Starting Line

[Triter Zone]

[ Shanpan Spaceport, the planet Manpha ]

​

Triter Zone glanced down at his instruments, his vulpine features cast in the green-orange glow of his little snubfighter's screens and gauges.
"Shanpan Control, this is Scrimshaw One; requesting approach vector and landing instructions."
The young Amaran male stretched out to the extent he could in the confines of his RGR-42 Scrimshaw, popping his joints and vertebrae a little as he did so. Though he had designed the little craft to comfortably seat human-sized beings, even the extra space afforded by the pirate's smaller form was not really enough to be comfortable on a long hyperspace jump.
The comm system crackled, and the croaking voice of one of Shanpan's native Shawda Ubb aerospace traffic controllers replied to Triter's query.
"Scrimshaw One this is Shanpan Control. We have you on our scopes; adjust course to vector 33-Z-14, polar insertion. You are clear for landing at field 12, pad 15. Welcome to Manpha."
Triter punched in nav information, flicking on the tiny fighter's holographic head-up display system, which projected a wire-frame tunnel to fly his ship down, representing the approach vector. He leaned his head side to side, cracking his neck.
"Shanpan Control, Scrimshaw One. Much obliged."

A few minutes late, Triter had set himself down at pad 15, where he was greeted by a Shawda Ubb customs agent and landing attendant. Signing a few papers given to him by the agent, he then paid the attendant to move his ship to a nearby hangar, before hopping a shuttle-bus to the spaceport terminal.
Slumping in the plastene seat of the shuttle, he gave a long sigh, and stretched his arms above his head, popping stiff joints and giving a wide yawn.
Solid ground again, at long last.

Triter had come to Manpha because, simply put, it happened to be in the direction he had been heading. The young Amaran had been traveling for a long time; after the dissolution of the Ossein Pirates, there had been precious little else he could do, what with no friends left and a corporate price on his head in Tionese space.
That had been six years ago.
Triter had survived as an independent, more or less, all that time. With only a starfighter and a scant handful of possessions to his name, he roamed from job to job, scraping together the credits to pay for food, fuel and liquid relaxant as he went. Though he still counted himself a pirate, he had at various times been a squadron leader, a crewbeing, a bounty hunter, a bodyguard, a soldier, even an engineer and a law-man once or twice. These stints never lasted for long; within a few months, he always found himself roaming again, further away from where he had started.
Further and further and further away.
Triter had goals, or at least he told himself he did. One day, he assured himself, he would rebuild the Ossein Pirates; he would get everything back, and he would atone for his past failures.
One day...

Triter rubbed his eyes, looking around at the other passengers in the starport shuttle.
There weren't many; Manpha only boasted one spaceport, but aside from tanker traffic serving the huge petroleum company terminals, it was hardly busy. The locals, adverse to travel as they were, had little use for the place, and even the freighter pilots coming up and down the Corellian Trade Spine generally only stopped long enough to take on cargo and calculate their next hyperspace jump.
I wonder what they're all doing here. Triter thought to himself, leaning back in his seat as he looked over his fellow travelers...

 

[Jsc]

Fellow travelers such as Karen Roberts and Grant Pherson.

Due to the temperature of galactic politics, both on Lothal and on Chazwa, a Jedi Master must sometimes go into hiding. Alas and with a sigh of pity. Such was a day like today. Roberts sat on a shuttle-bus on a backwater planet in the middle of the Outer Rim. Flanked by the large robust man that was her husband. Jedi Knight Grant Pherson. Both were garbed in boring brown shawls and tribal hoods that covered their faces from view. Underneath the disguises they wore their gray armor and kept their precious signature items out of view. Already having used the Force to hide their presence from the scrying magicks and sensitive perceptions of others. Still, a fleck of blue hair could been seen to escape the woman's loose shawl and perhaps it hinted too overtly at the adventurer beneath. A signature fashion of Zelosian custom that Karen doubted she would ever give up entirely. After all, they didn't call her Ol' Blue in the Pyre for nothing.

Grant bumped Karen with his large elbow and gestured his fuzzy chin towards the other passengers. It did appear they were in quite the unique company today. Oh dear. This was not a bus bound for Denon or for Fondor. Oh no. This was a bus filled with people who were rather not be noticed at all.

Oh my...

 

[The Talatheen Amalgam]

A few hours beforehand...

