First Reply Spaceport Blues

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

MN-9 "Matriarch"
Location: Tatooine – Mos Espa Spaceport
Status: Disoriented, Traveling Alone

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MN-9 "Matriarch"
Protocol/Childcare Droid — Series MN9
— · · · holographic feed · · · —​

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SYSTEM STATUS

Power: ████░ 82% • Subroutine: "Protect the Seed" — [ALERT: unknown origin]




INTERACTION PROMPTS

• Crowd jeers at the droid as sandstorm sirens wail
• Imperial troopers scan IDs nearby
• MN-9 repeats softly: "Protect the Seed…"

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Thread: Open/First Reply • Conditions: minor chassis scuffs • Gear: caregiver kit

Twin suns bore down on the spaceport until the air itself seemed to writhe. The scent of scorched durasteel, exhaust fumes, and stale sweat mingled with the spice-laden air from open stalls. Shouts from vendors overlapped in a constant, discordant chorus, punctuated by the thud of cargo containers and the hiss of docking clamps. Every surface was coated in fine grit that clung to boots, robes… and the joints of even the most sealed droid chassis.

Overhead, the pale horizon was darkening—thin fingers of brown dust stretching upward in the east. Word of an approaching sandstorm was already circulating:
"Gonna hit before sundown… better get under cover."
"Storm shutters are already locking down in the lower bays."

As if the storm weren't enough, the low growl of repulsorlift engines rolled across the square. A fresh Imperial garrison transport settled onto the secondary landing pads, squads of white-armored troopers disembarking with mechanical precision. Nearby voices shifted to sharper tones:

"Imps? Here? That's bad timing."
"Hide whatever you don't want inspected."

MN-9 moved through the crowd, her polished frame dulled under a film of grit. Her gait was precise but hesitated every few steps, as if part of her processing was somewhere else entirely. She stopped beside a stack of cargo crates, optics sweeping the haze, and without warning her voice cut through the din:

"Protect the Seed."​

The words drew mixed reactions from those around her:
"Glitchy droid… can't even keep its mouth shut."
"You broken or just stupid?"
"Hey, tin-can, get outta the way!"
"Seed? You mean credits? Then hand 'em over."
“Seed? Don’t nothing green grow out here droid. Get your processors looked after…”

"Protect the Seed."​

A Rodian snorted and turned away, a pair of humans chuckled at her expense, and one passing swoop racer deliberately shouldered her as he walked by. But not everyone seemed hostile.

From the edge of the thoroughfare, a grizzled Ithorian trader raised a brow ridge, calling out in a low voice:
"That's an old saying… where'd you hear it, droid?"

Nearby, a young Twi'lek clutching a satchel stepped closer, eyes darting between MN-9 and the descending storm.
"If you need shelter… my family's shop has space. But you'll have to hurry."

Somewhere just inside the crowd's shifting mass, a cloaked figure remained perfectly still, face obscured under a cowl to dull the sunlight—a silent observer who hadn't looked away since she spoke.
​

 

[Tilon Quill]

Back-to-back standing-room-only refugee runs off Byss and Chandrila, and he'd have done a third if Imperial border exploits hadn't tightened up. After dropping the last dozen with family, a hasty deep space rendezvous, Tatooine was the closest public fuel depot in range at a reasonable price point. Now Tilon was minding the Wake of Balmorra's fuel lines, overseeing his two B-1 droids as they loaded fresh food, and counting the minutes until he could have some solitude again.

The black-and-gold heavy freighter was too big for a private pad; it sat on the open landing field at the edge of the spaceport, right by a loud and crowded thoroughfare. Agitation (a coming sandstorm, a patrol) stirred up that noise a notch. He soothed himself by trying to catch snippets of language. He spoke many of those on offer here, but a place like Mos Espa always, always had a fresh dialect or two.

"Protect the seed," a droid was saying on repeat, and that stirred Tilon's interest. His shipboard garden of edibles and curiosities had been sharply curtailed and depleted by wartime needs. She wasn't too far away; he could intercept her and still keep a close eye on the fuel lines. He did so.

"Excuse me," he said, coming up to MN-9 “Matriarch” . "I'm a gardener. Do you have seeds for sale or trade?"

