The Shame Corner was as magical a place as ever. Mostly. If one were to pull all the product off a shelf here and there and squint at the very back, they would still find glitter in the cracks of the metal and platisteel, or stuck into the grout of brilliantly shiny tile, or mostly, still in everyone’s hair and fur, somehow.
But other than that, a few new rules – and threats of harm to Atyiru – posted, and a slightly smaller than usual beer supply in the coolers, the best fuel station out there seemed to have recovered from recent events.
The station is yours to explore.
The public transport tram wheezed to a halt at the far end of the station’s loading platform, its airlocks hissing open with a tired sigh. Nox Eldar stepped through the sliding doors into the bright, recycled air of The Shame Corner—an orbital station that shimmered with vibrant signage, pulsing ads, and the ever-present scent of fusion-fried street food. Neon lights danced across polished floors while holo-boards hawked everything from discount augmentations to romantic cruises on Naboo. It was loud, colourful, and impossibly alive—like a shopping centre in space.
Behind him rolled his companion: T3-NE, a matte black T3-series utility droid, sensors blinking in rapid intervals as it scanned the new environment. Built for slicing and repair, but devoid of imagination, the droid moved with methodical certainty. Its SCOMP link was already twitching, eager for a data port to pry open.
Nox didn’t rush. His long stride was relaxed but efficient, every movement shaped by a body built from lean muscle and hard experience. A recent plasma burn scar—a remnant of a much older job—still ached faintly beneath his Mandalorian armor, even though it had long since healed.
He passed bustling food courts and storefronts stacked with blinking baubles, slipping through a quieter side corridor that led to a small bar—unnamed and half-forgotten. The lighting dimmed slightly, though the bar still carried the artificial brightness of the rest of the station, filtered through red-tinted panels and the steady glow of decorative signs advertising drinks in six languages. No real threats. Just synth music on loop, a few bored mercs nursing drinks, and one passed-out Devaronian slumped in a corner booth.
Sliding into a booth with a clear view of the entrance, Nox made a subtle hand gesture. A human server approached—mid-thirties maybe, sunken eyes, skin pale from too many cycles under filtered lights. A name tag on their chest read “Jessa.”
They didn’t even look up from the glowing datapad in their hands.
“Dantooine Fizz,” Nox said, not bothering to make eye contact. “Extra cold.”
Jessa nodded absently, thumb still scrolling.
The drink arrived a few moments later, set down on the table with a soft clink. Jessa gave a noncommittal grunt before walking off, attention still locked on whatever low-priority task scrolled across their pad. Nox took a slow sip—fizzy, citrus-sweet with a bite of tartness. Not bad.
With one hand, he unclipped his Slicer Remote Code Pad from his belt and began casually working through its interface. He wasn’t after anything in particular—just winding down. Something about digging through scraps of local data soothed him.
T3-NE, perched beside the booth, extended its SCOMP link into a nearby terminal. The droid emitted a soft series of clicks—routine, mechanical, and humorless.
The system’s basic network unfolded with ease. Just one partition opened up: CCTV feeds from the parking structure. Footage scrolled across his screen—shuttles arriving and departing, a few late-shift workers stumbling in and out. He scrubbed through it absently.
Then he tried something deeper—another partition tucked behind a small gate. No resistance, no alarm… and no result. The partition didn’t respond. No logs, no footage, no sign of data flow. Just empty static.
He stared at it a moment longer, then let it go. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it was everything behind a wall he didn’t have the key for.
T3-NE emitted a soft tone—either a completed scan or a judgmental shrug, if droids could do such things.
“Relax,” Nox muttered. “Just keeping the fingers warm.”
He scrolled a little more. The parking lot footage continued, as dull as ever. Someone had double-parked a speeder, and that was the highlight.
He leaned back with a small smirk, drink in one hand, pad in the other. “Let me know if someone makes a scene.”
T3-NE didn’t answer. It didn’t need to.
Digitigrade legs plodded along as the Lasat made his way from his shuttle into the station. Green eyes, used to always scanning for enemies and potential threats, assessed the space. It looked pristine, which was a surprise considering what most rest stops looked like. Not a hint of graffiti, trash put away in its proper place, even clearly marked recycling bins detailing what could go where. It was a far cry from the streets of Nar Shaddaa where anything goes.
Grex lightly scratched at his short beard, looking at the signs and wondering where to go first. He hadn’t expected there to be so many options at a fueling station. The wall of assorted and varied jerkies caught his attention. The fudge looked enticing and he wasn’t sure he’d ever had any before - and it smelled so good. Then again, everything here did. Prepared food was available. Then the diner at one end of the station and even a bar at the other. It was nearly impossible to decide.
Karabast, this will be a tougher decision than I thought.
“Hey.”
If Grex turned, he would see– well, he would look down and see another Lasat. Only this one was short and willowier, and their fur was a stark white, striped with coral pinks and sky blues and seafoam greens. A smattering of rosettes dotted around their gold eyes and up into their short tuft of cotton candy like hair, but those spots were red, purple, and gold. They wore a stained tailring hoodie like a miniature cocktail dress, striped and spotted legs leading to digitigrade feet…with extra toes? They chewed from a bag of candy ropes in one hand.
“Hey, yeah, you, sailor. You look lost. Need a guide? I’m pretty savvy.”
They smiled at him, showing large canines.
Hearing a voice, Grex looked around and finally down, blinking. A moment of disbelief flashed through his mind. It was rare for him to see another Lasat in the galaxy, or at least the parts he frequented.
Heh. This runt reminds me of someone else I know, he thought. Haven’t seen him in what feels like ages. Wonder how he’s doing these days.
A shrug of the shoulders was his initial reply. “Yeah, you could say that. Never been here before. Gods, there’s so much here, I’m not sure where to begin. Although taking a public shuttle and having people crammed up beside me, babies crying and screaming, I guess a drink wouldn’t hurt. Mind pointing me to the bar? I saw a sign mentioning this place had one.”