A swamp; a decadent mire, smelling of rot and fecal matter blown forth from spews of subterranean gases. Bogs were locked to the domain of whatever circle of Hell provided asylum to the dignitaries of disease and pestilence, a sphere of influence to the foul; the trees bent with greasy canopies that stained the sunshine, as if the foul, stagnant and putrid water had soaked through the bark and rendered the trees lepers of flora. Provided this was not enough to daunt the wayward traveler, this bile-ridden swamp composed the entirety of Manpha's surface; it was beyond a cesspool. It felt forced, a slap in the face; he was returning from his latest venture: treasuring hunting. Another failure, naturally, but no point dwelling on that - it was the subsequent surprise which deeply irritated him; Aphos, his brother, was gone, no denying this - but it was the simple lack of anything that brought upon the pain, nibbled on it. It was as if the world was intent on gingerly tasting the salted wound, as if savoring the delicate isolation before leaving it alone to fester in the sun; flyblown and melting to dust. He sat here, now, on a bench beyond the spaceport - rifle laid out beside him: Red Ice, another testimony to the longing emptiness - what had gone wrong?

He was betrayed, his purpose exposed to the hot swamp wind; the humid air decaying his lies of purpose before him. He was cloaked, as per usual, and the helmet, the Ghost of Moraband's Autumn, held upon his crown, its metal face void of discernible feature. His master; that was the source of pain - she had taken it from him; and through the pain of realization, or perhaps scapegoating, he drew upon that pain - attempting to channel such pain in a pseudo-meditative stance as he sat lethargic upon bench beyond the Shanpan Spaceport. It was in this stance, as per usual, the division came: Daska, of the Body - the physical dominant over the symbiotic bond, gave up in early frustration. He threw up his hands and grabbed his rifle: "Take it... no, discard? No, I will... express myself." His free hand, however, rummaged along his helmet's inorganic cheek, as if to coo him back to calmness; his brother, Hu, of the Mind, replied in turn, "Daska, hush now... no point making us... making our journey more difficult now; look now, upon the horizon beyond the fetid marsh. Hope, in passion - do not be a slave to this, it is an-"

"It is a lie," replied Daska brusquely.

"No! It is a decadent rage; giving into it would waste the opportunity. Find something else, bide your time; grow, as always, then hunt."

"H-Hunt?"

"And kill her."

He exposed a hand to the stale air; it was robotic, coated in a pale steel - composed of a shell of inhumane bone. It was an exoskeleton of falsity, a blasphemy upon the brothers nature; they hated it, and, thus, they kept it. Such a sight brewed a potion of hatred deep within the bowels of their sanity; damned they were, to in completion - they were a falsity, a freak. A freak without purpose, at that; what was there to rely upon? A soul requires a caste, otherwise it is liquid - formless, a slough. They were a puddle upon the floor of life - without reason except vengeance; an unfulfilled desire for misplaced justice, perhaps born, in analogy, to the flies that swarmed about their sweat-stained figure. They flexed the metallic arm, the joints of synthetic fiber creaking softly as the arm moved with false life... much like them. "Killer- no, we... kill her," crowed Daska softly, winding his hand into a fist; this motion caught a small rock, laying in a pool of mud, through the throes of the Force - a fetter he expanded upon. He lifted this stone, the Force straining the unnatural tendons as he grasped, through the sixth sense, an earthen thing - an unfeeling entity.

"And become one, like we were meant to be."

He dropped it, sending up a small tide of foul, liquidated dirt.

[member="Karen Roberts"]
[member="Triter Zone"]

 

[James Justice]

James was drunk. As usual. It was nothing to write home about and nothing new. What else did the spacer have to spend his money on except dulling the pain of his existence? For now he was just buzzed. He had a plan to get SocMin Fed's hands on the local petroleum for his own devices. For now, alcohol.

Between bars he hopped on a shuttle to cross the city. It was cheap and public, what else could he want? He lowered himself onto a bench and lit a cigarette. As the smoke filled the mostly empty area he noticed a familiar foxy small male. How could he forget? The man had been there for the Angel's Den when it had an opening night. He had also tossed Stardust a large credit. And..... Got some of her attention. That made him a friend, even if James was too buzzed to remember his name at the moment.

'I know you,' he said with a chuckle and a grin pointing to Triter. "mate it's been too long, how are ye doing?"

James' day had just gotten ten thousand times better.