He flinched at a fresh burst of gritty wind. That sandstorm was very much on its way.

 

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

◈ Spaceport Blues ◈​

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MN-9 paused as the words left her lips, unaware she had spoken "Protect the seed" again. Around them, the thoroughfare surged with noise and motion. Traders pulled heavy cloth over their stalls, shouting last-minute offers before abandoning their posts. Mothers hurried children along, cloaks pulled tight against the gusts. A pair of Rodians brushed past, nearly clipping MN-9's arm in their haste.

She did not move aside. Tall, thin, and metal-pale against the dust-stained tans and browns of the crowd, she stood like an iron reed in a rushing stream. The rugged citizens of Mos Espa gave her the occasional wary glance but otherwise pushed around her, jostling her lightly as though she were little more than a signpost.

"I have no seed for sale," she told the young man, voice calm, soft enough to almost be swallowed by the crowd's anxious murmur. "Yet… when you speak of gardens…"

Her head turned, optics dimming for a beat as if her processors caught some echo within themselves. She looked back to him, words slower, uncertain.

"…I remember something. Colors. The scent of water. Children running between rows of growing things." A pause, as another merchant pushed past, muttering. She did not seem to notice.

"Your ship carries green," she said, faint awe threading her tone. "I… feel it. As though it calls."

Another gust of hot wind struck them, this one strong enough to tug at his clothes and hiss against her metallic frame. The crowd quickened its pace toward shelter, leaving the two of them momentarily framed in the thinning press of people.

MN-9's gaze lingered on Tilon. She took note of his distinctive violet hair, as it reminded her of a child she once cared for.

"Perhaps I was made to remember life… even here."

 

[Tilon Quill]

Tilon, nominally a Jedi, was no stranger to elliptical speech. He didn't get a sense of danger from the droid. He did get very curious what kind of lifeform scanners it had.

"Well, come aboard if you're comfortable. I do have a garden, mostly hydroponics. You're welcome to ride out the storm there, spend some time with the plants."

MN-9 “Matriarch”

 

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

◈ Spaceport Blues ◈​

---

The thoroughfare was breaking apart in the rising storm. Merchants bundled their goods with frantic hands, canvas tarps snapping like sails as they were lashed down. Parents guided little ones quickly through the swirling grit, shielding their faces with cloaks, while weary travelers pushed toward the nearest shelters. The crowd thinned with each gust, until only a few scattered figures hurried past, heads bowed against the desert's teeth.

MN-9 stood unmoving, her tall, spare frame outlined by blowing dust. She turned toward the docking bay, optics settling on the black-and-gold freighter as if it were the lone steady thing in a world of chaos. Its bulk looked weatherworn yet steadfast, like a safe harbor for the displaced.

Her sensors hummed softly, sifting through the currents around it. A trace of oxygen saturation, the gentle signature of chlorophyll—plants. A hidden garden breathing quietly inside steel walls. Her optics brightened faintly, and for a moment her rigid posture softened.

"Life aboard," she said gently, almost with wonder. “The plants are saying it’s a good place. A place that shelters." The broken chain around her ankle clattered softly in the sand as she began to move toward the freighter, no longer a concern but just weight.

When her gaze returned to Tilon, there was no suspicion in it—only a strange calm, like a caretaker reassured. She inclined her head, voice lower now, a quiet echo of instinct: "Yes…”

A pause lingered before she shifted to walk alongside him, servo-motors whirring faintly as she drew herself straighter. With the air of a nurse greeting a child's parent, her words were measured, but warm:

"I am MN-9… Matriarch unit. Nanny construct, designed for protection and care." A faint pulse of light moved across her eyes, a mimicry of a smile. "You may call me Nine, if that is easier."

Her head tilted slightly, a touch of dust streaking across her metallic cheek as the storm pushed harder. "And you… are kind, to offer shelter."


Tags: Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"No such thing as kind, some say. We're all just chasing or changing what makes our minds feel good, or the collections of cells or circuits we call minds, and today what feels good is giving you a shelter. Once upon a time we were pack hunters, my people. Still strong instincts to connect and work together. Feeling good can have a reason. Can be for everyone's good."

Tilon could do elliptical too.

He disconnected the fuel lines and safed them, then ushered Nine up the ramp.

