Session export: I Really Want to Stay At Your Droid Repair Shop

Vesper • Hyperspace • 44 ABY

The neon haze of the Amaranthine Veil still lingered in Orse’s memory, even after several days. Violet and crimson lights flashing over polished metal and velvet curtains. Bass reverberating through floor and bone. The crowd so alive and energized. And then there was Vez, her violet hair and perfect tattoos. The dancing and Orse’s own boldness to initiate. And then the kiss. And the many kisses after. And the past four nights after that that they spent together on the Vesper, just enjoying each other’s company. Learning new things about each other, about—

Orse rolled in her bed, heat rising through her neck across her cheeks.

After a moment of steaming like a tea kettle she rolled onto her back and exhaled. Everything felt different now. She felt like she was having an out-of-body experience and the greatest anxienty episode of all time all at once. Things weren’t yet settled, they weren’t yet clear. She felt confused about where she fit in, not necessarily in abad way. She was fine with just being with Vez, even if the Mirialan had two other girlfriends. But, she sensed there was more to it. They just hadn’t talked about it yet, though both of them knew it was coming. Orse just avoided the question as much as possible, and she expected Vez gave her the space to think. She leaned instead on the comfort Vez’s company afforded, at least for a time.

She huffed to herself and her own self-deprecation, finally rolled over, sat up and slapped herself lightly over her cheeks to fully wake up. She did her hair into a bun, put on some random garments she found in the locker and made her bed. As she did so she noticed Vez’s t-shirt wrapped tight into the duvet. She smiled and unwrapped it as she walked out of the room to find Vez sitting at the holotable, reading some data or other she was probably stealing from Vespers databanks, much to the ship’s dismay. The Mirialan wore only short short and one of Orse’s own shirts, a purple one with a cute tooka stylized on the chest. It was two or three sizes too big for her. Her shoulder poked out of the collar. She looked as sleepy as Orse felt, but the whole scene brought a warmth to Orse’s cheeks once again. She approached across the carpet, toes scrunching into the soft, warm fibers before she leaned over Vez’s shoulder.

“Good morning. Did you have breakfast without me?” She nearly forgot all her thoughts from earlier as she Vez’s sleepy expression. She found it adorable, even if Vez would hurt her for ever mentioning it. Probably.

“Yeah,” she replied as she greeted LE-T0 with a wave. He passed by them, rolling towards the cockpit, cursing in binary all the way. Something about smoke clogging up his filters. Jumper, the BD droid — Orse’s newest addition to the family — followed him and jumped on the holotable on deft servo-legs. He chirped, his antennae swinging in an approximation of excitement. “Good morning, Jumper.” The droid chirped again in greeting back as his oculars passed between the two women, expectantly.

She wanted to protest that smoking wasn’t breakfast but thought better of it. She wasn’t about to nag a grown woman, especially this early. “I’ll have Tanako bring us some caff.” She pressed a few buttons on the holotable’s console and sent out the request. She took a moment to observe the Mirialan’s face, her tattoos and the way her hair looked a messy bush of spikes. She could feel the sweat on her palms as she remembered what she had wanted to ask for a few days now but never gathered the courage to. And yet some part of her doubted Vez would even mind, let alone judge.

I took her a while to gather the courage to, and she decided a while back it’s better to just say it and see what happens. She breathed and only a moment of silence passed before she blurted. “Um…I have to ask something. A-And I hope you don’t mind. But…” she paused again to rub her hands together. “But where do I fit in? For you. With you…and Zig and Zuza, I mean. You know, you guys seem to have a good thing going on and I don’t wanna butt in and ruin a good thing.”

Orse instinctively sat down to be on Vez’s level, almost mouthing an apology in the process, but stopped herself instead. She didn’t expect that reaction, but tried articulatingher thought anyway.

“I don’t know what you mean. You’ve been nothing but kind and open with me so far. I haven’t really felt this…liked in a while. That’s what gave me the courage to ask…” She stuttered a bit. “I-I just want to be clear, I’m fine with being a side…thing. I don’t want it to be awkward, especially because I really like both of them a lot.”