[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]
[member="Karen Roberts"]
[member="Triter Zone"]

 

[Triter Zone]

[member="Karen Roberts"]
[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]
[member="James Justice"]

(As I can't seem to get a hold of Vincent, going to post without him)

Triter had begun to take note of some of the other passengers; many seemed to be studiously keeping to themselves, as might be expected in such a place. They all looked like spacer types, not reputable sorts at least, not too surprising given that Manpha sat on a major hyperlane, however sleepy the planet might usually have been.
And this is public transportation. He thought to himself. Nobody engages on public transportation.
Triter looked out of the window briefly, watching the structures of the spaceport and the further away skyline of Shanpan Proper roll by.
I wonder what there is to do in town? He mused to himself. The young pirate had come into some money recently, and could afford some distractions; he had heard Shanpan Spaceport boasted no shortage of cantinas, clubs and casinos serving the spacer traffic, though the locals generally kept to themselves.
He looked back at the other passengers, and was just beginning to notice a couple in dark robes trying even harder than most of the others to look innocuous, when he heard another person address him.
"I know you." Said a near-human male sitting across from the young vulpinoid. "Mate it's been too long, how're ye doing?"
Triter squinted briefly, studying the man briefly before realizing where he knew him from.
His expression brightened, and he grinned in happy recognition.
"You!"
Leaning across the narrow aisle between the shuttle's inward-facing seats, the Amaran stuck out his paw for the taller humanoid, remembering the grand opening of the Angel's Den, Soceras' premier nightclub. He had only briefly met the establishment's owner, James Justice, but he had been a memorable individual.
Not as memorable as others he had met that night, but that was another story.
"Son of Xer, I didn't think I'd see you again so soon! That was a helluva night I had at that club of yours."
Shaking the near-human's hand, Triter leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms and continuing to grin broadly.
"What brings you to Manpha? If you can tell me. This is a little out of the way for you, innit?"

 

[Jsc]

Karen smirked as the bus lumbered forward. Everything was as it should be. Even the fuzzy creature talking with [member="James Justice"] , (whom she did not know because her writer is going to pretend that Medical Supply cluster-kark with Rose never happened,) seemed to be enjoying themselves. Good. That made sneaking past any Republic or Sith sympathizers would be all the easier.

She gave a knowing nod to her husband and turned her gaze back out the window. Content to ignore all of the useless conversations and return to her own thoughts. Happy as a clam. Grant on the other hand? Well. He couldn't help but stare at [member="Triter Zone"] . Such a strange little creature. Wonder what planet they grow those on? He didn't even know what to call it. Huh. Anyway, he shrugged and folded his arms over his broad chest. Ugh. And If there was one thing I could tell you about a Jedi Knight who owned a space yacht?...

Yeah. They hate public transportation.

 

[The Talatheen Amalgam]

[member="Karen Roberts"]
[member="Triter Zone"]
[member="James Justice"]

The Amalgam counted no measurement of malodorous time; instead, he fell to the flow of things - his travels, his traversed, weathered path that lead him, winding 'bout the seas of misforture and- He snorted back to sobriety; melodramatic in the drunken half-dreams as always, he awoke, himself snuggled away within the corner of some... ah, public transportation: a shuttle of renegade-looking ruffians - essentially the dredges of society. He wore a brown cloak at this point, stitched and woven together akin to linen; leaving what sparse bare skin lay beneath itching horrendously - his mask remained tautly drawn as a metallic veil, lain over his malformed visage, and the horns, ever-so prominent, poked up through the brim of his hood, which gave him the appearance of a tall humanoid, housing a pair of fearsome antlers. It helped, he supposed; certainly not his ego, wounded as ever - but his subtle illusion cast over the enigmatic selves that composed the Amalgam.

His hands had crossed over his belly; almost with a false sensation of a jolly composition - at least in a physical sense. His eyes bounced throughout the individuals present upon the vessel, shuttling them to and fro destinations unknown (he had simply hopped on, drawn by whim); a vulpine humanoid - strange, something he had never seen before; it spoke to someone, who seemed overjoyed, or perhaps intoxicated - hard to differ; a pair in dark robes - indistinguishable in sex or relation, at least where Talatheen's distant observation could discern; these folk stood out among the ranges of milling paupers in a way he could not quite touch, it was ethereal almost, but one that he never failed to notice. Though, however, he did fail to care. With that bitter musing spoken aloud in nonexistent words for those to read, he leaned back against the soft (a hyperbole to ease his own comfort; he'd rather lurk in bantha poodoo than this chair) seat and attempted to snooze.

This seemed to be the way of life for him, from here on and out.

 

[James Justice]

James leaned back and gave a relished laugh, he needed this. A good heart still in the galaxy. Someone who wasn't here to take his soldiers from him and bomb a city like Rose Blade had a few weeks ago. Or someone who would woo his heart only to leave him. Yes, a good man, a man who was nothing more than a fellow spacer.

"Mate, I'll be honest," he said leaning in close, "the night cub be more of a hobby. I run a lucrative business, Justice Shipping," he paused. There wasn't much need for him to explain it. They were the premiere rising card in all of shipping conglomerates, they were rising to the top fast, and buying out or hiring the ships out form under their competition. All the same, he would give a little word anyway. Out here in the boonies, well that was to be expected.

