deep within him despite his new owner's tinkering.

Whirrmix processed the offer to go grocery shopping in the city, the heat-coils of the galley glowing a dangerous, blinding white as forty-seven pots hissed simultaneously. "Proposal declined," he continued. "Abandoning my duties in the kitchen to go shopping would be foolish. I need somewhere to power down and I will not be doing so in the charred out remnants of a starship left unattended." Miles away from the suffocating haze of his former asset's soup kitchen, Til slammed his palm against the rusted door valve of Meetzos Pawn Shop.

He stepped past the heavy iron security bars and into the dim, clutter-choked interior, sweeping his arms out wide as he offered a grand bow to the back of the room. "Meetzos, my favorite giant bug! Rejoice, because your savior has..." his speech was cut short as a roar of a high-caliber slugthrower could be heard, causing him to hit the floor with a considerable groan in surprise at being treated in such a manner.

The heavy lead slug tore through the empty space where his head had been a millisecond prior, slamming into a hanging cluster of macrobinoculars with a violent crunch. The heat of the passing round was so close it literally singed the tips of his hair, leaving a brief, glowing trail of soft orange embers that he frantically swiped away with his green hand.

"Kark! Meetzos, you crazy lizard!" Til yelled from the dirt floor, his heart hammering against his ribs as he reached for his blaster. Behind the reinforced plexiglass counter, a stocky, bug-eyed Rodian lowered a smoking, double-barreled slugthrower, his snout twitching in pure anger. He didn't look like a guy who was ready to cash in on old smuggling favors from the Moons of Onderon.

In fact, it looked like Meetzos was still harboring a massive, burning grudge over that disastrous job on Ord Mantell, the one where Til had accidentally pocketed the entire payroll, touched a high-security vault wire he explicitly wasn't supposed to touch, and left the poor Rodian standing in an alleyway with exactly five credits and a sector-wide warrant from the local corporate police.

"Melarr!" Meetzos hissed in heavily accented Basic, his large black eyes reflecting the dim neon light as he cracked the weapon open to shove another massive shell into the breach. "You have a lot of nerve showing your green face in my district! I should blast off that wig of yours!"

"Whoa, whoa, hold fire!" Til scrambled to his feet, quickly smoothing down his jacket and adjusting his collar to regain his signature, unearned confidence despite the faint smell of burnt hair lingering around his ears. "Ord Mantell was a misunderstanding! I got lost! And besides, I brought you a peace offering that makes those five credits look like pocket change. Look at this."

With a grin that was entirely too smug for someone who had almost just been decapitated, Til reached into his belt and pulled out the tarnished, gem-encrusted Sith pistol, letting the dark stones catch the dim shop light right in front of the Rodian's snout.
​

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

He eased back and settled in the booth. "Maybe turn the stove off for now... I'm sure all great chefs have to experiment every now and a again... Don't take it too hard, Whirrmix. I can... bring you back a cook book, or a nutrition book, if you like?" He offered. " We won't be here for much longer , that is if you want to continue to accompany me.... if you want to take a rest, and get out of the heat of the ship, you can power down outside for a bit... When I return I'll be heading off planet. "

He moved to stand up and stretched taking the ship fob with him. He departed the skip-ray blast boat surprised the assassin-droid could get so many things going in such a small and tight space. It certainly was a bit of a fire hazard but who knew what all of that. With that he took a simple speeder bike from the ship and headed to town to seek out the Pawn shop his dastardly scoundrel was likely fond of visiting.

 

[Til Melarr]

Whirrmix didn't budge from the stove, his chassis casting a shadow over the bubbling, chaotic array of pots. He pointedly ignored the invitation to power down outside, his red optical lens instead focusing on a steaming plate of gray paste.

"No," the droid said, activating a small handheld diagnostic scanner in his metal hand. He directed a blue light over the dishes, checking the chemical makeup of his first cooking attempt to make sure it wouldn't harm his owner's stomach.

"Shutting down outside risks moisture damage to my joints and increases the chance of theft. I refuse to be treated like discarded clothing." He slightly reduced the heat coils, causing a cloud of thick, starchy steam to envelop his metallic face as Avarice left. Inside the small, dusty pawnshop, Meetzos gradually lowered his double-barreled slugthrower.

