Come on, baby, you frakking piece of garbage…” Jon growled in frustration, teeth chattering as The Carnival tumbled through Tatooine’s atmosphere. Wind buffeted the fragile ship as a sandstorm raged all around, tossing it this way and that. The mercenary had been caught completely unaware— the storm had come out of nowhere on his approach to Mos Eisley and nearly knocked him out of the sky— but he’d be karked if he missed out on a job like this for a little sand. He pulled down hard on the stick, grunting as the Sheathipede-class transport fought him whole way. A loud, ear-piercing bang tore through the ship’s structure, sending it veering sharply to the right.
“Artemis! I told you to secure the aerobrakes!” he shouted over his shoulder, cursing as the ship began to spin. A cavalcade of furious beeps and boops filled the cockpit as the astromech droid rolled from panel to panel in the cabin. Sparks flew in bright bursts as it tried to desperately repair the problem. “Well, how was I supposed to know this karking dirtball would throw a hissy-fit as soon as we show up? Just fix it!”
Another bang sent the shuttle shaking once again, but its flight path began to slowly stabilize, allowing Jon to take it on a safe path out of the storm. The human wiped the sweat from his forehead and leaned back in his chair as the autopilot began to take control, guiding them on the final stretch to Mos Eisley spaceport. “Looks like that did it!” He smiled, a sense of elation filling him for a moment. “Eh… What exactly did you do?”
There was a long pause, until Artemis answered with a sheepish boop.
“You what!? How are we supposed to land back at Nar Shaddaa if you jettisoned both of the aerobrakes?” A few fiery whirrs shot back in his direction.“It might have been the only way, but we need those Artemis! What are we supposed to— okay, whatever, it’s fine, everything is fine. We can do this. We just need to find a way to fix the ship.” Frustrated, Jon slumped down in his chair and rubbed at his temple. Silence filled the cockpit as the Mos Eisley came into view on the horizon, a gentle trickle of ships landing and departing from the remote spaceport as the sun beat down from overhead. Artemis rolled up beside the pilot’s seat and gave a hesitant beep.
“No, we can’t get another loan from Gardulla. The whole reason we took this job was to get out from under him! If I show up in orbit around Nar Shaddaa with a broken ship, begging for a loan, he’ll have me running jobs for months, at least.” The human sighed, running his fingers through his hair until inspiration struck him. He bolted up from his seat, running back into the transport’s main compartment. “Wait... perhaps there is a way we can get Gardulla to pay for our repairs!”
Artemis whirred cautiously, his lights blinking as he began to realize what Jon was thinking. The human reached into one of The Carnival’s storage compartments, pulling out a small black case and holding it up like a prize. In response Artemis gave a flat beep, turning his back to Jon.
“Come on, buddy, look! Gardulla gave us this money for the job right? Forty-thousand credits; it should be more than enough to pay for repairs. We get our ship fixed up, grab Gardulla’s pearl, and get out of here. It’ll be easy!" Artemis let out a sarcastic whistle in response, refusing to turn around. “What do you mean ‘what about the job’? We’ll still have enough money left after the repairs. I’ll just talk the guy down. It’s called haggling, ever heard of it?”
Artemis remained deadly silent, his scorn palpable.
“You know, it’s not too late to trade you in and make up the difference, right? Imagine what these primitive screw-heads could do to a droid like you?”
Silence.
“Trust me on this. I got it handled, you just have to stay here and keep the ship prepped and ready to go.”
Artemis gave a long, low whistle.
————————————————————————————————————————
There was considerably less money left than he’d hoped.
Jon wrinkled his nose as he walked through the doors of Chalmun’s Cantina, the bright, energetic tones of a local jizz band filling his ears. He’d been well and truly swindled. Not that he didn’t realize at the time, but Gardulla was expecting his package soon. The repairs needed done immediately to have any hope of meeting the deadline. Force willing, he’d be able to talk down the seller to what he had left.
He cradled the black case protectively under his arm, pushing through the crowd of rogues that frequented the cantina. He wisely kept his eyes cast down to avoid starting a fight; Force knew he got into too many sticky situations as it was. Out of the corner of his eye, he surreptitiously scanned the booths and tables at the edge of the building looking for the seller, a Trandoshan named Grot.
He only needed to look for a moment.
The Trandoshan stood out like a sore thumb, and the crowd was quite content to give him a wide berth. He was gigantic, heavily armored, and covered in thick, black blood-stains. He slowly sipped on a mug of alcohol, the chair straining under the weight of his kit. A large, vicious looking rifle was propped up against the wall next to him, giving some indication of where he got his new paint job.
Taking a deep breath, Jon strode confidently towards the mercenary, immediately finding why the cantina patrons avoided him. He stunk like month old bantha tripe, a pungent aroma that made him almost gag on reflex. Either the gore on his armor was incredibly fresh or disgusting old. He didn’t care to find out. Either way, he pressed on through the miasma surrounding Grot and approached the table.
“Grot?” he asked, flashing a friendly smile “My name is Jon Silvon, I’m here on behalf of a mutual friend.” The mercenary gave him a quick once over, before breaking into a small smile.
“A friend indeed. Take a seat! Have a drink! The hunt is successful, and it is time to celebrate!”
Jon gave a small chuckle at his good cheer, trying to ignore the Trandoshan’s sharpened teeth, and the pair of slugthrower pistols lying next to his helmet on the table. A server was quick to bring him over a mug of… something. Whatever it was, it seemed to be the same swill Grot was drinking. He took a polite sip, grimacing as it burned it’s way down his throat.