"We run the best of the shipping, wherever, whenever," he winked, "Laws or no. And we also be in the best of security if ye feel what I be saying. Me best troops are hired out to train other troops for a few other entities now. I be working here to secure a deal for the local petroleum but," his voice faltered and he shrugged, "The locals dun't exactly understand too much when it comes to profit over their own petty squabbles."

He spat in disgust and shuffled his feet.
[member="Karen Roberts"]
[member="Triter Zone"]
[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]

 

[Triter Zone]

[member="James Justice"]
[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]
[member="Karen Roberts"]

Triter raised his eyebrows, nodding slowly to James; he had of course heard of Justice Shipping, half the Outer Rim knew of them. Most of the smugglers Triter knew either applauded what they did, or griped about them for being unfair competition in their line of work.
"So that is you. I'd heard of 'em, but I didn't knew you ran 'em, too!"
At James' mention of the local export, he sighed, shaking his head, but giving a shrug.
"Ahh, petroleum. They used to fight wars over that stuff on some planets, back in the dim past. If I had the scratch, though, I'd probably be doing the same thing. A healthy percentage of the Galaxy's plastic comes from the stuff this place exports."
He leaned back in his seat, fingers lacing behind his head.
"I don't think you'll have too much trouble with the locals, though. True, they don't seem to like outsiders much, but they've been selling their oil to them for a long time now; there are only a few major petro companies on-world, you just have to deal with them."
Triter made a habit of reading up on the worlds he visited, as a matter of course. He really had little else to do during the long interstellar flights he undertook in his small fighter, and it never paid to go into a new situation unprepared.
Backward as they were, Triter had found the information there was on Manpha's oil companies very interesting.
"At any rate, I'm afraid I'm not here for any similarly important reason; this happens to be another stop for me on the long road to nowhere."
The young Amaran sighed, looking down at the floor.
"I travel a lot, you might have guessed; freelance piracy doesn't offer the stable job opportunities it used to, I guess."
He chuckled, though there was little amusement in it.
Triter's gaze briefly shifted to look around at the other beings in the shuttle, once more. He noted the two robed figures again; human or near-human, he could not quite tell, but there was something about them which drew his attention. Probably that they seemed to be trying so hard to be nondescript.
And that male keeps looking at me from under his hood.
The pirate grinned a little, and gave a wave toward the two beings.
"And what about you, friends? You know, if you didn't want to draw attention to yourselves, burlap might not be the way to go on a planet with an average humidity of 98%. You look like a couple of Jedi Knights, y'know?"
Triter's observation had been meant in jest, of course, but for some reason the idea of Jedi lingered in his mind. He dismissed the notion as his gaze settled on another being, a large humanoid dressed in similar robes and sporting a metallic helmet of some kind with two large horns.
"Same goes for you, too!" Triter called, and to emphasize the joke, drew his green thermal cape briefly around himself. "Honestly, some people have no sense..."

 

[Jsc]

Under two hoods smiles began to appear. Karen looking to Grant and he back to her. Jedi Knights? Nahh. What a silly thing to say on a bus. Grant looked back at the little creature known as [member="Triter Zone"] and raised two fingers as if to gesture solemnly. Then, he thought better of it. No. No need for mind tricks today. The poor fellow had probably just been joking anyway.

So Karen returned her smile to the window and Grant lifted up his chin so the little fox pirate could see his face. Simply taking the moment to just shrug overtly. As if to say in the silence between them, welp? What can ya do.

...

As the bus stopped both Jedi moved to stand. Having spoken nothing on the ride and content to keep it so. After all. Karen and Grant could link minds and speak privately on every occasion. No need to bother the air or disturb the oxygen with their words. Thoughts and impressions would do just fine. So they stood up quickly and gathered their duffle bags from the compartments below. Moving slowly to exit the bus and be on their way.

Yet Grant stopped just beyond Triter's side and turned his hood to smile back at the furry fellow. Taking out a silver coin and flipping it the pirate's way. Then, with a happy wink and a somber nod of his head the large man departed the bus for parts unknown. As if he were just Old Saint Nick on a very far vacation. The coin itself was something spectacular to behold. Carved from pure Phrik and etched with the symbol of the Galactic Republic on one side, and a sword between two wings on the other. A commemoration coin made in honor of the first day when the Confederation of Systems joined together to create the new galactic government of the Republic. An event more than a decade old now and counting.

Oh my. It must have been worth a fortune.