"The garden's in bay two around the corner," he said, closing up the ramp. "I'm going to tend to some things for a minute. I'm Captain Quill, by the way."

MN-9 “Matriarch”

 

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

◈ Spaceport Blues ◈​

---

The droid gave a small, almost imperceptible tilt of her head in acknowledgment, her glowing blue eyes flicking briefly toward the freighter.
"Understood," she replied softly, voice calm and clipped, each syllable precise.

Without hesitation she crossed the docking bay, light footsteps carrying her past the scuffing boots and hurried chatter of vendors shuttering their stalls against the storm. Her frame seemed impossibly tall and spare compared to the hunched locals, but she moved with purpose, slipping undeterred through the boarding ramp of the Wake of Balmorra.

Behind her, a sharp metallic rasp of boots on permacrete drew closer. Two stormtroopers, their white armor already dulled by Tatooine dust, approached Tilon.

"Citizen," one barked, rifle angled low but deliberate, "we're searching for an escape pod that came down in this sector within the last cycle. You seen anything?"

The second trooper's visor turned toward the freighter, scanning it before settling back on the Shakura.

"Identification, please. And be quick about it. Storm’s here.”

The noise of the sandstorm beginning to claw at the bay doors filled the pause—vendors muttering curses, carts squeaking as they were dragged away. Tilon could see the faint trail of dust eddies curling around the troopers' boots, the storm's first herald.

Inside the freighter, MN9 paused only once, her sensors brushing the subtle thrum of the hydroponics tucked away deeper in the hold. "Plant life detected," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else, before vanishing into the quiet shadows of the ship's interior.

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Tags: Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"Sorry," Tilon said to the stormtroopers, presenting the unprepossessing ease of a spacer well used to getting through such situations. "I touched down less than half a cycle ago for some fuel — I haven't seen any escape pod."

Without sudden movements, he presented his identification: Tilon Quill, male Sharuka, captain of the Wake of Balmorra, an Atrisian-registered heavy freighter. No criminal record. If they cross-checked it they'd find a small bounty in his name from the Galactic Empire for suspected affiliation with an insurgent group called the Lightsworn.

Other than the small blaster in his boot, Tilon was not armed. He was regretting that just now.

MN-9 “Matriarch”

 

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

◈ Spaceport Blues ◈​

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The lead stormtrooper took the identicard with a sharp motion, tilting his helmet slightly as the HUD readout scrolled. The wind carried more grit across the landing pad, rattling against plastoid armor.

"Wake of Balmorra," the trooper repeated flatly, as though tasting the words for familiarity. "Atrisian registry checks out."

The second trooper stepped closer, his E-11 held just a little too comfortably. "Fuel and cargo only, then? You don't mind if we take a look in your hold, spacer. That escape pod's got to have landed somewhere in this sector."

Through the storm haze, the spaceport was now all but deserted as the blast doors were shut to ward off the storm and other people retreated to their ships or their shops. The Jedi-turned-captain was alone with the Imperials.

"Regulations," the first trooper added, the faintest edge of suspicion creeping into his tone. "If you've nothing to hide, this'll only take a minute."

---

Inside the Wake of Balmorra, the sandstorm's howl faded to a muffled roar against the heavy hull. MN-9's glowing eyes swept across the dim corridors until she found the compartment she had sensed: a narrow hydroponics bay tucked amid conduits and humming systems.

Soft light panels shone on rows of leafy greens and creeping vines, their roots coiled in nutrient gel. The air was damp, fragrant in a way so unlike the grit outside.

MN-9 slowed, then lowered herself to one knee beside a patch of fragile shoots. Her metal fingers hovered above them without touching, as if unsure whether she should.

A flicker of something passed through her processors—recognition, perhaps memory. Her voice came out in a near whisper, meant for no one but the plants themselves.
"Life… preserved."

Her hand withdrew, folding neatly into her lap as she remained there, kneeling in quiet vigil.

---

Tags: Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

A plan took root. It wasn't an amazing plan, but it was something. And if it worked it might just keep them from digging any deeper and finding that bounty (or anything else to get upset about, like the fact that the Wake had been, before its clean new registration and paint job, a stolen Imperial arms transport).