Nox sat slouched in a booth at the back of Seven Sins—third from the end, by the panoramic viewport overlooking the station’s docking spires. The bar was all gleam and color, lit with a kaleidoscope of ambient hues that shifted as the hours passed. It was a clean, cheerful place. A polished rest stop for weary travelers with too many credits and too little time.
Not really built for sulking.
His glass sat empty in front of him, a smear of syrupy condensation left behind like a ghost of good intentions. Just a soft drink. No edge, no warmth. It tasted like someone else’s optimism.
Beside him, T3-NE waited in silence—matte black and motionless, like a stealth-mode trash bin. The droid had never blinked, and if Nox was honest, never truly cared. That suited him fine. No backtalk, no moralizing. Just an occasional click of the motivator core and the muted hum of readiness.
Nox let out a breath and stood. “Come on, T3. Let’s go see if sin number five tastes like salt.”
T3-NE emitted a bored bloop and rolled after him, smooth as oil. He made his way to the bar, shoulders loose but eyes alert. The space felt different up here—closer to the core of the station’s rhythm. Conversations buzzed, glasses clinked, and somewhere behind the counter, something synthetic sizzled like it was trying too hard to be meat.
The bartender was busy—of course—but Nox didn’t mind waiting. He leaned one elbow on the glowing counter and scanned the holographic drink list without reading it.
Then his Slicer Remote Code Pad pulsed against his belt. A quiet, deliberate vibration—not urgent, but suggestive. He slid a hand down and palmed it free, thumbing the screen with practiced ease.
[Ping: New Contract Available] Encrypted. Local server. Mid-level credentials. No obvious traps, but enough risk to make the profit margin look promising. He scrolled through the packet—sparse details, but just enough to stir something in the part of his brain that still liked the chase.
T3-NE gave a mechanical chirp beside him.
“No, I’m not getting up for that yet,” Nox murmured, not looking up. “Could be junk. Could be payday. Could be another Core-worlder looking for their lost cat and offering a fortune in royal bonds.” The droid stayed silent. Naturally.
He flicked the screen dark and slid the pad back into its pocket. He thought, briefly, about asking the bartender when the next shuttle out was scheduled. Just in case he felt like running.
But he didn’t ask.
He wasn’t sure where he’d go yet. Not until he had something stronger in his hand—and something greasy enough to make him forget the flavor of regret.
When the bartender finally did get to Nox, it had been quite some time. She was busy, of course, but she was also moving slowly, with no sense of urgency, bored expression on her face and generally yawning half the time. Her powder blue hair fell in ringlets and swayed from her pigtails, big, doe-like eyes with bags under them, clothes the color of pastel vomit and mismatched. Her apron was on but untied.
“What do you want?” Acedia asked, squinting briefly at the man’s droid before looking back.
Perched casually beside a support column near the counter, he watched the bar with the detached focus of someone used to measuring rooms for exits, threats, and tells. The lighting was soft and the chrome fixtures sparkled with polish, the air tinged with a pleasant citrus-clean scent. Even the floor tiles had the dull gleam of regular mopping. Not the kind of place where grime lurked in corners or stains were politely ignored.
T3-NE hovered at his side like a silent shadow, scanners quietly sweeping, processing, filing away data with cool efficiency. Eventually, the bartender approached.
She moved without hurry, more drifting than walking, pigtails of powder blue hair swaying with each step. Her pastel clothing clashed by design—clean but clearly chosen without care. The apron hung around her neck, untied, flapping slightly as she yawned into the back of her wrist. Dark circles sat heavy beneath her wide, dull eyes, and a pin badge barely clung to her chest, reading Acedia.
Nox noted the name with a glance. He didn’t smile.
Acedia stopped in front of him and looked past him briefly to T3-NE, squinting like the droid’s presence somehow offended her already minimal enthusiasm. Then her gaze returned to Nox. “What do you want?” she asked, tone flat.
He gave her a nod. “Blood Fizz.”
The name got a twitch of her brow, but she didn’t question it. Just turned and moved with the same sleepy efficiency, grabbing the proper ingredients and assembling the drink with surprising precision, despite the look of complete emotional detachment. Within moments, the glass was on the bar—fizzing crimson, gently misting the surface around it.
Nox took it in hand but didn’t drink yet. He gestured toward the far end of the bar, and then to the exit.
“You mind if I take this across the station? Golden Griddle. Figure it might go down better with something deep-fried and unreasonably cheesy.”
T3-NE emitted a soft tone—neither approval nor concern. Just data received.
He turned his head to peer, T3-NE falling into mockery as his rotors shirred his cranium clockwise. As they’re eyesight reached the threshold of the bar, the droid’s modulated voice hummed behind him:
“The Golden Griddle reports five open seats, no queue, and a 72% probability of available fry oil matching your dietary request. Advisable.”
“See?” Nox muttered. “Even he’s excited.”
T3-NE made a low sound that could only be described as disdain. The two of them turned back into the bar’s arterial flow, the fizz in his hand still bubbling like a bad idea waiting to happen.
Acedia blinked once. Then shrugged. Nox held the glass up in mock salute, a gesture more dry than grateful. “Credits are clean.”
“Oh the bar here is great,” enthused the ‘runt’, giving him a nudge in the …well more like thigh than side, with one elbow. “And yeah, public transportation is the worst. Come drink your sorrows, friend. And then, then once fortified, I can show you the world…of fudge.”
Spinning about, they started sauntering in one direction, allegedly the bar.
As Nox crossed the station towards the Golden Griddle Diner, passing a pair of odd Lasats headed for the bar and a medium-sized, mobile stage being pushed into place with a massive tank of water on the way, he received several looks towards the drink in his hand from employees. By the time he arrived at the cheerful, homey hostess stand, he’d have a good feeling that perhaps the glass hadnt been allowed out after all.