 

[The Talatheen Amalgam]

The fuzzy creature spoke - the cloaked figures wandered off; all was a simple ripple to the bleak, rocky shores that was the Amalgam's attention span. Already his gaze had shifted to the distant window, one located beyond the breadth of an amphibious local's short scalp - the location of Shanpan, Manpha. How had he arrived here - the waves of- no more water analogies. He drew back his weight, slouching in the seat; his metallic breath rattled as a drowsy weight laid over him, his lumbering conscious drawn into the throes of a deep... pit of dark wonder. These last months had been eventful - treasure, treason, rebellion, campaigns; perhaps the most exciting to have graced his life; but still, something ultimately felt missing: purpose. From the depths of one Self may have lurked the Gods, who watched outward as too they did inward - such was the pretense of purpose: 'what is inside, copies the outside; what is outside, copies the inside.' Such was what he lacked, he was empty, no more than a mask.

His rifle felt oddly rigid against his thigh, as if bidding his touch; he did not oblige - the last thing he wanted was to incite panic. Yes, praise the excitement of the past; all he wanted, for now, was to swim- AH- was to indulge in the marrow of his own melancholy. The Sith Code held little without a Master; friendship held little purpose in absence; family, especially, held little point without existence; and goals, those in particular, held little tactile sensation without a heart to pursue them. He was defeated. Donk - his head hit something; unknowingly he had slumped to far and nailed the back of his ironclad crown against the skeleton of the torn seat, exposed in shining revelation: durasteel - how quaint. He shook his head, mumbling inaudibly, even to himself, with disgust; was he truly so bored with himself that he could fall asleep? Where had the action gone - should he really draw a gun on public transportation to sate his boredom? Those cloaked figures were mysterious, perhaps threatening or dangerous, but they were gone now to the lake of- chit, more water analogies. Talatheen sighed in defeat upon the cycling references that clouded his mind - blood was liquid; there would bound to be more water comparisons sprouting in his mind.

Dammit, and that just wasn't worth the trouble.

[member="Karen Roberts"]
[member="Triter Zone"]
[member="James Justice"]

 

[James Justice]

James couldn't help but chuckle and drew a cigarette from his pocket, "Mate, if ye ever want something steady, we can always use a good wing like ye. Piracy skills make for great fighter and escort pilots for where me ships often find themselves."

It was true, he was always looking to hire. In fact the whim that James would hire under could seem frail but his intuition was rarely wrong. He could tell when there was someone he could work with for life--and Triter fella was one he could totally see himself working--and drinking--with for years to come.

He watched the couple walk off and reward his friend. While he wasn't one to meddle, there was no mistaking this coin. Valuable was an understatement, it was easily worth a million to the right buyer. Chances were, James knew the right buyer. He let out a low whistle, that certainly was no trinket.

Then he looked at the man who Triter had waved to. The fellow looked as bugged as an Ewok who had some bad gliterstim. The spacer couldn't help but give out a chuckle as he looked at the fellow. Those glassy eyes were dull with--well he couldn't tell exactly what. But it amused the intoxicated spacer. He wasn't sure what the man was on, but James almost wanted some. Almost.

Lighting the cigarette and drawing a few more puffs of the smoke, James leaned back and waved his hand, "Tell me, Triter, ye must have something ye want to get done. Something ye want to do with ye life. Ye dun't strike me as the wallowing washy type."

[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]
[member="Karen Roberts"]
[member="Triter Zone"]

 

[Triter Zone]

[member="James Justice"]
[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]
[member="Karen Roberts"]

((As Karen has said she's going to be absent for the next few days, it's now Talatheen's turn.))

Triter blinked in surprise when the two figures rose to get off the shuttle, stepping out onto the platform and heading off to some unknown destination. On their way out, the man tossed something to Triter, who caught it easily, confusion evident as he looked down at it, and then back up at the two as they left.
"Hey! Wai-"
The doors of the shuttle hissed closed, and the turbines whined as it took off again, leaving the strange couple far behind.
Triter looked down at the object he'd been given.
It was a glossy black coin, bearing the emblem of the Republic on one side, and on the other, if he was not mistaken, the symbol of...
No way.
Hurriedly, the young Amaran put the coin away; he had nothing against the Jedi, even admired them in some aspects, but it did not pay to be caught in public with objects bearing their markings, even this far from Sith space. He would investigate his strange gift later, but for now...
Triter turned back to the near-human across from him. James had lit up a cigarette - not a vice Triter indulged, but no judgement - which had begun to cloud the air a bit. Native passengers edged a few seats over, their amphibian biology making them especially sensitive to the smoke.
At the other spacer's question, Triter sighed.
"You read me pretty well, Justice." The half-burned-out pirate replied. "You could say I have some ghosts... expectations I never lived up to. Standing orders, I guess."
He shook his head.
"I don't suppose you remember hearing about a pirate fleet out in Tion space, about... damn, it was that long ago... 6 years back?"
He fingered the ring on his right hand, which glinted in the strong Manphan sunlight.
"Got fusion-pressed by a corporate fleet?"