Orse felt heat rising around her cheeks again. There was something incredibly stimulating about that sort of praise. Especially when she was as oblivious to the signs. It took her a moment to compose herself, feeling the knot in her stomach tighten as she tried her best to decipher everything Vez said. Overthinking, as usual.

“I…I really want this to work, because I like you a lot. And I’d like to get along with the girls as well, but — and I might be wrong — but you kinda sound upset already.”

Orse didn’t really know how to react, so she looked down and blushed like a pepper. “I guess I could ask them out to see how it goes.” She said sheepishly, unsure of herself and what she was really doing. She snapped out of it when Tanako entered from the mess with a tray of caff, some biscuits and morning smoothies for both of them.

“Good morning, mistresses.” Orse swore there was a hint of mirth to her tone. She approached and placed the tray on the holotable, handing each of them a glass of smoothie and a cup of caff. “Cream and sugar for the princess, and ‘black as my soul’ for Miss Hirundo.” There was definitely a sarcastic undertone to it. “The smoothies are for your health so make sure to drink them.”

“Thank you.” Orse smiled at the droid who returned a curt bow, her chromed-up body glinting in the overhead lights, and took the shake to drink it. A herbal and fruity blend with chunky fruit bits and seeds. Delicious.

One day later • Noon • Giletta Spaceport • Selen • 43 ABY

Orse took a breath as she stepped onto the landing pad dressed in her everyday clothes, neon jacket, comfy sneakers and cat-eared headphones blaring some version of Drukk Punk. She had a few errands to run, a few contacts to contact, her local shop to administer and a race administrator to negotiate with. It’d been months since her last visit and, despite wanting to do it with Vez, she had to deliver the Mirialan to her Master for something or other. She still recalled the parting kiss and it made her bite her lower lip and blush slightly. The way Vez had to tip-toe to get to her, the way she teased her when she tried to do it. She hadn’t felt a warmth like this in a while.

Still it was cobtrasted with apprehension and worry. Unfounded, clearly, but that didn’t stop her impostor syndrome from showing it’s ugly head. Vez gave her permission to ‘have fun’ with Zig and Zuza. And, apparently, they were into it? She had pondered that and found it hard to believe but she figured she might as well try. So, here she was, on Selen. Where Zig also was, at least at the moment. At least Vez told her so. She didn’t dare message the Zygerrian. She barely had the courage to send her an invitation to a date let alone ask anything more. She hoped for the best and gathered courage.

0rzone: @nek0z1g69 You on Selen? Wanna catch a race on the speeder course? My treat.

Her finger hovered over the send button, shaking slightly. She swallowed and pressed it before she decided otherwise. She took another breath and put her messages on silent. And now, errands! she thought as she popped a chewing gum into her mouth and jumped on her hover board to meet the city.

It had been a few hours since her arrival and everything was set. The race admin was amicable. She had helped him do some transactions in the past and handled an identity theft he was suffering through. Good guy. A bit lecherous, but she didn’t mind as long as he didn’t go beyond ogling. She had a plan now, and a way to do it right and make it, hopefully, pretty fun.

She inhaled deeply, remembering her comm, and checked her messages.

Orse’s heart jumped as the speeder passed her, sliding deftly into a parking space nearby. She almost yelled out loud to watch where the drukker was going, except she knew that helmet. She felt a burn in her cheeks again as Zig dismounted, hair flowing from her helmet like in a movie slow motion scene. IT was… Kark.

“Oh..uh..hi!” She fumbled her words as she dismounted her board and, awkwardly, extended her hand for a greeting. “That was some riding. Maybe you should be in the race.” She made a mental note. Next time.

Orse took a moment to adjust, slightly taken aback by the hug. It was…pleasant. And warm. She returned it in kind and, as they separated, took a better look at the bike itself, crouching to examine it better.