The host was a lithe golden Shistavanen with ears nearly twice the size of her head on either side, her hair short and swept up. Her dainty muzzle wrinkled at him as he approached, and she addressed him with a cheerful but firm tone known the galaxy over to customer service.
“Excuse me, sir, but we ask that drinks don’t leave the bar. Make sure you stay to finish it next time. I’ll collect your glass when you’re done. Booth or table?”
<@204034522033946625> <@232396983854301187> <@607619766752116771>
Karran Val'teo sat cross-legged in a relatively quiet section of the station. To a passing observer, the towering Zabrak clad in leather-armored robes might be meditating. But the quiet of his chosen sanctum was periodically broken by a satisfying crunch of a delightfully sweet-savory fried snack he had found to be called ‘Ring Tailz’. They seemed to be a small ring of dough that had been fried drizzled with caramel and dusted with a mix of sea salt and powdered sugar.
“These things are going to go straight to my hips… but I cannot stop.”
Heavy footfalls echoed through the Hanger bay as their owner walked steadily away from Lamna, a beat up looking Jumpmaster 5000. Like the ship, it’s owner wore a patchwork set of armor that gave the appearance of being salvaged and nearly worn out. Many had made that mistake over the years and found out the hard way it was made of one of the hardest substances in the galaxy.
The Shame Corner was an assault on ones senses. The noise of conversation was everywhere. Smells of fresh made food perfumed the air. Colorful signage and advertisements drew the eye to the appropriate stations with goods to purchase. Siorc however was not here for any of that. He sought something even more prevalent on the station, information.
His prey kept eluding him always one small step ahead of him. Who knew something as big as a Hutt could be so hard to track down? It was almost infuriating. However, here he had a chance for a good lead if he played his cards right. Kamjin the Hutt, a pretender to the title of Justicar and perpetrator of numerous crimes would soon be tracked down.
Nox paused mid-step as he reached the hostess stand, the glass in his hand catching the overhead lights with a guilty shimmer. The looks he’d picked up on the way hadn’t escaped him—half subtle, half not, like a silent alarm had been tripped the second he left the bar with it.
He tilted his helmet just slightly as the golden-furred Shistavanen addressed him. Her tone was the kind bred from years of dealing with tourists, smugglers, and tired freighter crews who didn’t know the rules—or didn’t care. Cheerful, but practiced. Kind, but with an edge honed sharp enough to cut through excuses.
Nox glanced at the glass like it had personally betrayed him. A small shrug rippled through the shoulders of his beskar’gam, then he extended it out with a gloved hand. “Didn’t mean to walk it out. Was focused.”
The glass clinked softly as it left his grip, and his attention returned to the datapad in his other hand—sleek, black, and covered in flickering streams of code. Some slicers liked flair. Nox preferred function. What passed for a home screen on his pad was a real-time overlay of signal traffic in the station, narrowed to a cluster of encrypted comms bouncing off a nearby sector. Not suspicious yet. But interesting.
“Just reviewing a trace,” he added, voice filtered through the helmet’s vocoder. “Next job might’ve pinged while I walked.”
He thumbed a screen aside, his posture still and contained, as if even here, in a cheery diner surrounded by the scent of synth-bacon and caf, his brain was a thousand klicks away. Another flick of his thumb dismissed a dead end. He sighed through the vocoder—just a breath, but the kind that said he was already back to work. “Table’s fine. Corner if you’ve got it. Near a wall. Quiet.”
The Shistavanen raised a brow, ears twitching slightly as she took a mental note and gestured toward the far end of the diner. Nox barely looked up.
His fingers paused over the pad before he added, “I don’t need windows. Don’t care if the view’s good. I’m not here to sightsee.”
He followed her gesture, nodding once. “Ten minutes,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Just ten quiet minutes before someone decides I look like a solution to their problem. Or a cause of it.”
As he moved to the table, the weight of the station settled around him again—conversations, movement, the stage being assembled outside. Something was about to happen. Nox knew that feeling. Static in the air. A puzzle in pieces.
He slid into the table and brought the datapad back up, one knee bouncing under the table with idle energy.
Relaxation could wait. The job never did.
Envoy Erinos,
So the message Bril had received recently begun, from a comm code he didn’t recognize.
While many of my sentiments from our last chat stand, you did admirably in assisting my sister and I with our hiccup last cycle. We would express some measure of gratitude for that. The next time you visit our fine home, send ahead, and I’ll arrange for another cup of tea. ~A.
<@1056685516441006091>
*Avalon,
I was just doing the right thing, so I appreciate the sentiment, there’s no need to thank me, really. But I will take you up on that offer of tea the next time I’m in the area.
P.S. do you have any tips on how on the best way to find a missing infant?
<:BrilSymbol:1229273661266067506>*
Aren’t you a detective?
The image attached that was sent back to him was of the business card he had given her, apparently kept. It proudly read:
LOST FREIGHT INVESTIGATIONS
Briil Tag Erinos
This is different! Oh wait, I hear something. Gotta go!
With a shrug of his shoulders, Grex followed his fellow Lasat. It was his first time there and they’d been to the station before it seemed, so he had nothing to lose. And if they went the wrong way, the station was only so big, so it would be easy enough to find it if needed.
“Yeah, all right, thanks,” he replied, his voice gruff but sincere.
He cast his eyes about as they walked. He was still surprised by what the station held, but that must be part of what made it a trusted stop, enough so that even he had heard of it in his circles, despite it being far away. But business had taken him closer to the area and it just so happened that the shuttle had planned to stop here, so he was able to satisfy his curiosity.