 

[The Talatheen Amalgam]

[member="Triter Zone"]
[member="James Justice"]

Well, now that terrorist acts were now off the list of potential activities to spend the remaining ride, Talatheen supposed the runner-up would be a nap; he could not remember the last time he had taken a nap- yes, he had slept but not napped. It was an art in of itself, and to the inner monologue he mentally wrote, lulling himself into a slumber: "O dearest nerfs; whom I count as I-"

"You read me pretty well, Justice."

"I don't suppose you remember hearing about a pirate fleet out in Tion space, about... damn, it was that long ago... 6 years back?"

"Get steamrolled by a corporate fleet?"

The deeper he fell into the pocket of recessed consciousness, the closer he came to the sweet embrace of sleep, the louder they seemed to grow. That may not necessarily have been the case, perhaps his senses, locked within the unconscious state, had simply become more acute at listening, or perhaps he then lacked the ability to block them out; regardless, it was now an obstacle to his nap - one of deathly consequence. To the rivers of- dammit, no, not shooting them. Talatheen grumbled in unison, the twin voices briefly echoing out together, creating a strange, amorphous noise that sounded similar to an audience's collective wheeze. Shutting up, shaking his metal-chitinous head, the Amalgam pulled his weight forward from the chair, cupping his helmeted head in his hands. The leftmost one of flesh - blue, with long fingernails, coated in black, flaking paint; the other, perhaps once coated with some false flesh, to disguise its nature, was entirely robotic. The man was a cyborg, clearly; he, at one point, may have cared to disguise it - no longer was this the case however. He was too sleep deprived.

 

[James Justice]

James gave a slightly nod as he winced inside. Yes, he remebered them vividly. They had gone down right about the time he had been starting out. As a boy running as a cabin boy/first mate to his father the spacer had quite a few calls with this fleet. He had even once had a strong altercation over--goodnes she couldn't remember the planet now. But what had started out a simple gun run had turned into a space battle. Dakz in his Correllian YT-2330 had died that day, went down in a ball of flames. It was hard for James not to know them.

The spacer nodded, "Aye, I remember 'em. They gave me quite a few run ins, viable allies I thinks."

The spacer stretched his legs out and took another draw from his cigarette as he tried not think of the implications of that. It probably meant he had shot at Triter once. And Triter probably shot back. Had he shot down Dakz? The mate had been a good man, he had been there when others abandoned James. Well, there were a lot in that fleet, there was more than enough to go around. The odds were Triter hadn't done it. James breathed easy, that was a comfort. Besides, even if he had, this little fella didn't know. He wouldn't have meant it. James could tell he was a good man, not the type to be malicious like that.

[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]
[member="Triter Zone"]

 

[Triter Zone]

[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]
[member="James Justice"]

Triter sighed and nodded, has gaze cast down to the floor of the shuttle. He watched a small pebble - tracked in by some earlier passenger - bounce along the decking to the throb of the engines.
"I'll tell you a story; when I was just a kit, my family died in a fire at our ranch on Pasmin. I did a lot of growing up on the streets of the planetary capital; did what I had to to survive. It's an old tale, I'm sure you've heard it before."
The young Amaran rubbed the ring on his finger, which continued to glint meaningfully in the sun.
"I saw Krayd Hasperre on a wanted poster, when I was 10. I didn't know what he was wanted for, but I knew that 8,000,000 credits was a lot of money, and if I could claim it, I wouldn't ever have to worry about food or finding a place to sleep ever again. So, I started a dumb rumor; some local gunman wanted a piece of Krayd, and would meet him just outside town."
He looked up at James, and grinned a little.
"And d'you know what happened? He actually came. That was the kind of man he was; never turned down a challenge, never ran from a fight.
"So, there I was, with a blaster I lifted from an antique store and not a bit of experience, facing down the greatest pirate who ever lived. We dueled, I lost; he let me live. He stunned me, had me brought aboard his ship...
"I tried to kill him, and in return, he offered me a berth. I was part of his crew - he kinda replaced my real father, I guess. We fought Blackrow and whoever else came at us, and always flew off to fight another day... that ship, that whole gang, they were like a new family to me."
Triter's hand clenched into a fist, and his teeth gritted. He closed his eyes, fighting down the memory before he continued.
"As far as I know, I'm the only member of the Admiral's command crew who made it out of that last battle alive. Kark, I might be the very last member of the whole gang; Blackrow was pretty thorough about hunting us down, before they toppled that is."
He sighed again, and shook his head.
"I had orders, though. The last words the Admiral said to me: 'Somebody has to keep these low-lifes together; I'll meet you later on.' I guess I waited... waited a long time, but I couldn't keep the gang whole. The survivors drifted off, one by one, until it was just me..."
The Amaran smacked a fist into an open palm, drawing stares from a few of the Shawda Ubb sitting nearby.
"...the last thing he told me to do, and I failed!"
He collapsed back in his seat, eyes closed.
"I keep telling myself that I'll try again someday; I'll get a crew together, and go back to the Tion Cluster to raid again. Maybe I'd see Osseinium... that's the world where Krayd first fought Blackrow, y'know, back when he was just a captain in their defense fleet. He told me so many stories about the place that I think it feels more like home than Pasmin ever was..."
His ears drooped slightly.
"But I already karked it up once before. What's starting from scratch going to get me? All I've got is my ship, no plan, no money..."
He looked at James and gave a sad smile.
"Sorry, I must seem pretty pathetic about now."

