Another day, another shift at the Shame Corner. The galaxy never sleeps and the station was ready for whatever would come its way. As usual, branded merchandise was available in a wide assortment of options. Jerky aplenty filled the shelves along with a variety of candy, snacks, and freshly made fudge. The scent of food drifted through the air as lines already started to form for fresh, hot food, while the coolers offered other options and drinks. Freshly brewed caf joined the aromas, enticing weary travelers. The diner and bar were up and running, ready to greet customers. Sounds from the arcade joined the usual thrum of people and machinery.
Textile Cleaning Vessel #27, Main Cabin
As the crew of Ugnaughts packed up after another long busy day of cleaning the laundry of the staff, visitors, vagrants and ships crews of the Shame Corner, Treel decided to take a few minutes to investigate the service station that was consistently proving to be one of their most profitable stops on their 6 station circuit.
For nearly 3 months they had stopped for a day at each of largest service stations on each of the main spurs of Hydian Way hyperspace lanes on a set schedule. And the Shame Corner itself amounted to nearly 28% of all sales. The outright rancid smells that emerged from some of the bags of garments that were dropped off attested to the need for their services on a more regular basis.
“I shall return soon.” Treel said, the Ugnaught language containing far more body language then actual words. His 3 partners simply nodded as they finished shutting down and cleaning there machines.
As he entered the main concourse his nostrils were filled with 2 seperate but equally enticing smells. The first scent led him to a stall where several different variety of jersey were being sold. After sniffing around and coming up a wicker basket filled with several dozen packages of Skrillaxian Sweet and Tangy Nerf Jerky.
Treel eyes widened and he picked up the entire basket and waddled over and heaved it up on to the checkout counter. The cashier could even see Treel behind the basket.
“Uh, you want all of these?”
“Yes. I have spoken.” Treel replied blankly.
“Uh, I dont know if we can sell you the basket, let me ask my manager.”
Noticing a look from one of the cashiers and seeing the wave, a lean Zabrak approached. He had tan skin with brown, swirl-like markings on his face and neck and golden colored eyes. As typical of his species, short horns dotted his head which sported black hair that was buzzed short. His name tag read Darnoh.
“What seems to be the problem here?” he asked. Although he could easily guess at what had happened, he often found it beneficial for people to voice things themselves. He had found over the years that it was a skill many could do to learn.
“This customer wanted to buy all this jerky. I wasn’t sure if I could do that.”
Darnoh nodded. Eyes glanced from the cashier to the Ugnaught, then the basket to the Ugnaught again. “Well, I know we’ve got plenty of jerky in the back since it’s always a popular seller, so I don’t think that’ll be an issue.” He paused, weighing the options. The policy was generally ‘pay what you want’, but he wasn’t sure that’d be the best course here. He did have a degree of autonomy despite not being upper management, but he didn’t want to push things too far, nor did he want to involve them if it could be avoided. “I’ll tell you what, we can give you a discount on what the cost would ordinarily be since it’s a bulk purchase. And we’ll even throw in the basket itself so you can transport it more easily. How does that sound?”
“Agreed.” Treel said without even seeing who he was talking to. He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and offered the cashier three 100 credit notes.
The cashier was surprised by how easy it was and the speed at which the money was produced. He blinked and then smiled, taking the bills and depositing them in the register. “Thanks! Have a good day.”
“Let us know if there’s anything else we can help you with,” Darnoh added.
“The chocolate laden scent. What is the origin of this?” Treel replied as he reached up and slid the basket on to his head with one hand and stabilzed it with the other hand.
“Oh, that? It’s probably from the fudge station. It’s just over there” Darnoh replied, pointing behind them. It sat not far away, the smell always enticing others to check it out. “We’ve got a good variety of flavors there, too. Although not as many as the jerky, of course.”
A blaster shot rang out in the cargo hold of the Musty Mynock. It hit true and the Gizka flew across the bay with the force of the impact. Drexar walked over to it and picked it up. The Bpfasshi carried it down the ramp and tossed it into the trash can by the fueling depot.