There was plenty to dazzle Grex, from jams and pickles and jerky and candy to merchandise and clothing and more– but their destination was the bar.
A smoky neon sign in pink and faded red declared it the Seven Sins. There were no doors, just the wide beams framing the section as one area transitioned suddenly into the other, smooth white laminate to scuffed dark wood. The walls were a deep maroon and the lights warm and low, fitted in glass sconces on the walls, with many more above the bar itself, and a smaller candle-style light on the few booths and tables, of which there weren’t many. Stools lined the massive, dark oaken bar, lovingly cleaned and polished. Scratches and carvings in it told potential stories, as did all the holos framed on the walls and the odd decorations here and there.
The smaller Lasat went right up to the bar, hopping up onto a seat and gesturing to the one next to her with one hand while the other raised for a glass. The bartender, lounging against the counter like she might be trying to nap between customers, peeled herself upright, gummy jewelry clacking, and squinted at them.
“What do you want?”
Grex looked around as he entered the bar, appreciating the warmth brought by the wood. He had seen many metal bars and it just wasn’t the same. Too sterile, too utilitarian. This was the way to go about things. And the lighting? It was a good bar.
He approached and took a seat. He thought, considering for a moment. With his earlier thought of a certain runt - who was now grown, but that’s how he would always be known - he thought to order what he liked.
“Whiskey, neat,“ he replied to the bartender. "Something Corellian, if you’ve got it.”
“Highest proof you have. Don’t care if there’s still glitter in it.” The smaller Lasat made a grabbing gesture.
Acedia, meanwhile, groaned at the reminder, and shuffled off to grab a bottle or two. She returned ploddingly with some glasses, one clean and one…less clean by the glitter still embedded into the edges of the stein, somehow, and then set both down.
“Serve yourselves,” she sighed, and then picked her holozine back up and lounged in a pilfered stool.
“She’s the worst bartender here. I would kill for her,” Grex’s new companion confided, stage-whispering in a way that could clearly be heard by those present. She then proceeded to fill the flagon to the very top, emptying about half her bottle, until it seemed the miniscus was about to snap and spill down the sides.
Only then did she lean in and slurp loudly.
Nox scrolled through the list of postings on his slicer pad, each job flickering past with the same recycled language—"urgent,“ "high payout,” “discreet required.” His eyes moved, but his mind didn’t follow. It was all noise. Blurry text over a signal that hadn’t come in yet.
Nothing worth the risk. Nothing worth him.
The corner of the screen pulsed—a soft alert. Another bounty. Another desperate cry disguised as an opportunity. He ignored it and rubbed a hand over his jaw, pausing to listen.
A clatter from the service counter. Sharp words. Mechanical chirps in staccato binary.
“T3,” he muttered without looking up, “what did I say about ‘negotiating’ with organics?”
The matte-black astromech gave a curt whistle—too precise to be apologetic—and extended a prod-like tool from its chassis, pointing accusingly at the Reelu, Golden Griddle cook, who was now backing away, hands raised. The smell of scorched synth-meat floated on the air.
Flor the server stopped on her rounds, and furrowed her magenta eyebrows in confusion. Her malachite eyes glaring at the droid, then back at Nox.
Nox finally looked over, one brow lifting. “He’s got no imagination,” he said to no one in particular. “But he does have an opinion about seasoning.”
He sighed, turning back to the pad. Still nothing. Still waiting. But the static was building again. The kind that buzzes under your skin right before something breaks.
And Nox had never been good at staying bored for long.
“Excuse me, Sir,” said the Zeltron server as she approached, a disgruntled Reelu heading back into her kitchen with a wilting glare. “Make sure you control your droid. Whether it wandered on its own or you sent it off towards the kitchen, that’s against policy. No customers in the back. These are employee only areas and you need to respect that or you may leave.”
What fresh larkery is this?
“A mermaid show.”
Disclose thyself.
“It’s an old Human legend, from before their spacefaring days, like angels, or starbirds. They hadn’t made contact with any aquatic or aerial species yet and were land-based mammalians themselves, so they made up stories about half-fish, half–” he cut off with a grunt of effort, wriggling harder, only biting back a yelp through practice alone, “half-Humans. It’s harmless fantasy. Fit for children and paying gigs.”
Ludicrousness. And you uphold such foolery.
“Yes, well, it’s pretty. And it pays. Granted,” another struggling huff, bucking his hips, panting, “I’m going to look like bloody drowned rat, but it still pays.”
A rat?
“Mermaids aren’t supposed to be so furry. Ah, karabast–”
Guard thy tongue, pet.
“Master, you try sliding into latex when you’re this bloody hairy– ow! Ah, ah, ah, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Sir.”
The lash of heat cutting down his back retreated, leaving ghostly sensation in its place, echoing the high, thin whip crack of sound. One of the nearby employees looked up and around at it, and he whistled jaunty and falsetto, then grinned sheepishly when their eyes met and cut off.
“Sorry, I’ll stop!”
“No problem. You need anything, Mister Aras?”
“No no, thank you, dear.”
After the busy man turned away, the voice came again in Aras’ mind.
Try again.
“I apologize, Master,” he whispered more lowly, supplicant, and finally finished shoving his legs and hips into the long faux tail he’d been given – and slightly altered to fit him – today. He flopped back onto the floor he sat on with chest heaving. He wasn’t unfit. By any means. But Stars, getting into a fake tail was something.
Now he just had to swim around in it.
Better. Do I nay recall that you lack proficiency in this swimming?
<@1056685516441006091>
“Yes, but we don’t have to tell them that. And it’s only a tank for half an hour. I can hardly drown, now can I?”
Pithe, it had a warning tone to it.
“Master, recall also that I am quite proficient at holding my breath. The Force is with me. Be well.”
Hm.
“If you are concerned,” he began, grinning like a loon up at the ceiling, “you could always come and see it in person.”