 

[The Talatheen Amalgam]

[member="Triter Zone"]
[member="James Justice"]

It was in this moment Talatheen had fully concluded, to the best of his auditory ability, that yes, indeed, they were growing louder; driven by some unmistakable passion he could only steal glimpses of. In a brief moment, the unified being split into a diversity of polar reactions: empathy and apathy, interest and annoyance, sympathy and disgust; ultimately, they rejoined consciousness, and reverted back into their common laodicean state of being. He clasped his hands and rested his arms upon his knees, his body hunched forward as he sought to collect his thoughts; such was the difficulty of things now - it was as if the processes of the mind fought through sloughs of tar to come to some unwarranted conclusion. It had been this way for awhile now. He needed to get his augments replaced; some of the minute joints had broken, and the entirety of it remained upon the verge of disintegrating. He hadn't repaired them since Korriban - the Force knows how long ago that was; he could still feel the dried mud scraping against the synthetic, fibrous tendons that allowed him to flex the limbs. "Hurts," he muttered in false complaint; no, it was not a matter of actual pain, but discomfort to the feel of grainy texture.

A pebble rattled along the floor; loud and obnoxious - bumping to the rumble of the thrusters; a very prominent annoyance that he felt would make his ears bleed. He glanced up, eyeing the rows of passengers - mainly Shawda Ubb, the frog-like natives of Manpha - and the two engaged in conversation. He felt some pang of familiarity - though a moment's fixation upon the subject was, one again, glossed over by the tapping and rapping of the bouncing pebble. He looked again, ascertaining that no one would catch a glance of his movement; no, it would be too risky. No, it is worth the risk - the pebble is far too disruptive to his thought process. His hand slithered forth from the folds of his robe, awakened from its perch upon his knee; his gnarled fingers curled and, through the humming grace of the Force, he gripped the tiny pebble; it froze mid-jump, hovering a few centimeters off the ground. He contemplated his next move, and in a far too average act of disconcerted laziness, he snapped the pebble across the length of the shuttle and into his palm - grumbling softly to himself and slouching back - so he might play off the magical occurrence to any who might have caught it.

One eye shut in a deep wink, as if pretending to be asleep - as if that mattered when the face was shrouded by such a mask - the other, with piercing vision, observed; attempting to discern if any eyes had tracked the movement of the small stone.

 

[James Justice]

[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]
[member="Triter Zone"]

James couldn't help but laugh. The alcohol had removed all inhibitions that would have stopped him. However it Did not could his judgment. He was accustomed to this level of intoxication to the point of complacency.

"Mate if ye knew how sorry ye sounded right now," he gave the smaller fellow a slap on the knee. "Mate, when ye life is gone and old man reeper has come for ye what do ye want them to say? 'Here lies Triter who dun't even try'? Or would ye rather look down and hear 'the mate worked the angles and did his darnedest to make an empire.'"

James let out a new cloud of smoke. "Take me word for it; ye are gonna fall. Ye are gonna fail. But ye know what? Ye get up. Ye keep trying cause even when ye do those who ye failed will want ye to and those who went on before ye owe it to."

He gave the smaller fellow a poke on the chest, "And mate if money be an issue I got ye covered. I'll loan ye up to a few million." he chucked a second, smoke billowing from. Between the spacers lips. "And if it taint enough we can acquire more. I got enough ships to get ye started to raid more if ye ask and let me crews in on a fair cut."

