Character
Mos Eisley Starport, Tatooine
Docking Bay 94, Chanum's Cantina
Valery Noble
The Broken-Vow descended onto the cracked surface of Docking Bay 94 with a metallic groan, engines whining before cutting off with a sharp hiss of vented steam. The B-29 bomber-freighter looked more like a scarred beast than a ship—scorched hull plating, mismatched repairs, and a belly full of memories no man would speak of sober. Twin suns hung mercilessly overhead, baking the duracrete and casting long shadows under the wide hangar arch. The scent of scorched sand, coolant vapor, and old carbon scoring clung to the air like smoke after a gunfight.
Rolcor Wildstar remained in the pilot's chair for a moment, letting the hum of the ship's systems fade around him. He reached without looking and pulled a crumpled tin case from the dash. Inside, nestled like contraband treasure, sat a half-dozen Shento cigars—genuine, unfiltered, and nearly impossible to find without knowing someone who owed you blood or credits. He lit one slow. The match flared, smoke curling as he inhaled deep. It burned like truth—sharp, heavy, and unkind.
"Peeps," he called over his shoulder. The Broken-Vow's R5 unit beeped in response, rolling out from the corridor with a lurch and a whistle. Its casing was chipped, sensor array flickering at times, but it was loyal—and quick to zap anything that moved without permission.
"You're staying here. Run passive sweeps every thirty. Anybody gets too close without clearance, dump the power couplings and seal the ramp. And if another Jawa touches you, fry the bastard." The droid gave a delighted warble and rolled toward the console, already initializing the ship's perimeter defense protocol. Rolcor allowed himself the faintest smirk before rising from the seat and adjusting his nerf leather gunbelt—his WESTAR-81 blaster pistol secure in its holster off his right hip. He checked the mirror near the hatch. Same weathered face—green skin, a strong jaw marked by stubble kept neat, long black hair tied loosely back, and pale green eyes that burned like phosphor under the right light. No part of him looked like someone to be crossed.
The boarding ramp lowered with a whine. Heat slammed into him as he stepped out, boots hitting the ground with the quiet certainty of a man who'd walked into worse places than Mos Eisley and walked out again. He paused for a second, eyes scanning the sun-baked city, then turned toward the cantina quarter. Chalmun's Cantina was only a few blocks away—same den of scum, same half-busted dome with music that warbled through patched speakers. Rolcor moved at an unhurried pace, a flask of Corellian whiskey nestled in one hand, cigar smoke trailing from the other. He sipped once, savoring the burn that settled low in his chest like an old promise.
He was the first to arrive. He always was. First to the table. First to watch the door. First to decide if a deal turned sideways or someone walked out breathing.
Business was coming. Whether it brought credits, trouble, or both, he didn't much care.
Rolcor Wildstar never came looking for peace.
He came for opportunity.
The twin saloon doors of Chalmun's Cantina creaked open with a sigh as Rolcor Wildstar stepped inside, ducking slightly under the low arch. A wave of cool, recycled air met him—sour with the scent of old ale, hot circuits, and beings who'd long since forgotten how to sweat the law. Shadows clung to the ceiling like dust, and the dim lighting only made the place feel more alive, more dangerous.
Eyes turned briefly at his entrance. A Rodian at the bar froze mid-laugh. A Trandoshan nursing a bruised ego growled low. Two humans at a sabacc table kept their hands under the table. Rolcor didn't care. He didn't need to announce himself—his presence did the talking. He moved through the cantina with the calm gait of someone who'd seen too many rooms like this and never trusted any of them. The cigar stayed lit between his fingers, its ember glowing faintly in the gloom as tendrils of smoke curled behind him. To his left, the band wheezed out something vaguely melodic. Probably a local favorite. Or maybe just noise.
He found a semi-private alcove near the back—half in shadow, half lit by a flickering wall lamp, with a clear view of the front entrance and a direct line of sight to the bar. That's what mattered. He slipped into the booth, one arm draping across the top of the seat, his posture casual but calculated. From here, he could see the exits, track movement, and if need be—draw and fire without spilling his drink.
The drink came fast.
A Twi'lek waitress with tired eyes and the kind of scars you only get from working in Mos Eisley too long stopped at his table. He didn't ask. He just looked up and said:
"Double. Corellian whiskey. No ice. No water."
She nodded and left without a word. She'd served his kind before.
He took a long pull from his flask while he waited, letting the familiar burn spread across his chest like an old friend's laugh. The WESTAR-81 under his coat rested warm against his hip. Peeps was watching the ship. The door was in sight. The meeting was set.
Now came the part he liked least: waiting. His cigar crackled faintly in the stillness as he exhaled a plume of smoke toward the cantina ceiling. Green eyes watched the door, still and sharp. No sign of the contact yet. That was fine. Rolcor Wildstar wasn't in a hurry. But whoever was coming through that door had better be worth the drink.