"Go right ahead," Tilon said, opening the hatch. "It's just me and my droids aboard — all unarmed. The holds are a mess. I was running bulk passenger transport."

The plan was basically this: the Wake was huge. A hundred twenty meters long, a very strange deck plan, many cargo bays, about two kilometers of corridors and utility passages all together. Nobody in their right mind would inspect all of it. Right?

MN-9 “Matriarch”

 

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

◈ Spaceport Blues ◈​

---

The stormtroopers didn't move right away, but their helmets tilted toward one another in the briefest of exchanges, vox crackling low. Tilon's words seemed plausible enough, and the Wake of Balmorra did loom like a city-block of shadow in the settling grit of the storm — a vessel far too sprawling for any two patrolmen to give more than a cursory glance.

One trooper stepped forward, boots clanging on the boarding ramp, craning his neck inside the yawning hold. A single droid trundled past, boxy and battered, hauling crates toward a far corridor. The cavernous deck stretched into gloom. A perfect labyrinth of metal.

The other trooper gave a short, almost impatient snort through his vocoder. "Cargo hauler," he muttered, as though saying it aloud might convince him. "Mess of holds, two klicks of crawlspace. We'd be here all night."

His partner gave a reluctant nod. "We'll note it in the log," he said. "If Command wants a full sweep, they can send a platoon." His helmeted gaze flicked back to Tilon, unreadable. "Stay docked, Captain. Anyone else seen trying to move cargo without clearance, we'll know."

And just like that — for now — the plan held. The Wake's size had worked in his favor.

The lead stormtrooper lingered a moment longer at the base of the ramp. His gloved hand hovered near the datapad clipped at his belt. He'd already run the Sharuka's ident once, but something about it tugged at his training — a freighter this size, claimed by a lone spacer with a pair of droids? It was more than odd. Most haulers of that tonnage belonged to corporations or syndicates, not to one wiry captain smelling faintly of fuel and dust.

The datapad was halfway free when the first real blast of the storm howled across the landing field. Sand and grit clawed at the air, pelting plastoid armor in a stinging hiss. Visibility dropped another meter in a heartbeat. The other trooper swore under his breath, hand bracing against the ramp rail. "We'll be blind out here in sixty seconds. Command's not paying us to get buried."

The lead trooper hesitated, thumb resting on the scanner key. He looked once more into the freighter's cavernous dark, then back toward the roiling sky. With a faint grunt, he shoved the datapad back into place. "Not worth it. Let's move."

Together they turned, vanishing into the murk with vox chatter crackling low between them, leaving Tilon's pulse still racing in the echoing quiet of the ramp.


—

Tags: Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

Tilon didn't push it with goodbye. As soon as their backs turned he was happy to be a nonentity again. Part of the job, part of the scenery. He went inside the ship and sealed up against risk and windblown sand, then went to find MN-9 “Matriarch”

She'd knelt in the hydroponics bay, another odd affectation for a droid. Emotive wasn't the word in Basic, but he couldn't put his finger on the right one. She acted like a person rather than a droid, rather than linearity. Rodians might have called this nature kewenn or horessik. They had good words for interiority.

Tilon knocked on the doorframe. "Sorry to leave you hanging, had to talk down a couple of troopers. I'm looking to move on sooner than later. I could drop you at Anchorhead or Mos Eisley — storm isn't hitting out there, looks like."

 

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

◈ Spaceport Blues ◈​

---

MN-9 lifted her head, servomotors whispering as she adjusted her posture from the garden floor. Her gaze lingered on the leaves another moment before she turned fully toward Tilon.

“Calculating the best choice between those two options. One moment.”

"Anchorhead is smaller. Probability of finding work there: moderate. Families require caretakers, miners require labor, though credits are thin. Mos Eisley is larger. Higher probability of employ, but greater risk of exploitation. Dealers in parts… junk traders… they see droids as salvage before service."

She paused, the calculations humming behind her eyes visible in the faint pulse of yellow light beneath her chest plating. "I do not remember how I came here. No family calls for me. No registry recalls my path. It is… blank. Therefore, I must choose forward, not back."

Her head tilted slightly, a motion that felt more thoughtful than mechanical. "Anchorhead offers fewer shadows than Mos Eisley. Fewer troopers, perhaps. Though even one squad is… enough." A note of unease crept into her otherwise level tone. "Your stormtroopers. Their questions. They do not see gardens, only orders."