The transport finally reached its stop. The locals hurriedly exited the area of the smoke spewing, loud-mouthed outsider. James grinned, oblivious to his surroundings. "What'll it be, mate? Give it a go?"

 

[Triter Zone]

[member="James Justice"]
[member="The Talatheen Amalgam"]

Triter managed a smile as James slapped him good-naturedly on the knee, nodding slightly. The young Amaran had literally spent years feeling sorry for himself; one motivational speech was not going to get him out of his mind-set immediately. Still, it was good to hear that someone had confidence in him; James Justice seemed like a stand-up kind of being, and Triter was glad to have run into him again.
"You're right, of course, I owe it to them... they were family, after all. And that's honestly very generous of you..."
He looked at James, giving a sigh.
"...but where would I even-"
Movement caught the edge of Triter's gaze, and the Amaran looked down as the pebble he had observed earlier ceased its rattling, seeming to hover for half a second before flying off down the aisle. He looked at the being who caught it; the hulking, helmed individual Triter had noticed earlier.
The young pirate stared for a moment, canting his head in curiosity. He nodded toward the being for James' benefit.
"Did-... did you see that? Just now!"
The shuttle stopped, and Triter's view of the being was obscured by a small crowd of Shawda Ubb standing to exit onto the platform. They filed out, croaking and muttering, leaving only Triter, James and the masked stranger aboard.
There was a brief, tense silence, before suddenly, a new group of locals filed onto the bus.
Triter's neck-fur bristled slightly.
Shawda Ubb were, as a rule, not a physically imposing species; even Triter, an Amaran, dwarfed most representative of the amphibian race in stature. Even so, that was not to say they could not be dangerous; from personal experience, he knew they could spit a paralyzing venom, and like any sentient species, they had their bad apples.
Triter recognized a group of them now.
There were five of them, walking onto the shuttle, none of them taking seats but instead slouching against walls and doors. Like most of their kind, they wore no clothing, but had decorated themselves with gold and silver piercings, metal bandoleers and blaster holsters.
All were plainly armed.
The leader of the group, a tall example of his race, standing about 1.2 meters, swaggered up to Triter and James, his face a mask of forced nonchalance. He narrowed his eyes at James, studying the near-human briefly...
...before reaching out to snatch the cigarette out his his lips, flicking it to the floor and crushing it under a bare foot. The amphibian's natural moisture extinguished it with a hiss.
"You aliens and your filthy habits." He croaked. "If you breathed through your skin like a proper being, you wouldn't have this problem of yours..."

 

[The Talatheen Amalgam]

[member="Triter Zone"]
[member="James Justice"]

While obscured, Talatheen could overhear the resulting conflict and the short exposition that followed; a crude remark, sent to inflict conflict (Talatheen, in the depths of the mind, always was quite a poet), and, despite this, the Amalgam could not help but nod in approval. Smoking was pretty filthy, perchance devoted to a rather poor line of self-deprecation resulting from an unfulfilled sensation of emotional neurosis. Such thoughts triggered a deep complex: alien, a word he himself had been departed upon with bitter decadence, even when he, himself, rarely bore any flesh to signify the fact. No, it was divulged from the attire, the looming helmet of hulking decorum, oppressed with fear and unearthly figure; one that hid his true nature for the sake of such livability - for the sake of minute comfort deprived due to figure. Even among aliens he was an outcast; damned be these frog-people for bringing up such unpleasant realities! Hatred was a source of power, and due to his own scars, this node beat with a life of indescribable passion; it was a pure ore of unkempt ire. Screw water analogies, he would shoot up this bus by the by provided he had to sit here and indulge in xenophobic-oriented conversation and/or eavesdropping.

He stood up, his towering frame hulking over the majority of the Shawda Ubb passengers; his gate equally frightening, lurching with unnatural form - he was in part cybernetic, and the scratching nature of his battered augments inhibited his movement. In fact, if one listened closely, they could hear the soft screeching, like a walking industrial sector battered by artillery fire, blanketed over by some supernatural cloud cover that deafened its heavy vibration; he sounded akin to a crippled tank, joints without oiled and caked in dirt. As many folk took to their seats, he shoved past as a stalwart tower of dedicated malice - intending to stifle his anger towards a simple statement, unraveled in his mind and appointed to unspoken, phantasmal conspiracy against his very existence. When he came upon the group of amphibious gangsters, crowding along the length of his passage, harassing the pair of strangers, he found himself unable to slink past. In his robotic hand, he thumbed the pebble, snatched up from earlier; his frustration spiked, and with a simple, crushing flex of the hand, tightening his hand into a fist, the stone was rendered naught but dust.

"Move, please; this is going to be my stop," he requested of the gang.