“I take it you have the package then?” He asked quietly, leaning in to throw off any eavesdroppers. The scarred and bloody lizard leaned in conspiratorially, but couldn’t keep a vicious grin from his face
“One of the finest I have ever seen! I tracked the beast for weeks across the desert sand until, at last, I discovered its lair. The fight was bloody and long, but I was triumphant! I would so wish to keep the prize for myself, but our friend’s offer was very generous.” He reached down, pulling a sack off of his belt. He glanced around for a moment, before slowly pulling the drawstring loose. “It is as promised, the pearl of a Krayt Dragon.”
The fist-sized pearl was round and perfectly smooth, a scintillating red tone coloring it’s surface. It seemed to almost glow and glitter as it bounced and refracted the low light of the cantina. On the open market a pearl of this size was easy worth tens of thousands of credits. Exactly the kind of money Gardulla sent him with.
Had sent him with.
The hunter covered the pearl quickly before anyone else could see, pulling the string shut and laying it down next to his revolvers. He leaned back and grinned, evidently very pleased with himself.
“I assume Gardulla has sent you with the payment?”
“He did,” Jon answered, choosing his words carefully. “He… Instructed me to see if I could negotiate a better price.” The Trandoshan’s grin disappeared instantly at Jon’s statement, his reptilian eyes narrowing dangerously.
“A better price?” he hissed between his teeth
“I was instructed to haggle,” Jon lied between his.
“Forty-thousand was the agreed upon price.”
“Gardulla will give you thirty.”
There was a loud crack as the Trandoshan stood up from the table and slammed his armored fist into it. The jizz music stopped with a sudden, sour note and patrons turned to stare. More than a few hands slowly reached for their blasters, anticipating a gunfight. Grot gave a few heavy breaths, his anger palpable, but Jon kept his nerve. The human gave a steady look as Grot lowered himself back down into his chair and the music started up once more.
“Thirty-eight!”
“Thirty-three.”
“Thirty-six”
“Thirty-five.”
“I refuse to go any lower than thirty-six! I would rather keep the pearl myself than surrender it to Gardulla at such a price!” Grot spat. He reached for his pistol, his eyes daring the human to go any further.
Jon felt himself begin to sweat. The repairs had cost five thousand credits. He simply did not have enough money left to pay the mercenary. But if he didn’t get this pearl…
“Deal. Thirty-six,” the human said quickly, anxious to end the negotiations. He pushed the case across the table and began to eagerly stretch a gloved hand towards the pearl. The barrel of a slugthrower quickly pinned his hand to the table before he could reach it.
“Count it,” Grot demanded
“Count it?” Jon asked with a nervous laugh. “Out here? In front of the Cantina? Buddy, one of these guys is gonna follow you into an alley— “
“I can handle them,” the Trandoshan said, brushing him off. “Now open the case and count it.”
Jon pulled his hand back slowly, mind racing as he reached towards the suitcase. If he opened it, it wouldn’t be long until the lizard realized that there weren’t enough credit chips in there. He didn’t fancy his chances at survival when he eventually did. Going for his pistol would be too slow, no chance at out-drawing a man with his gun already aimed and ready. There was a knife up his sleeve that he could draw using his magna gloves, but with the table in the way he might not clear the distance before the mercenary realized what was up.
As he brought the suitcase in front of him, he realized the best solutions were often the simplest.
“Sorry! Gotta go!” With a sudden flourish he tossed the suitcase at Grot, snatching the sack with his other hand and diving out of his seat towards the door. His ears rang as the Trandoshan fired off a shot, the armor-piercing slug ripping straight through the suitcase and tearing through his armorweave cloak into the floor below. Grot spluttered and cursed as the case continued forward, knocking away his gun and spraying him with bits of disintegrated cred-stick.
“Thief! Honorless cur!” Grot shouted, throwing the case to the ground and grabbing his other pistol. The patrons stared, dead silent at the commotion. Some pulled their pistol, but most reacted with pure apathy. Incidents like this were all too common in Mos Eisley, and you didn’t live long if you involved yourself in every one.
The human continued his mad dash through the crowd towards the door, apologizing profusely all the way, “Look, buddy, sorry, I really don’t want to do this!”
“I’ll have your skull for a drinking cup!” Grot hissed, bringing his pistols back up to aim at Jon’s back, but noticed quickly that the human had left him more than the suitcase. A fist sized metallic ball soared through the air towards the Trandoshan, glowing a soft blue light as it’s timer wound down. Grot hissed and cursed in his native tongue, pushing over the table and diving back and away from the explosive.
The grenade landed on the floor with a soft thunk, unleashing a wave of energy into the cantina as it hit the ground. Those closest to the blast collapsed, falling off their bar stools and fainting dead away as the charged particles overwhelmed their nervous systems. Grot screamed and fell to the ground as the edge of the particle wave washed over him, causing his nervous system to misfire and light up in pain.
“Really sorry everyone, but I’ve got a flight to catch. Keep the credits!” Jon called over his shoulder as he ducked out of the cantina. Jon made a break across the street, ducking through the alleys in a mad-dash towards the spaceport. A barrage of half-hearted blaster fire followed him out as a couple of the remaining patrons began to retaliate, but none were willing to pursue him further than a few potshots.
Except for one.
Grot struggled up to his feet, gritting his teeth as he fought the grenade’s debilitating effects. Leaning against the wall, he wobbled his way back over to the table and gathered his weapons, a determined, furious look on his face. The explosion had done a number on his system, but all his equipment seemed to work properly. He picked up the black case, eyeing it for a moment before tossing it to the cautious barkeeper.
“Keep this safe until I return and you will get a cut of the profits,” he hissed, barely looking back as he stumbled to the door. Fixing his helmet to his armor, he marched out to the streets of Mos Eisley, jet-pack flaring to life with a roar. That human had stolen from him. That human had stolen the fruits of his hunt. He’d be spaced before he let this scoundrel get away.
The hunt was on.
