Not Dead Yet
Look, he hadn't intended to stay on Naboo.
Gatz was, at his core, a pilot. Sure, he was a little more than that: a Jedi dropout, former smuggler, and a native to Naboo, but "pilot" was what he put on his resumé. Or, he would have, if he'd ever worked a job that required one. But the point was that he belonged in space, behind the yoke of a ship. Not planetside, inside some rinky-dink bar that served watered down whiskey and called it liquor. He'd left Naboo for a reason, after all: it was too peaceful and too boring, the odd Cataclysm not withstanding.
Space was where the real action was, and consequently, the credits.
It was a real shame, then, that he'd grown a conscience. No longer could he deliver spice, illegal weaponry, and other ill-gotten goods without feeling the guilt that accompanied such an act. Smuggling was, ultimately, what had kept him in space for so long. Six years of his life had been spent ferrying less-than-legal cargo from one end of the galaxy to another, and now that he'd closed that chapter of his life, he was left with one question: what was he supposed to do now?
That was the question that kept playing in his head, as he sat alone in a dark booth, looking down at a datapad that held the details of his next "job." He didn't have an answer as to what he wanted to do with his life, but he still had to make a living, and had turned to freelancing. In particular, he'd somehow become a contracted consultant to the RSF concerning cases that involved smuggling. He'd mostly gotten the job through nepotism, what with his Uncle being a lieutenant and all, but killing a Sith who'd been involved in child trafficking had probably won him a few hearts and minds.
Was it hypocritical of him, a former smuggler who'd evaded capture, to aid in the capture other smugglers? Yes. But something had to pay the bills, and there wasn't much work for a man with his checkered past. He'd take whatever he could get, even if he wasn't particularly thrilled at the prospect of it.
He sighed, and took a sip of his whiskey. Then sighed again, as the alcohol here just didn't compare to what was served on Nar Shaddaa. He really needed to get off this stupid, beautiful rock.
Bastila Sal-Soren
Gatz was, at his core, a pilot. Sure, he was a little more than that: a Jedi dropout, former smuggler, and a native to Naboo, but "pilot" was what he put on his resumé. Or, he would have, if he'd ever worked a job that required one. But the point was that he belonged in space, behind the yoke of a ship. Not planetside, inside some rinky-dink bar that served watered down whiskey and called it liquor. He'd left Naboo for a reason, after all: it was too peaceful and too boring, the odd Cataclysm not withstanding.
Space was where the real action was, and consequently, the credits.
It was a real shame, then, that he'd grown a conscience. No longer could he deliver spice, illegal weaponry, and other ill-gotten goods without feeling the guilt that accompanied such an act. Smuggling was, ultimately, what had kept him in space for so long. Six years of his life had been spent ferrying less-than-legal cargo from one end of the galaxy to another, and now that he'd closed that chapter of his life, he was left with one question: what was he supposed to do now?
That was the question that kept playing in his head, as he sat alone in a dark booth, looking down at a datapad that held the details of his next "job." He didn't have an answer as to what he wanted to do with his life, but he still had to make a living, and had turned to freelancing. In particular, he'd somehow become a contracted consultant to the RSF concerning cases that involved smuggling. He'd mostly gotten the job through nepotism, what with his Uncle being a lieutenant and all, but killing a Sith who'd been involved in child trafficking had probably won him a few hearts and minds.
Was it hypocritical of him, a former smuggler who'd evaded capture, to aid in the capture other smugglers? Yes. But something had to pay the bills, and there wasn't much work for a man with his checkered past. He'd take whatever he could get, even if he wasn't particularly thrilled at the prospect of it.
He sighed, and took a sip of his whiskey. Then sighed again, as the alcohol here just didn't compare to what was served on Nar Shaddaa. He really needed to get off this stupid, beautiful rock.
Bastila Sal-Soren
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