“That is the last time I take a shipment of Gizka.” He said to no one in particular.
Pulling his sunshades down over his eyes he walked towards the station proper. Hopefully it had a bar and food. He had never made it out this way before and though he had heard about the strange pay what you can station he hoped his first visit would be as advertised.
“Appreciations.” Treel said as he turned and walked over in the designated direction, the wicker basket still on his head, steadied by his left hand.
After sniffing about the fudge station, the 62 year old former Alliance to Restore the Republic/New Republic Special Operations commando went to the cashier and placed a 100 credit note on the desk.
“As much of your ‘Sticky Shivestaven Spread’ as that will buy. Place the product securely in the basket. I have spoken.” He announced.
“Yes, of course,” the cashier responded, eyes wide. He began placing boxes of fudge into the basket as instructed only to pause after the fifth one. “I’m sorry sir, but that seems to be the last of the fudge we have in that flavor at the moment. Would you like to select another flavor as well, or would you like your change?”
“I will accept the remainder in whatever flavour you reccomend.” The obtuse ugnaught replied.
The cashier reached behind the counter and produced a box each of milk chocolate and dark chocolate. Simple, yet classics for a reason. Hopefully they would provide a good variety. He carefully placed them into the basket as well.
“There you go, all set. Have a good day, sir.”
“Appreciations.” Treel said pedantically as he slowly turned and went and retrieved a case of Peach cider from the cooler, and left a 20 credit note in bucket marked ‘payment’. He then returned to the laundry shuttle with his bounty.
Later, in the cabin of Textile Cleaning Vessel #27
“How much did we make this month?” One of the females ugnaughts said as the 5 of them sat around gorging themselves on jerky, fudge, and cider in varying degrees of laxitude.
“78.” Treel replied, the rest knowing intuitively that he meant thousands of credits.
“So about 17 split between us.”
“And we only had the second shuttle operating for 4 days of that month. Soon, we’ll have enough to by our own ship.” Treel said
“I just hope they can hold out, another month or 2.” The youngest of the group mused.
“They’re ugnaughts, and our kin, they’ll survive. Perhaps our new business part might be willing to assist in the venture.” Treel said.
“Why would Kalen help us rescue a couple dozen Ugnaughts from a pleasure planet?” The female inquired.
“Because I sense the Light side in him. I heard he even emancipated his droids.” Treel dusted the crumbs off of his lap and walked to the cockpit, the next stop on the laundry ships weekly route awaited.
The 4 other ugnaughts exchanged glances and nodded at eachother. They had got the same sense from their upbeat, if ditsy, Jedi business partner.
Alpha-class Xg-1 Star Wing Wildling Approaching Station 0H40-S0 Hydian Way
“Karking thing!” cursed Ilvicar as his first slammed into the control panel on the communications panel for the Wildling. Rustbucket was a compliment to this ancient thing, an Imperial-era heavy starfighter that had seen better days even when it was in service. Although it featured a sleek, dark gunmetal grey paint job across its entire surface, multiple panels were corroded or just outright missing. It looked rough from any angle, a testament if anything to its resilience to keep flying decades later.
The only saving grace about this thing, at least in Ilvicar’s eyes, was that it packed a ton of missiles. That and the Jedi Crusader had paid some shop out in the Outer Rim to install an upgraded, enhanced power core and some experimental engines in the thing so it wasn’t so gawdy slow. Pretty sure he’d got ripped off on that job. Still, it was old, had its quirks, and currently wasn’t allowing the Shaevalian-Echani half-breed to communicate with the station he was quite literally rapidly approaching. He punched the console a few more times before it came to life, sighing with relief. He was no mechanic, but boy did the man wish he was.
He thumbed a few buttons on the panel after pulling back on the throttle, deciding to drift towards the station. New to flying, Master Sephtis was far from a pro and would require much practice to hone his skills behind the stick. The Jedi opened a broadcast channel.