His big, glassy black eyes focused on the gem-studded weapon in Til's grip. The Rodian's snout quivered, struggling to overcome his desire to shoot Til's head off. "Bring it here. Slowly," Meetzos grunted, waving the barrels of his gun toward the counter. Til smirked, swaggering forward with his new durasteel boots clacking loudly on the floorboards.

He placed the old, heavy weapon on the plexiglass with a dramatic gesture. Meetzo didn't grab it immediately. Instead, he reached beneath the counter and took out a brass-rimmed jeweler's loupe, pressing it to his large black eye as he leaned over the counter. He examined the tarnished receiver closely, turning the heavy iron to inspect the seams.

Unlike modern blasters, it lacked factory batch numbers, corporate stamps, and serial codes. It was raw, hand-forged, and ancient precisely the type of low-tech, high-impact weapon preferred by primitive zealots. "Is old," Meetzos muttered, tapping the metal with a clawed finger. "But old does not mean good, Melarr. No power pack. No stun setting. In a real fight, this is a heavy rock with a trigger. Worthless."

"Worthless?" Til scoffed, placing his hands on his hips and leaning in. "That is a piece of history, you ungrateful bug! It's got hand-cut gems! It probably belonged to some high-and-mighty Sith lord who used it to execute people who asked stupid questions!"

"It is a relic for fools," Meetzos countered, pulling his loupe away and squinting at Til. "And word on the street says the scholar who wants it claims it carries a nasty curse. Superstitious nonsense, but bad for resale. No one wants a gun that makes their teeth fall out." The Rodian tapped his snout thoughtfully. "I give you one hundred credits. To take it off your hands before the curse rots my shelves."

"One hundred?!" Til's jaw dropped, his golden facial tattoos twisting in mock outrage. "Are you out of your karking mind? I nearly got buried alive by a magic-wielding freak in a dress for this thing! One hundred credits won't even cover the bar tab I'm about to run up!"
​

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

"Then power down inside, if you like…" he called softly before mounting the speeder bike. He slipped a small data chip into the navigation console, loading the information he had gathered earlier on where he intended to go.

It did not take Avarice much longer to find his way to the shop, guided by the local maps he had downloaded. On his way into the city, he passed the remains of a ruined fruit stand and cast it a brief, puzzled glance. He wondered what could have caused the crash, though no one remained nearby apart from several authorities speaking with one of the vendors.

Avarice continued toward the pawn shop, slowing as he approached. He swept a measured glance along the street before dismounting, engaging the speeder's alarm, and making his way inside.

 

[Til Melarr]

Whirrmix paid no attention to the fading noise of the speeder bike's engine outside. He refused to comply with any order to shut down, whether inside or outside, as long as his workspace was in the midst of culinary change. His red optical sensor blinked through the dense, swirling clouds of starchy steam, sifting through the chaotic data logs of thirty-six failed, burnt experiments until his scanner focused on one bubbling pot.

The diagnostic beam emitted a cool blue light over the thick, dark jungle-tuber soup. It was safe to eat. The chemical toxicity levels were within acceptable biological limits. With a precise movement of his metal wrist, the droid started adding the final, exact amounts of local spice packets, eager to perfect the dish before his new owner returned, on the verge of starvation.

Meanwhile, in the dim, stifling atmosphere of the pawnshop, Til was preparing to confront Meetzos about his insulting hundred-credit offer when he suddenly felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A chilling, heavy sensation shot down his spine at the familiar presence of Avarice pushing open the pawn shop's door.

"I'm not done with this custom-" Before Meetzos could react to the quick movement, he leaped over the counter. Driving his shoulder forcefully into the Rodian's chest, causing him to fall back into some nearby boxes with a satisfying crash as he landed on some macrobinculars. As Meetzos fell, Til's green fingers swiftly grabbed the double-barreled slugthrower right from the merchant's hand.

"Say hello to my little friend." Spinning back toward the barred entrance just as the shadowed outline of Avarice darkened the threshold, Til's mouth twisted into a wide smile at the unadulterated thrill of putting a permanent end to an annoyance sent a wild rush of adrenaline straight to his brain as he pulled both triggers to send iron slug rounds out of the barrel.

​

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

The instant Til pulled both triggers, Avarice moved suddenly as he surged forwards with terrifying speed, his perception sharpening until the pawnshop seemed to slow to a crawl around him. Dust hung suspended in the dim light as Avarice angled away from the line of fire. One hand snapped upward, the Force seizing the slugthrower's barrels and twisting them toward the ceiling. Metal groaned beneath the pressure as he attempted to buckle them out of alignment, rendering the weapon useless.