This pustule of a village is garish and incoherent. You shall not again ask me to grace it.
“Master,” he sighed fondly, “you only say that because you refuse to be enlightened to the joys of fried cheesecake.”
Speaking of which, he reached over for his things without sitting up, plucking up his half-eaten treat and taking a bite. He moaned, his collar pressing tight against his throat with it.
Such abominations shall nay sustain myself.
“It’s not good for me either but it’s still delicious. You need to get out more, Master. Please? You hardly have in ages. You won’t experience half as much only spectating with me.”
I shall naray conceive of your infatuation with this place.
“Our generation ship came here often when I was growing up. Well, often enough, given we rarely visited the same place twice. Anytime we crossed the orbit, four or five times, even! Here we were. It’s much bigger now, but I love it. I have so many memories. Honestly, mostly about the food, but the toys too, and just seeing all these people, so different…I’d stay for hours just watching until Zyerzas dragged me back…”
He trailed off, before his collar tightened again.
I wouldst hear more.
His smile grew. His traitorous heart skipped at least a whole scale, stumbling through octaves.
“I’ll tell you later. It’s supposed to start in,” a glance at the chrono, “ten minutes. There’s supposed to be another performer here too, but I haven’t seen her.” He clicked his tongue in shame. “Disrespectful to be late, you know? Even if it’s something as paltry as this.”
<@607619766752116771>
Grex observed the bartender with a raised brow. He’d been to a lot of bars and cantinas in a wide range of places and this was the first time he’d been told to serve himself when it wasn’t a packed and busy establishment. There was likely truth to his companion’s words, which certainly said something.
He reached across the bar to grab the bottle and glass and he poured himself a drink. The glass looked tiny in his large hand. The amount of alcohol may have looked like a lot for most humanoids, but was typical for one of his size.
He took a sip and was greeted with a taste that wasn’t exactly what he recalled from the last time he ordered such a drink, but the profile was close enough that he knew it was the same spirit. His mind brought him back to the bar at his employer’s casino when things were closing down. It was a good way to unwind at the end of a particularly long day.
“Hmph,” came a soft grunt of approval. “I have to admit, that is a good drink.”
“Any drink is a good drink,” commentated his hanger-on, seemingly having chugged her glass. She was already refilling it. “So, Corellian Whiskey, might I have your name?”
He let out a short, gruff laugh. “That’s true enough. Just isn’t my typical order, is all. Friend swears by the stuff though, y’know?” He shifted a little to face her. “You can call me Grex.”
“Grex,” she echoed, tone slightly roughening and deepening, more gruff, like how he spoke. Had that changed? Surely she’d talked like that the whole time. “Call me…Hosta. You’re drinking for your friend, then? In memory? Or in cheer? Should I compose a toast?”
Grex grinned, shaking his head. “Nah, I was just reminded of him. He was fine, last I heard. Course, that was a while ago. But he’s a stubborn little runt, I doubt he’s kicked it yet. And if he did, he’d probably be haunting me right now!”
“Believe in ghosts, do ya, mate?” Hosta grinned back. “Smart man. All I hear are screams.” Another drink was swallowed back. “Glad for you that your friend is fine, sounds like you’re due a check in? But who you calling a runt, eh?”
“Guess I am,” Grex admitted, taking a sip of his drink. “He’s an old friend. Met years ago when he was looking for work, still pretty much a kid. He showed up one day, made a show of handling someone that wouldn’t pay their debts and kept looking to borrow more. Made an impression with the boss and he ended up taking him on. I didn’t trust him, didn’t think he could handle the work. But I’m just the muscle and the guard, yeah? So, y'know, not really my place to question. But the kid ended up proving himself, though by then calling him Runt had kinda stuck.”
Nox blew out a breath, dragged a hand down his face, and finally looked up from his pad.
T3-NE was still hovering near the kitchen door, tools retracting with an annoyed snnk as the Reelu cook grumbled back into her domain. Smoke still clung to the air like a bad decision.
Flor stood over him with that look—that unimpressed, tired-of-this-frekking-job glare he’d seen on more than a few servers lately. “Control your droid,” she said again, slower this time, like he might be hard of hearing or hard of thinking.
Nox raised his hands halfway in surrender. “Alright, alright. He’s back. No harm done.”
T3 gave a low, disgruntled beep and rolled toward the booth like a scolded pet.
“He’s got this thing about seasoning,” Nox added, tone half-apologetic, half-annoyed. “Thinks the food here’s under-spiced. I keep telling him he’s not a real chef.”
Flor didn’t look impressed. She crossed her arms.
“He’s got sensors for taste compounds. Which, for the record, was not something I asked for when I pulled him out of that junk pile.”
She blinked.
Nox gestured to T3. “He added it himself. Somehow. I don’t know—spare parts and delusions of grandeur.” Flor shook her head and started to turn away.
“I’ll keep him out of the kitchen,” Nox said, leaning back and glancing at his pad again. “Promise.” The Zeltron gave him one last pointed look before heading off to the next table.
Nox watched her go, then glanced at T3. “You just had to comment on the spice levels.”
The droid chirped defiantly. “Yeah, yeah. Next time, use your inside beep.”
Nox tapped through his pad again, but the listings hadn’t changed. A few mercenary outfits needing muscle, a courier run flagged “urgent” three systems over, and someone advertising for a salvage crew with their own gear—pass. He grimaced, scrolling past another “entertainment” gig that paid too well for too little detail.
T3 beeped once, low and expectant.
“I’m looking,” Nox muttered, then glanced up as Flor passed by again. He hesitated, then raised a hand.
“Hey,” he said, not too loud. “Quick question. You know if there’s any job postings around? Anything not completely suicidal or already snatched up?”
He leaned back in the booth, pad still open, tone casual but eyes a little sharper now. “Doesn’t have to be glamorous. Just paying.”