“Station OH40-SO, this is the Wildling. Request permission to dock,” he stated clearly after activating the microphone. Ilvicar waited for a response, but none came immediately.
“Station OH40-SO, this is the-”
“Yeah yeah, we heard you the first time! Sheesh. Permission granted. Bay 15.” the words blurted through the cockpit’s speakers.
A little touchy, are we?
Rolling his eyes, the Elder Jedi closed the communications link and threw his hand back on the thruster controls, locating Hangar Bay 15 and angling the star-shaped starfighter towards it. Carefully - and slowly, given he hadn’t had much practice - bringing the XG-1 Star Wing into the hangar, Ilvicar ran through the landing sequence verbally to make sure he had all the checks completed, before folding the wings and lowering the craft on its landing legs. As the old wreck settled onto the deck its landing gear creaked loudly, alerting everyone in the immediate area to Ilvicar’s arrival.
Ilvicar looked to see if anyone had noticed. Everyone had. He facepalmed, powering down the ship’s power core and opening the canopy. Taking in the pungent air of The Shame Corner, the seven foot tall figure set off to the promenade, bar, or wherever he could most easily get a drink - making sure to keep his ears open. He was wearing a simple dark brown jacket over a pale white shirt and bandolier, with Heir and White Fang clipped to either side of the front of his belt, and blasted Penance secured safely in its holster on his hip.
It was an odd thing, seeing a “Jedi” - if you could even call Ilvicar Sephtis such a thing - carry a Soulscorn Pistol. A blaster pistol conceived by the Children of Mortis and carried by The Unbound, it was a heinous weapon… literally soul sucking, in order to disintegrate targets. More often than not, live targets. That’s why it almost never left the holster on Ilvicar’s hip, a true “last resort” weapon, requiring penance from the Jedi Crusader to end the being of another. - not a decision he’d ever take lightly.
“Quite the entrance,” came a voice from Ilvicar’s right, belonging to a zabrak man not quite as tall as the white-haired Jedi, but still taller than many at six-foot-four. The jat'i, the iconic clan tattoos worn by the zabrak people, of his face pulled tighter as he offered a smile to show that he was only playfully teasing the man for the state of his ship. It certainly had seen better days …, yet it stood in unremarkable contrast to the how the man was outfitted. Curious.
As for Bril, he was dressed both to suit someone of his station and for combat: a pair of black dhoti tucked into a pair of brown boots and a black reinforced tunic stopping just past his waist provided the foundation, and a longer tunic made from mahogany fabric with brown trim served as the outerwear – its tails fell past his knees, and were cut asymmetrically so one side rose slightly higher than the other. A thick belt the color of chestnuts, emblazoned with the Erinos sigil held everything together. Finally, an ashen fur cloak hung from his shoulders.
As he pushed himself off the leg of his modified X-70b Phantom’s landing gear, the shifting cloak provided a glimpse of a lightsaber clipped to his left hip, and a helmet that pulsed faintly in the Force. On that point, Bril himself exuded an aura that felt placid on first glimpse, yet beyond that, it felt charged like a brewing storm, or the embers of a nascent flame before it grows into an inferno.
“Is this your first time in the Shame Corner, Master Sephtis?” he asked, uttering this stranger’s name with a casualness that may have suggested to an onlooker that they were familiar. But they were not. Not yet, at least. “If so, welcome. All of the amenities here are yours to explore, but mind the rules,” he gestured to one of several conspicuously placed signs displaying the station’s rules in multiple scripts, “otherwise you’ll draw the ire of its staff. And trust me, you don’t want to do that.”
It was during that gesture that Ilvicar, if he possessed an eye for such things, would notice the beskar vambrace secured on Bril’s arm – one half of a pair. It too bore the insignia of Clan Erinos, the Mandalorian clan residing in the Dajorra System. The sleek Mandalorian iron, oddly enough painted the same dull color as the helmet clipped to Bril’s hip, terminated where a pair of thick gloves, possibly armored, began.