"Thank you, but... well, whatever it is you do with those, I don’t."

[Lilla Syrin]

It was a jumble of domes, pleasure spires, and gambling minarets. Dotted around were long, low warehouses, and the rusted spines of outdated space-traffic control towers.

In the distance were a racing arena, a coliseum, and on every so often was a junkshop.

Everything was coated with a thick layer of dust. Mos Espa's ragtag buildings looked as though they had crawled in from the desert like giant sand-worms, and then collapsed, too exhausted to go on. Beyond the borders of the spaceport stretched the vast expanse of the Dune Sea, wastelands of sand and dust and wind-carved rocks.

But Lilla was nowhere to be seen — unless you were the most prying of eyes. For she was currently hidden in a box, under a tarpaulin. And she was trying to make sense of what she’d found.

Of course found is a relative term. She’d strictly speaking ‘found’ it when a known thief she’d been following had turned his back. And he’d ‘found’ it when a crate was foolishly left unguarded a mere three metres from where he was standing.

She had to admire his bravery, stealing from a Hutt. But that was academic now. What was important was what she was going to do with her find.

She opened the box. Whatever it contained, it was pungent. She closed it quickly, in case the smell attracted the thief. Then, slowly puling back the tarpaulin, she allowed enough light in to see what was written on the box.

Cigarras.

Kubaz cigarras to be precise. She figured that meant something. Or more specifically, it mattered to their value.

She was used to finding a buyer for most of the contraband she’d come across. But cigarras were a first for her and she wondered where she could find a buyer. So she decided on the most obvious of solutions. To find the closest bar and see who was smoking.

So off she slunk, keeping to the shadows wherever possible. In part to avoid the sun and the remainder to limit exposure to any prying eyes.

[member="Rafe Andal"]

 

[Progflaw99]

Outer Rim | Tatooine | Mos Espa​

Market District | Stall #3018​

​

"Yes. I'm aware there are no returns." a gruff voice spoke, an irate tone painfully evident. "Are we done here?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. We done here." With a shuffle and a drag of a metal crate, the broad shouldered man set down the merchandise on the rickety wooden table. After a brief transfer of credits and bottle of Lanteeb Red, a particularly difficult to come by ale, the job was done. Rafe found it strange how easy it was to find what he was looking for out here. Not that it was really that hard to find things towards the core either, but the ease with which he'd located this particular vendor? Anywhere there was a strong central government it would have been over a hundred times harder. Technically they were in Galactic Empire space, but either the Empire didn't care or there weren't enough resources to truly enforce everything. Hey, who was he to complain, he was making a profit wasn't he? Or at least he would, with the help of his newly purchased hardware. With little more than a cursory glance, the case found itself hoisted from the table and slung over his shoulder, the servos in his arm whining for moment before catching.

Stepping out of the alleyway he'd been in, Rafe blinked, the dark sun shades snapping into place across his eyes. Using his neurological link, he summoned one of the small repulsor-droids he'd had stowed in his ship's cargo bay. In several minutes time, the droid and cargo were en route. Rafe however had other plans. *Boy does that sun parch.* A drink seemed to be just the thing. With a momentary pause as he charted his path, Rafe began heading to a small cantina he'd passed on his way to the trade off. "The Sand Dragon" as it was called, was nestled in the seedier part of Mos Espa, if that could be considered a thing. Even so, it managed to draw enough of a crowd on the daily. Destination set, he stepped off with a purpose.

​

[member="Lilla Syrin"]​

 

[Lilla Syrin]

Like most buildings in this part of town, the cantina was a single-story sandstone affair. Even during Lilla’s short time on the planet, it had been known to her as an armoury, a brewery and even a flophouse for vagrants – or those wishing to remain on the planet under the radar. It was in its latter guise that she first found it, shortly after she ran away from her owners.

There was no honour among the destitute, but given she had nothing of value – and a nasty bite – it was safe enough for her to sleep there unmolested. At least for a few weeks, until she understood more of the spaceport she’d been given no choice but to call home.

The Sand Dragon had been a cantina for some while now. She knew it was a front for an illegal spice den and when times were hard, it also served as a service provider for anyone wishing to dispose of a body.

Its clientele were predominantly spacers – or perhaps more accurately termed smugglers. But if a girl had a package that she wanted to get top credits for, yet have no questions asked…well, it was the place to be.

She sidled into the bar – the first area a patron would see. She knew there were private offices and a VIP lounge towards the back, as well as a door to an ‘out-of-bounds-to-prying-eyes’ basement to her left.

On a good day it held up to 50 customers. On a bad day, over a 100. Then the aroma of drink, death sticks and testosterone was overwhelming. And fights would break out with monotonous regularity. Thankfully today was a good day. Which meant only an occasional bout of fisticuffs and enough room to wander around and size up potential clients for her wares.

The bar, featuring many themed memorabilia of Tatooine’s most dangerous indigenous species, also sported spigots. These produced several dozen of the most common drinks. Surrounded by half a dozen alcoves, Lilla scanned the stools and tables. She knew better than to try to enter the private rooms at the back. They typically housed things you weren’t supposed to see, and Lilla valued her life more than her curiosity.

The sound of servos whining from behind her drew her attention and she remained glued to the wall until the newcomer walked past her. Given there was only one set of footsteps, she wondered what a droid was doing here, but didn’t turn her head to look at it – rather she remained nonchalant and to the casual observer, disinterested in her surroundings.

[member="Rafe Andal"]

 

[Progflaw99]

It hadn't taken Rafe long to find the place, he had an uncanny ability to recall patterns and backtrack his own footsteps. A practiced skill to be certain. *That's what you get when you're always looking over your shoulder I suppose.* he thought to himself. He'd finished his part of the deal, now he just needed to wait to be contacted. After that, it would be a simple trade off, the package he'd just purchased for another. Despite his gruff appearance, Rafe was familiar with the commodities world and in fact held several exclusive contracts - off the record contracts. If it existed, he could probably get his hands on it. Above the board was always safer but it didn't pay the bills, at least not typically.