His other hand curled toward Til and the air around his mouth and nose began to thin, siphoned away as Avarice sought to rob him of his next breath.

"Didn't your mommy ever teach you not to play with guns?" He tsked.

 

[Til Melarr]

Til's eyes widened behind the smoke of the blasted rounds. Karking hell, the freak is fast. The guy moved with a hell of a lot more hustle than he had back at the tomb, stepping through the raining glass and flying splinters like they were just confetti at his own homecoming parade. It was a pretty clear indicator that the wizard was officially done playing nice, and he wanted that shiny Sith antique at any cost.

Then came the invisible stranglehold.

Til didn't even bother resisting as the air around his mouth and nose suddenly began to evaporate, siphoned away into nothingness by that creepy, outstretched hand. Unfortunately for the scholar, Til was notoriously full of hot air on a good day, so robbing him of a few seconds of oxygen wasn't the immediate shutdown the guy was probably hoping for.

Instead of fighting the phantom grip or struggling to keep his hands on the double-barreled gun, Til simply smirked, completely letting go of the stolen slugthrower.

"If you wanted her holonet number, all you had to do was ask." Til wheezed out with a breathless rasp. With his hands completely freed from the weapon, he used the momentum of his heavy, durasteel-plated boots to launch his entire body forward over the plexiglass partition.

He might not have had the force so he used the hundred and eighty pounds of pure, handsome scoundrel weight to dive headfirst straight into the robed freak's chest. The collision was far from elegant. Til seemingly tackled Avarice , wrapping his arms around the man's pristine robes and dragging them both crashing down into the dirt and discarded junk behind the shop counter.
​

 

[Avarice]

Til Melarr
Avarice wasn't going to let his focus falter this time. He knew well and truly that, even for a windbag like Til, it would only be a matter of time. Every precious breath stolen from him denied fresh oxygen to his blood. Muscles would certainly begin to burn beneath the strain, thoughts would grow sluggish, vision would narrow around the edges, and strength would steadily abandon him as his body fought an unwinnable battle for air. The more Til chose to speak, the more of what little oxygen remained escaped his lungs, each word hastening the exhaustion creeping through his body.

Although Avarice was tackled hard, choosing to keep his concentration fixed upon that singular Force technique. His intent remained the same: to smother the man, deprive him of consciousness, and seize the advantage. Still, his smaller, lighter frame left him at a disadvantage, and he struck the ground with jarring force... but it would seem this Echani was accustomed to pain and being roughed up.

A firm knee drove sharply upward, seeking Til's groin, while Avarice thrust his head forward in a brutal attempt to collide forehead against forehead, having braced himself for the impact. One free hand slipped between Til's grasp, his palm pressing hard against the man's throat as sharpened, blackened nails sought to rake across the supple flesh. Their jagged tips aimed to puncture skin, leaving behind whatever foul poisons had been worked into the dark lacquer coating them.

Small as he was, Avarice wasn't going to make this easy for the scoundrel.

 

[Til Melarr]

Til's vision was already beginning to cloud at the edges due to the lack of oxygen entering his lungs. Every instinct screamed at him to back away, to gasp for air that wasn't there, but the burning vacuum around his face only fueled his panic-driven rage. The freak was actively trying to choke him to death right there on the dusty floorboards.

Avarice leaned in to headbutt him, landing a solid blow on Til's nose. Pain flooded his body, and blood started to drip from his lips onto the floor. He couldn't help but appreciate how the blood stained his lips a lovely crimson. Despite the black-lacquered nails scratching his green neck and leaving stinging marks from some kind of chemical, he held on tight.

The wizard fought dirty, but he forgot that Til was the best in this war-torn galaxy. The Power belt came back into play as Til grabbed Avarice's arms and tossed him aside, even though the kick to the groin still hit. Thankfully, he always wore a protective cup for his most important assets.

Til collapsed onto his hands and knees, his chest heaving violently as the invisible vacuum around his face finally snapped. He dragged a massive, ragged lungful of dusty air into his throat, coughing and sputtering as the sweet rush of oxygen flooded his burning veins.