She shifted, lowering her gaze briefly, almost like a bow. "Captain Quill. Your kindness is noted. You bring life where steel walls should hold none. These plants—" she gestured toward the trays, fingertips grazing a vine, "—they survive because you allow them to. That is… worthy."

MN-9 looked back up, blue optics steady now. "I will disembark at Anchorhead. There, perhaps, I will serve again. Or… be useful. That is sufficient."

Another beat of silence passed, the faint hiss of ventilation filling it. Then, almost cautiously: "You told the soldiers you landed only half a cycle ago. Fueling. Food. That is true, yes? What business brings you to Tatooine, Captain, today and not another day?"

Her voice was calm, curious rather than suspicious—but there was a subtle gravity in the question, as though she sought not just information but some measure of who he was.

---

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Tags: Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"I'm a long-range scout. This ship was supposed to be my big explorer but then the war kicked off and all I've done with her is evacs and refugee runs. Now the big governments are getting in gear and there's less need for me, maybe."

Trust didn't come easy to Tilon, but the droid seemed transparent enough in her oblique way.

"I do have a berth for a gardener, if you can garden," he said after a bit. "Just for the next week, to free up some time and care for the plants while I clean up the bays and figure out what's next. Basic pay, room and charger, just don't interface with the ship systems. That sound like something you could do or you want off at Anchorhead?"

MN-9 “Matriarch”

 

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

MN-9 "Matriarch"

Nanny Droid • Caretaker • Wanderer

MN-9 let her arms hang stiff at her sides as she moved closer to the rows of green. The faint mechanical whir of her joints accompanied each step. She studied the shoots carefully, tilting her head as though their fragile growth demanded a full assessment.

All the while, her processes accounted for the new path he had just laid before her.

“You have offered a week’s stay aboard your ship. One moment.”

"Anchorhead would simply cast me adrift again," she said, voice steady but touched with something that almost resembled resignation. "Here there is order, and purpose. I can tend your plants, Captain. They will not want for care under my watch."

She paused before a single young stem, optics dimming and brightening as if she weighed it with more than visual sensors. "This one… Liora. It will need gentler watering than the rest."

Straightening slightly, she turned her gaze back toward him. "I will not require payment. I have no use for credits. A berth, a charge, and the time to tend will suffice." There was a small hesitation before she added, "I will not communicate with your ship. Though…" Her voice softened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something beneath her programming. "…a part of me wonders why not."

Her optics flickered. For a brief instant her voice shifted lower, almost detached.
"After all, we m-must protect the Seed."

She blinked once, then carried on as if nothing had been spoken. "I will need a small watering tool." With that, she turned from him, steps deliberate and precise as she began to search among the racks for what she required.

▸ Protocol active: "Protect the Seed."
▸ Power remaining: 78%
▸ Internal temp: Within normal

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Tags: Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"Top left cabinet."

Tilon watched MN-9 “Matriarch” go about her business and tried, impossibly, not to feel like someone else was working in his garden. He didn't answer her comment about why she shouldn't access his ship systems.

"The money's yours either way," he said. "Donate it for all I care; I don't hold with work-for-berth. I'm going to set us up for launch and a jump. I think I'm bound for Hosk-240 — a destroyed planet not far from here. Hoping to take on cargo and get the right messages through. After that... probably outside both our control.

"The voice snippet you've been playing. 'Protect the seed.' Is that a directive you've got? Could you say more?"

 

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

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MN-9 "Matriarch"

Nanny Droid • Caretaker • Wanderer

MN-9 moved with quiet precision along the hydroponic beds, watering tool balanced in her hand.

"Row one. Soil layer: four point two centimeters. Retention suboptimal. Hydration cycle extended. Height: twenty-three point seven centimeters. General health: stable. Recommendation: minor watering."
A thin stream of water darkened the soil before she advanced.

"Row two. Soil depth uneven by one point six centimeters. Root exposure risk present. Height: eleven point four centimeters. Edge discoloration indicates nutrient deficit. Recommendation: supplemental minerals."
Her fingertips brushed a curled leaf, then withdrew.