Rafe had entered the cantina, garnering little more than a few odd looks from people who could have passed as locals, their choice of clothing mirroring that of the rest outside. Loose fitting garments made of plain fabric - working class if their tidiness had anything to say about it. He couldn't care less, so long as they left him alone. Raphael had always been a bit of a loner, especially after the accident. *The accident.* He didn't like to think about it. Almost reflexively he saddled up to the bar, raising his fingers to catch the attention of the attendant. "I'll have whatever's local. Strongest stuff you've got." It was a blessing he supposed, eyes briefly lingering on the metallic sheen of his augments. His torso had seen the worst of the damage, his rib cage shattered, organs crushed - the fact he had survived at all was a small miracle. Rafe didn't believe in miracles. Something that day had intervened on his behalf.

Bringing him back to the present, the clatter of a clay mug filled to the brim with liquid drew him from his thoughts. A brief pause and Rafe had presented the man a credit chit before taking a seat at the bar. It wasn't busy. As he sipped at the drink, he fought the urge to make a face at the flavor of the drink. *Definitely local.* he thought as he swallowed the brownish ale. He took a moment to appraise the rest of the occupancy, veiled glances across the room revealing little to put him on edge. For the first time, he finally began to feel somewhat comfortable in his newfound occupation. Reaching towards an inner pocket he produced a small golden case, delicately removing a small cigarra from it before lighting it with a match from the bar top. *And now, we wait.*

[member="Lilla Syrin"]​

 

[Lilla Syrin]

Lilla was slightly surprised that the figure that moved past her was human. As surprised as anyone could be if they lived their life in this wretched place. It was not expected, but she’d seen augmentations before — just not so many on one person.

She allowed her eyes to follow him as he moved to the bar, ordering a drink that stood him out as an off-worlder. Sometimes that was a risk — but given the demeanour of the man, she expected he was not worried about unwarranted attention.

Indeed, as she scanned the bar surreptitiously, she noticed that the stranger received a first glance from most, but a second look from only one. And given the Gran was clearly not a local thug or bounty hunter, she figured he was a smuggler. And it made sense that the newcomer was his contact.

She was about to rescan the patrons for a likely buyer, when a smell distracted her. It was familiar — and recently so. She looked back at the man at the bar and noticed he was smoking. Not a deathstick, but a cigarra.

Knowing she had a small window before the Gran stepped in and her mark would depart, she threw caution to the wind and walked up to the bar, nudging into the man slightly and depositing the box onto the counter, with the description of its contents clear for the half-man half-machine to see.

“If you’re sticking around for another, I’d recommend the Chadian rum. It’s as potent and won’t strip your tonsils.” Her voice was raspy and soft, maybe the result of the extreme heat and dust that Mos Espa was renowned for.

[member="Rafe Andal"]

 

[Progflaw99]

As Rafe sipped at his drink, a voice drew him from the depths of thought, eyes locking on the woman speaking. Was this his contact? No - she didn't exactly seem the type, then again, looks could be deceiving. With a silent motion of his hand, he waved down the bartender. With a nod in the gal's direction, he spoke. "Put hers on my tab." The barkeep raised an eyebrow, but he wasn't one to turn down the credits. Whatever she wanted to drink, she'd get. Barring that, he might just drink one himself. "You don't look like you're from around here. Visiting the sights?" That sent a smirk snaking across his features. The sights around here consisted of mud huts and sand dunes, not exactly a prime tourist trap.

Nonchalantly, Rafe glanced around the cantina, eyeballing a Gran nestled in a booth farther back. That was more likely his contact, but he could wait. Besides, his interest was piqued with this stranger. It wasn't every day he was accosted by a stranger, much less one as curious as this. "I meant that, drink's on me if you've got a thirst."

[member="Lilla Syrin"]​

 

[Lilla Syrin]

Lilla felt uneasy. She had become a shadow. In part that was due to her training. An element of it was the fact that, officially she was still a slave and therefore on the run. And no small part was the realisation that her means of staying alive – robbing from the criminal element of Mos Espa – was never going to win friends and influence people in the sort of circles she was forced to mix in.

And this cantina was a case in point.

The shorter she had to be on public display, the better she’d like it. And standing at the bar was as in the limelight as you could get. And judging from the man’s response, this was not going to be a swift transaction. If only he knew it, she would take a quick, yet paltry, offer over a protracted and generous one. But her potential buyer did not appear to be in any hurry.

“I’ve always got a thirst,” she said in a friendly manner.

Resting a hand back on the box, in the hope of drawing his attention to it again, Lilla turned to face the tables and alcoves. Nodding to a free booth, she spoke in a low but firm voice, the hint of a rasp still evident. “Grab yourself a seat and I’ll join you once I’ve ordered. Oh, and take this across for me, will you?”

She pushed the box in his direction. Either he was playing hard to get, or he hadn’t noticed what she was carrying.

Then turning to face the bartender, she ordered a large beer. It was an easy choice – less alcohol by volume (and on an empty stomach less chance of getting drunk quickly) and it was cleaner than the water she really wanted to order. In classy establishments, water was the best drink in the house. Imported glacial water from Hoth was a particular favourite for those with more money than sense. But the average cantina drew water from any known source and you could never rely on how many micro-organisms you’d be swallowing when you slaked your thirst.

Swigging a decent sized mouthful, Lilla sighed with contentment at the cold refreshing beer before taking a slower sip and then heading to join the man in the booth.

[member="Rafe Andal"]