T3 let out a hopeful chirp.
Nox didn’t look at the droid. “And preferably not in a kitchen.”
“If you want to ask about hiring here – and definitely nothing’s open in Reelu’s kitchen – you’ll want to talk to Avalon, our front of store manager. She’s in today. But general stuff, that’s what our big wall of bulletin boards at the front is for. People are allowed to post their own stuff there if they ask and we post things too on behalf of partners. Bounties, lost monkey lizards, folks looking to long haul, crazy archeological digs…” She shrugged, though her stance was far from loose, already having had to be stern Nox once. His sharp tone clearly didn’t phase her.
His fellow snorted. “Doesn’t it just? Let me guess, he called you Big Guy?” Her smile was sly.
Nox nodded slowly, eyes flicking past Flor toward the front of the cantina. “Bulletin boards. Right.”
Flor didn’t linger. She was already halfway to a booth of rowdy traders, shouldering her tray like a shield. He didn’t blame her. If he had to referee spice-obsessed droids and desperate freelancers all day, he’d be about done too.
He rubbed his temple and glanced at T3, who hovered quietly nearby, sensors active but silent.
“Don’t say anything,” Nox muttered.
T3 responded with a neutral beep.
“Yeah, I know. Not a chef.”
Nox slid out of the booth with a sigh and tucked the datapad into his jacket. The Shame Corner was exactly as he remembered—bright, immaculate, and oddly calming compared to the chaos of the kitchen. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and polished metal.
He nodded to a passing server with a tired half-smile and made his way to the front, T3 matching his pace precisely.
The wall of bulletin boards gleamed under the clean lighting—organized, with handwritten notices pinned carefully beside holoposts. Some looked fresh, some faded, but everything was neat.
Nox scanned the postings, lips tightening as he read:
*** “Seeking deep-space nav tech. Hazard pay included. Must not be afraid of ghosts.” ***
Pass.
*** “Looking for discreet transport. No questions asked. Bring towels.” ***
Nope.
*** “Freighter security needed. Light years of boredom guaranteed.” ***
Maybe.
*** “Slicer gig: High risk. Secure data extraction from Imperial Vault complex on Ord Mantell. Security AI advanced. Detection means capture or elimination. Compensation: high. Contact R. Kade.“ ***
Nox’s eyes narrowed. That wasn’t just dangerous — that was borderline suicidal. The Imperial Vault on Ord Mantell was a fortress, with layers of security systems, lethal countermeasures, and no room for mistakes.
T3 beeped twice, scanning the notice. After a brief pause, the droid reported, “R. Kade is an independent operator known for organizing high-risk data retrievals. Previous attempts resulted in 67% operative loss rate. Security AI described as adaptive with predictive countermeasures. Compensation offered exceeds standard mercenary contracts by 75%.”
Nox exhaled slowly, feeling the familiar pull of the challenge.
“That’s the kind of job that eats slicers alive,” he muttered, fingertips brushing his chin thoughtfully. “But the pay… and the info… could be worth it.”
He saved the contact info, tapping it into his pad.
Glancing down at T3, he added, “Stay sharp. No spice critiques this time. Focus on keeping us off the grid.”
T3 emitted a quiet affirmative beep, and together they headed toward the front, ready to decide if the risk was worth the reward.
It had taken quite some time for Siorc to search through the public areas of the Shame station. There was no sign of his quarry, though there were some rumors of his having been on the station. A crazed Hutt with a very obviously fake Alderaanian accent was hard to miss. Even a regular Hutt would stand out considerably in the station.
Having arrived to late to catch the Hutt in question Siorc instead decided to see what information he could get, if any, from the bartender. Sitting his helmet beside him on the bar he motioned for the bartender and ordered a dark Ale. When she was less busy he would make his inquiry on Kamjin. In the meantime he could always enjoy the cold dark ale.
As the hunter settled in to his seat, the bartender gave a great groan at having to move again and half-peeled, half-heaved herself back upright from her slouch in her own stool in order to pour him the ordered ale. Unfortunately, given it was on tap, she couldn’t just give him a bottle and some sized cup like she had the two – one extremely colorful and odd – Lasats. So with much sluggishness, she eventually poured Siorc’s drink and set it in front of him, sloshing slightly.
The ale spilled out the side of the glass and onto the bar as the bartender haphazardly sat it down. Siorc knew the mood, over worked and under paid, that or just lazy he was still deciding which. He put down two credit chips keeping his fingers on one.
“A Hutt with a very fake Alderaanian accent, he come through here recently?” Korvyn asked. “Answer my questions and the second credit chip is all yours.”
The woman squinted at the credit chit with a generally unimpressed air. But, at least ‘connecting with a customer’ was less cleaning or something else work related.
“Suuuure,” she drawled, propping both elbows on the counter and looking up at the Evereni. “We don’t get too many Hutts, funny, ‘cause we’re sized for 'em…got tables and refreshers and hovercarts and all. But I guess they usually think they’re too good for the 'Corner. We did just get a ping from our fuel chief though that a Hutt has landed here. Dunno if they’re the one you’re lookin’ for.”
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“Ta bunky dunko du tah dig ta.” Saatjeekah Shurag Besh, known fence and collector or rarities (who also happened to be a sleazy Hutt) rumbled as he enjoyed an oversized fudge cone — Arxian bloodberry, jawa juice and vanilla flavored. The thick tongue lapping at the treat made even the most resilient of patrons curl their nostrils and swallow, but Saatjee seemed to pay them no heed at all.
“The esteemed Saatjeekah compliments your fine establishment on their superior treats,” his translator, a pudgy and squat-looking protocol droid told the vendor as Saatjee floated off with his hover throne.
“Tell yer master ‘e didn’t pay.” The Iktotchi vendor’s nose ruffled as he bared his teeth.