Blood from his broken nose splattered onto his new durasteel boots, but his golden tattoos twitched into a feral grin through the mess. He scrambled back to his feet, wiping the back of his hand across his bloodied mouth, his eyes looking to where the freak had gone.
​

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

The small figure was hurled into a merchandise shelving unit, the narrow frame collapsing beneath him with a violent clatter. Dust, dented containers, and assorted pawnshop junk spilled across the floor, half-burying him beneath the wreckage. For a moment, only the sharp scrape of shifting metal betrayed movement… then Avarice clawed his way free, shoving a crooked shelf aside as he rose.

The violence had finally roused the pawnshop's neglected security system, as a warning tone shrieked overhead, followed by the heavy mechanical grind of locks engaging. Reinforced security bars dropped across the windows and slammed over the entrance, sealing both combatants inside beneath the putrid yellow shop lights.

The sedative lacquered across Avarice's sharpened nails should already have entered the scoundrel's bloodstream, provided he had broken the skin. He had no intention of standing back and waiting to see whether it took hold. Avarice dove into the fray again with vicious tenacity, refusing to grant Til even a breath of peace.

One small, booted foot swept low, aimed toward the side of Til's knee in an attempt to buckle the joint. Avarice followed the motion without pause, closing the distance as several rapid strikes drove toward Til's ribs and stomach. Each blow came from small yet disciplined hands, delivered with brisk precision as he sought to overwhelm the older man before injury or poison could decide the matter for him.

A thin, breathless smile pulled at his mouth as the last of the security locks clamped into place behind them.

"What's the matter?" Avarice taunted. "Too old to keep up?"

His dark gaze shifted briefly toward the barred entrance before settling upon Til once more.

"It seems you've finally run out of places to flee~"

 

[Til Melarr]

The room had already begun to spin in a sluggish blur. Whatever poison coated those black nails was spreading quickly, weighing down Til's arms as Avarice 's kick struck his knee. The joint buckled beneath him, nearly sending him to the floor, and before he could recover, the wizard closed in on his exposed ribs.

Til lurched sideways and tore a jagged length of wood from the shattered counter. He swung it downward like a club, using the broken plank to knock Avarice's hands away from his vitals. Several blows were driven aside, but two punches slipped through and slammed into his chest.

His padded tunic absorbed the worst of them, though the impact still stole what little breath remained in his lungs. Staggering backward, Til's eyes spotted the unconscious body of Meetzos sprawled nearby. With Avarice still pressing the attack, Til bent down and seized the Rodian by his vest.

His muscles strained against several hundred pounds of dead weight before the belt's assistance finally allowed him to lift the massive body from the floor. With a ragged groan, he hurled Meetzos directly into the narrow space between himself and Avarice, sending the unconscious Rodian's limbs sprawling toward the advancing scholar.

The effort drained what remained of Til's strength. He collapsed against the display case, clutching his ribs while wiping fresh blood from beneath his nose. Even with his vision swimming, he managed a slow wink in Avarice's direction.

"Don't knock the mileage, sweetheart," Til panted, his golden tattoos twitching with a groggy smirk.

"Old age gives a man certain advantages with the ladies. Extra cushioning." He pushed himself away from the case and stumbled backward, his new boots dragging across the floorboards as he searched the locked-down shop for the fallen slugthrower before the poison finished pulling him under.
​

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

Although Avarice instinctively raised his forearms to block, Til's attack still struck solidly. The sharpened wood scraped through his thin gloves, stripping away slivers of flesh beneath the splintered edges. He suppressed a hiss of pain and twisted aside, narrowly avoiding the large Rodian hurled in his direction. Recent ventures had taught him the danger of becoming trapped beneath a larger opponent, and he had no intention of repeating that mistake.

"Extra cushioning? Sensible... I suppose since I imagine your partners need somewhere comfortable to wait while you catch your breath."
Young and spry as Avarice was he leap up on to the counter with quick steps he seemed to leap down and collect the artifact before Til could reach it tumbling away. He popped up on to his his knees. " Hah~"

 

[Til Melarr]

Til clicked his teeth behind his tongue as watching the freak effortlessly dodge the flying Rodian reminded him exactly why he'd left Meetzos behind on Ord Mantell. The bastard was just too damn slow to be a useful shield when things went completely sideways. Then the wizard's jab about catching his breath hit his ears.

Til's jaw dropped in mock outrage. "Slow?!" he yelled, his heavy boots sliding slightly on the junk-covered floorboards. He paused for a split second, his sluggish brain actually trying to recall his track record with the ladies. He was infamous for getting drunk on Corellian whiskey even in private settings, and he did remember them being upset with him for making them wait since he had passed out just five minutes in.