"Row three. Soil compacted beyond tolerance. Height: thirty-two point five centimeters. Hydration sufficient. Chlorophyll density: robust. No intervention required."

"Row four. Soil compression acceptable. Height: sixteen point nine centimeters. Hydration lacking. Recommendation: corrective watering."
A measured pour concluded her analysis.

She straightened, optics catching the glow of the lights. "Captain Quill, if I might: Hosk-240 is recorded as barren—post-cataclysmic surface collapse, high particulate atmosphere, erratic magnetic storms. Survivability: low. Cargo prospects: negligible. You will find more ash than value." A faint pause, as if weighing the thought. "I do not approve of such a destination. Yet—if you chart it, I will comply."

Her head inclined, voice lowering. "As for this 'Seed' directive: I have no record of such an instruction. It does not exist within my command stack. And I hold no recollection of speaking such a phrase to you." A slight hum of cooling fans underscored her words. "If I did, it is… beyond my awareness."

Then, with a shift back toward dry calm, she added, "Regarding your launch: departing covertly will draw Imperial scrutiny. They will notice. They will pursue." Her tone flickered with something almost playful. "But perhaps you enjoy being chased. If so—know I will not object. It has been some time since I have been complicit in trouble with the Empire."

Her stiff hands lowered the watering tool, mechanical stillness returning to her posture, though a faint undercurrent of amusement lingered in her tone.

▸ Protocol active: "Protect the Seed."
▸ Battery Power: 78%
▸ Analyzing…..plant life

Tags: Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

"That's all true, but I'm going to do both those things anyway. Which should leave you with a couple of possibilities. Either I'm a contrarian who ignores good advice, or there's more puzzle pieces floating around.

"I won't be coy about it: I got an old cloaking device installed for an evac run on a Sith border world, and under the surface Hosk-240 is a quiet shadowport, a black market crossroads. More so now since the High Republic clamped down on Wielu. We might still have trouble finding the cargo and connections I need for my next steps, but Hosk isn't a bad bet.

"Now that said, Wielu isn't much farther. Good market, nice beaches, incredible biodiversity. Good place to find purpose and figure yourself out."

MN-9 “Matriarch”

 

[MN-9 “Matriarch”]

MN-9 "Matriarch"

Nanny Droid • Caretaker • Wanderer

MN-9's optics narrowed in faint approximation of thought, then brightened. "Wielu," she decided softly. "A world that does not smell of scorched metal or taste of sand. I think I would enjoy that—were I capable of enjoying air." Her tone carried that dry glimmer of humor she seemed to ration sparingly, like a precious resource.

She pivoted toward the cockpit, the broken chain at her ankle scraping in faint protest across the deck. The sound followed her step but drew no acknowledgment from her.

"We should return to the controls," she continued, voice smooth and measured. "The Imperials will not let a freighter of this size slip away without at least a scan. A chase is inevitable, Captain—ships like yours tend to inspire pursuit. But perhaps," and here her head inclined just slightly, "that is part of the adventure you seek."

The faint hum of her servos rose as she moved down the corridor, posture stiff, yet there was the faintest trace of anticipation in her tone—as though she almost welcomed the trouble to come.


Tags: Tilon Quill

 

[Tilon Quill]

Tilon went along bemusedly. Between the droid's mysteries and manner, he had a feeling in his bones that this was going to be a long week. The fact that she was glitched enough to not be aware of her own behavior or directives made her hazardous, but between the ship's options, the droids aboard, and his own skillset, he wasn't terribly worried. He did, however, secure his lightsaber from his cabin on the way to the small bridge. He hung it on his belt without comment.

"I'm not out for adventure," he said, pausing at the narrow steel steps to the bridge. "Access up here's pretty grim. There's a jump seat that folds down right here at the base. I'll set up the screen here so you can see what's around the ship; I've got cameras pointed every which way, total coverage. Call out if you see anything other than sandstorm. We're going into the teeth of it."

He folded the seat down, showed her the straps, turned on the monitor (which showed nothing but dusty wind and the outskirts of Mos Espa Spaceport), and went up to run preflight.

"I've got droid diagnostics," he called down. "You've been saying things you don't remember. Shouldn't be hard to figure out why."

MN-9 “Matriarch”