“Ah yes, of course. Here is your payment.” The droid pulled out several wupiupi and a trugut. The Iktotchi rolled his eyes at the huttese currency but pocketed it anyway.
“Droi! Shado cheesa ta toya!” Saatjee called out prompting the droid to busily rush to his side. Several other men — a Rodian and a Shistavanen — emerged close by, armed to the teeth and wary, but far enough not to ruin their employers day.
“Of course, master Besh. next time I will haggle more.” The droid let out an exasperated sigh and wobbled next to the floating platform. “Shall we go to the restaurant, your excellence?”
Grex laughed. “Hardly. He did call me Tiny one time, though. He thought that was real funny. Like I hadn’t heard that one a million times before. Lots of people just aren’t very creative with things like that, though I guess he at least had the excuse of being young.”
“Didn’t think you had it in you, Galo, but you impressed me,” said the saffron-skinned Shani known as Savran Has in their smokey voice. Their grin, which showed off a pair of curved, needlelike incisors that descended well past the rest of their pearly whites, perfectly captured the amusement that she had with their little outing.
Emere rolled her eyes while walking with her arms crossed. There were few who could match the Ilohian’s ability to remain stone faced, yet Savi’s unwavering gaze somehow always managed to chip away at her mask of stoicism. She averted her gaze lest the taller woman see her crumbling facade and gloat further. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Oh? Is that a pout I see? To be fair, you’re a much better swoop driver than I took you for. If you ever want to make some extra credits, just let me know and I can set you up in a race or two.”
Emere shook her head. “Too dangerous. I have … responsibilities back home. Let’s put it that way. And your luck won’t last much longer, Has. Just wait and see.”
Savi winked. “It isn’t luck, darling.”
The two continued on their way, heading to the local diner to get a bite to eat before heading back to Selen.
“Irony can be amusing,” Hosta offered, grinning again. “Though that one is rather trite. Youth is hardly any excuse. And I somehow doubt that if he was doing work for your sort of business, then he was at least old enough not to need a nappy, meaning he was old enough to try a tad bit harder.”
Her eyes roved up and down his figure. She dramatically leaned back in her stool, a move that should have toppled her but seemed inordinately graceful given the ratio of alcohol consumption at speed, and mimed framing him in a holoshot.
“Runt and Tiny, hum? No ‘Grex the Great, the Grand, the Grueling?’”
“Eh, I think he was just trying to get a rise outta me. And it worked, too, damn it.” Grex laughed and shook his head. “He probably wanted to get back at me for the little jabs I gave him every now and then.”
He sipped his drink, thinking for a moment. “Well, before my boss took me on I had a few names in the pits. Grex the Fearsome. The Mighty Grex. Those are the ones that I remember, anyway. Glad I caught someone’s eye and was able to leave. I got started young because of my size and how rare us Lasat can be.”
“Quite rare indeed,” it was an appreciative purr, but not without sympathy. Her arms dropped, the sour turn of a poor joke in framing him as some star when he’d been exploited. Something cold shone in the smoothness around her eyes, the sweet, careful curl of her words. “Tell me, Mighty Grex, are the ones who caged you in these pits still breathing?”
A harsh laugh sounded as he finished the dregs in his glass. He set it down on the bar, maybe a little harder than intended. “I can’t say I’ve kept track of them all. I know a couple fell to petty rivalries. One was taken over by a rival and fell to obscurity, which seems like a fair fate with his overinflated ego. But that walking lizard that tranqed and threw a net on me when I was a kid and set it all in motion? I wish I could find him. Never caught a name or got a good look at his face, for all the good it might do.”
He paused, lost in thought for a moment. A cold glint crossed his eyes. “I do have some names I remember, some faces, too. My employer arranged for me to have a little chat with one of them one day. With any luck, I might be able to do that with the others some time.”
A smile curled across his fellow’s own face, and like her misnumbered toes, there was something not quite right about it: too many teeth, too sharp, the grimace too wide, even for a Lasat. Her chuckle was glass and malice.
“If you ever want an extra pair of hands, do let me know. I have an interest in knives in the necks of things like them. Find their names. Find their faces. Find everything they’ve ever touched. And burn it all.”
It’s not always that easy. Some of them are…protected,” he growled, a sneer forming on his face. “So it requires a bit more planning. Those can’t be as straightforward. But I can be patient, bide my time. It would be worth it. I’ve got my employer and the connections I’ve made, favors have been accrued. And I bet even my old friend would be willing to help me out. He knows a thing or two about settling old scores and has some tricks up his sleeve.”
“Never said it was easy. I have yet to reach my progenitors, despite many a trick. But when I do…”
A blade twirled in her hands suddenly, glinting like her empty glass. She had no need to specify a threat.
“One day,” Hosta murmured, sibilant, saccharine, “no amount of protection, no power, no time, will keep us away from what we are owed. They’ll reap what they’ve sown, shan’t they?”
Grex watched the blade, nodding in appreciation. Then he reached for the bottle to pour himself another glass. “Aye, that’s always the hope. Give them a taste of their own medicine and all that.”
Hosta hummed and disappeared the knife back into somewhere on her person, not that her worn clothing promised much in the way of hiding places. She lifted her bottle in a toast.
“To that, then. And resourceful friends made along the way. Does yours have a name?”
“Mm, mm!”
A hard crested forehead pressed into the back of a large, four-fingered hand, a half-wrapped burger with a bite nearly twice the size of a human’s still grasped in its hold. The middle aged Besalisk took a moment to chew and savor the taste of the sandwich, how heavy it weighed on the tongue and the compliments of the sauces and various fixings. The best burger he’s found in this sector.