"Hey! That is a low blow, you pale little demon!" Til scoffed, wiping a fresh smear of blood from his chin. He adopted a dramatic stance even though the room was starting to tilt at an angle due to the drugs in his system.

"The ladies can wait for ages, darling, because this green juice stays fresh forever! You have no idea what you're missing!" The playful banter didn't save his prize as with a series of quick moves, Avarice jumped onto the counter and grabbed the ancient slugthrower right out of the dirt, rolling away before popping up onto his knees with a breathless laugh.

"Oh, no you don't," Til snarled as the slugthrower was gone, but his holster wasn't empty. Til's green hand clutched the grip of his blaster pistol, ripping it from his belt with a sloppy, uncoordinated jerk. His fingers felt thick and heavy, sagging against the trigger as the sedative aggressively dragged his motor skills into the dirt.

He squeezed off three wild plasma bolts. The red beams shot blindly through the dim pawnshop, punching smoking holes into the ceiling and shattering a shelf of antique chronometers right behind Avarice's head. Gears rained down around the kneeling scholar as Til swayed on his feet, his grip on the blaster loosening as his vision began to fade into a dark, fuzzy blur.
​

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

Avarice ducked sharply as the first bolt tore past him, the heat grazing the air above his silvered crown. The second punched into the shelving behind him, sending shattered chronometers and tiny brass gears spilling across his shoulders, while the third vanished into the ceiling in a shower of dust and scorched plaster.

He dropped down clutching the ancient slugthrower close as metal components pattered around him. For one breath, he remained crouched amid the debris, pale features drawn tight against the pain burning through his forearms. Then Til's boast registered and he replied in kind.

"I believe you... Naturally.... Nothing wears out when someone else does all the work, and neglect preserves many things."

 

[Til Melarr]

The strength in Til's hands was almost completely gone. His fingers felt heavy and useless against the blaster, but he gritted his teeth and forced them to work. Beyond the sealed steel shutters of the shop, distant sirens began to wail the Iziz City Patrol finally closing in on the disturbance. Meetzos was not exactly a place with a good reputation, so a fight breaking out was cause for investigation.

Four erratic plasma bolts burst from the muzzle, scorching wild scars across the walls and blowing out the last flickering light above them. But the recoil tore the weapon right out of his numb grip. It clattered away across the floorboards. Til's legs finally giving out as he hit the floor beneath him, crashing into sharp metal scrap and shattered glass.

The cold floor pressed against his cheek as the poison surged through his bloodstream, locking up his muscles one by one. Even as his chest strained for air and his body thrashed against the paralysis, that stubborn sneer never completely left his face. He forced his heavy eyes up toward the blurred, silver-haired outline of Avarice hiding behind the debris.

"Hey..." Til slurred, voice dropping to a barely audible whisper from behind his blood-stained lips. "I don't... mind being a bed princess, darling. Long as... I get to sleep in..." The bravado cracked right at the end as he was lying alone in the dirt of a locked pawnshop, suffocating while the sirens grew louder outside.

His golden facial tattoos twitched as a brief flicker of real fear crossed his eyes, a man who had finally run out of luck, out of jokes, and out of exits. His breathing slowed to a shallow exhale. The yellow glare of the shop faded into suffocating darkness as Til's eyes and body went completely still.
​

 

[Avarice]

Tags: Til Melarr ​

"Good to know. I'll keep that in mind if you ever decide to change your wicked ways, handsome~" he murmured, watching the man finally succumb to sleep.

Avarice knew he would be fine once he slept it off, but he still did what he could to disarm him. He took the relic and secured it within a bag, concealing it from sight, then tethered Ti'l's hands together behind his back. With some effort, he hoisted him into an upright sitting position so he would not suffocate beneath his own weight against the floor.

He administered an antidote and checked the pawn shop owner's vitals. He would leave poor Til Melarr at the mercy of the local police, though he had no intention of remaining long enough to greet them.

Before departing, Avarice selected a book from one of the shelves. He set down a small pile of credits in its place, the amount generous enough to pay for the book and more than cover the damage caused throughout the shop. With that final matter settled, he made himself scarce, phasing through one of the walls.

The police would eventually arrive at the locked-down pawn shop and find their work already cut out for them.