“Reelu’s done it again, brilliant girl,” Bax uttered not so quietly to himself as he sat up with an inhale in the lone booth he was crammed in, locking his gaze on the delicious masterpiece once more. He dug in, eyes shifting from indulging in the greasy meal – grease he wiped from his hands with one of his nondominant arms – to the Huttball holo-vid game playing on a screen nearby. The transport hauler had some time to kill before picking up his next shipment from Arx for Dajorra.
“One more job and then I’m done working for that place, I tell ya. Some of them rookies have gizkas for brains,” he huffed, once again talking to no one in particular.
“~One more job where, Utill?”
Bax froze, hearing the steady level tone with an all too familiar otherly hum beneath it, like the after-loop of a quieting solar flare. For a moment, he swore to himself he was just hearing things, trick of the mind, an old echo – until fabric rustled and a shadow fell across the table. He pulled his gaze away from the burger he had started at and looked up, curiosity or a need to know or confirm drawing him to. Orange eyes caught light green frilled antennae twitching thrice, a head tilting within the striped folded fins framing their face like a draped headdress.
“You have the scent of strong interastellar energy on you…The Akkadese Maelstrom?” The lanky Kalleran’s brow raised slightly, questioning before their lips twitched with the glimpse of a smile, “Your superb skill in piloting impresses still, Yan'dyv~” .
The trill of the term of an endearment never explained shook him from his rigid stupor. Bax’s face pallid, from seeing a ghost returned and the memories of twenty-eight days stranded on a dead ship, shifted as his jaw worked to say…something, anything…
Only one word escaped the normally non-stop chatty Besalisk. A name.
“…Sou…”
Grex raised the glass and clinked it against the bottle. He took a long sip from it before setting it down on top of the bar. “He calls himself Reiden.”
Hosta’s furred face widened in surprise, and she snapped her fingers, pointing at him. “Hey, hey, I’ve met a Reiden. He bought me a drink, sort of, at this festival in the Caelus system. Pale Human guy, brown hair, red and blue armor?”
Grex’s eyes went wide and his brows rose. The galaxy was a big place, so he didn’t expect to run into someone else that knew his old friend. He let out a laugh. “Heh, what are the odds?” His brows knitted together briefly at the information, racking his brain for details. “I don’t know of any Caelus system, but that sounds like it could be him.”
Still glitter in every corner and crevice.
Socorra’s gaze swept across the main deck automatically, checking exits, movement patterns, potential threats, then dropped to the small, sticky hand wrapped around two of her fingers. On her other side, Weyne toddled along gripping her other hand, a slight bounce in his step as he mimicked his cousin’s rhythm. She had both boys today. No assignments. No reports. Just family.
Turi had no sense of caution. Only wonder.
“Is that a dwagon or a toaster?” he asked, tugging at her arm.
She followed his pointing finger. It was a vending unit shaped like a Dug.
“Neither,” she said.
“Can we get it?”
“No.”
He scowled, but shrugged, already bouncing on his heels again. Weyne giggled and copied him.
She guided them past a pair of spice runners arguing over credits, adjusting her pace so neither boy would trip over their flashing boots. Both were in in-between phase, still small enough to carry, but big enough to insist they could walk. She let them, let them be loud, let them be bright.
The toy stall came into view, the same one she had passed last time at the station.
Turi let out a gasp. “Mama! Look!” He sprinted ahead, beelining for a stuffed Nexu that had one eye missing and probably smelled like burnt caf.
Weyne followed, a only sllghtly behind, arms wide for balance.
She tensed just slightly, then followed.
Turi hugged the Nexu immediately. “His name is Biter.”
Socorra raised a brow. “He got one eye and smell like blood. You sure?”
“Yes.”
She crouched beside him. “One toy.”
Turi nodded solemnly, still hugging the Nexu. “Just Biter.”
Then he paused, looked back at the stall, then at Weyne.
“Maamaaa… can Weyne have one?”
She arched a brow. “He ask for one?”
“No. He needs one. He has bad dweams too.”
That made Socorra pause. Numbers ticked across her vision. She hadn’t budgeted for two. But the look on both their faces was non-negotiable. How did they already know how to guilt-trip like that? And worse, how were they guilting her?
“One for you,” she said. “And one for him.”
Turi lit up and dove into the pile. Weyne crouched beside him, poking at the plushies like they might bite. Turi sorted with great intensity, muttering as he went. Finally, he held up a lopsided Tooka with a half-melted ear.
“This one,” he declared. Weyne nodded vigorously
She ruffled his hair. “Alright. Then it’s his. But no more.”
“Just Biter and… this one’s Snarl.”
“Of course it is.”
Weyne took the Tooka when Turi handed it over like a sacred offering.
“Snarl!” He turned it over in both hands, brow scrunched in toddler intensity. “He look mad.”
Turi beamed. “He has a burn from war.”
Weyne grinned. “We match.”
Socorra looked between them, expression unreadable, then shook her head. “Y’two gonna name everything with teeth and trauma?”
“Yeah,” they said in unison.
She sighed. “Force help me.”
Then she crouched low and whispered like a conspirator. “Snarl’s been spotted in the wild. We need backup. I go left.”
Turi gasped. “I got Biter. He bites first.” Then drew his wooden training saber from its belt shealth.
Weyne drew his toy blasters with a dramatic flourish. “I got ‘im!”
She nodded gravely. “Go go go!”
They scattered in a squealing flurry around the nearby crates. Socorra ducked behind a crate and peeked out like a holovid spy. She mimed a blaster with her fingers. A few onlookers stared. One laughed, and she didn’t care.
A moment later, she walked with one boy on either side, both clutching their scruffy new companions like war trophies. Turi marched with exaggerated importance, his wooden saber in hand. Weyne, already holstering his toy blasters, looked ready to duel anyone who questioned Snarl’s honor. Socorra muttered to herself as they marched, two monsters in tow. Mostly for show, but under it all, she was smiling.
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