It was as wild as Zig herself: reds, yellows, blues, lightning bolts. Color combinations that should clash, but somehow worked on this particular bike. All quintessentially an imprint of the personality who made them. Orse found the colors beautiful. She could almost see the code behind them, their deeper meaning revealed only to her, interpreted through the machine’s mechanical soul. “She almost looks happy to ride, or to be ridden. Like she’s rearing to go even as she’s standing still,” Orse said, seemingly more to herself than Zig, her hand lightly passing along the smooth surface.

She looked at the engine as well, noting the modifications “You put thrust coils on her? No wonder you were zoomin’ so much. Bet you could give them a run for their money in there, if they let you.” She pondered, I could make that happen. Probably.

“Pick seats?” Orse jumped to her feet, looking between Zig and the speeder. Is she asking if I want to ride with her? “On…the speeder?” she added hastily, a slight blush covered her face.

“Oh, right! Sorry, I misunderstood.” Orse passed her hand across her face in embarrassment before sighing. Great work. It took you, what, two minutes to embarrass yourself?

She huffed, steadied herself and smiled at Zig, trying to change the subject. “I got us special spots I think you’ll like. Let’s go.”

The speeder arena had been loud even by the speeders, but closer still the roar of engines thundered in their eardrums. The durasteel beneath their feet hummed faintly with it, a constant tremor that pulsed up through their boots and into their legs. As if the whole structure was breathing the excitement.

As they approached large entrance displaying a holographic “Giletta Racecourse” in bold aurebesh, Orse pulled out an ident chit she presented to the console and the droid security at the gate. “Welcome, customers. Proceed.” The faceless droid said in a recorded monotone. N5 series, old but still useful, Orse thought automatically. She noticed the pitting under the recently repainted chassis. Rust or poor maintenance? She wasn’t sure.

She snapped out of it soon enough. The crowds in the open area outside the arena grabbed her attention. Food stalls and vendors dotted the thirty foot wide aree spread from all along the side of the arena. Steps let from there up into the seating area at the edge of the course itself. There were a lot of people busy buying drinks, food, chatting, exploring, enjoying each other’s company… Orse seemed to shrink from it all, eyebrows furrowing in a way that betrayed apprehension and fear. She swallowed a lump and breathed. She’d endure it. She’d been working on it since the scene at the club. There was no way she’d let that happen again. She even pulled on the Force to help, calming herself in the moment. Shelooked over at Zig to see if she’d noticed but the Zygerrian happened to look away. Orse took a moment to reset, take a breath and remind herself why they were here. It helped.

“We can grab some food, and then go to our seats. If that’s ok?” She asked, drawing Zig’s attention. Her question was sheepish and careful, but presented with a genuine smile. “The race starts in about fifteen minutes. We have a bit of time.”

Orse didn’t expect the hand. It caught her off guard just enough to give her pause and make her breath hitch. Zig’s hand was warm and reassuring against the crowd. All these people didn’t seem quite as suffocating with that.

She glanced down at Zig’s smiling face. She was acting like it was nothing, like it was completely natural. Casual. As if she hadn’t just reached out and closed that distance between them without hesitation. it was a foreign concept for Orse, at least until Vez…she was even more direct and confident.

Her lips quirked slightly into a smile. She squeezed lightly, nervously, enough to reciprocate. “Um,” she said, snapping herself out of it. “I like popcorn, but I like to add this super spicy ground pepper we got from mom’s hometown on Solyat. It grows in the jungle and has to be picked with these weird tools,” she waved her hands, demonstrating the process. “Just for a bit of kick. Oh and Kiasti butter too. I doubt we’ll find that, though.” She rambled, apprehension kicking in without her consent.

The vendor scooped a generous portion into a large container. The kernels were still crackling, fresh out of the broiler. He handed it over, and Zig took it carefully, feeling the residual warmth through the thin flimsiplast. Fresh and hot, with cheap synth butter just like Zig said, but it smelled divine. She huffed and moved the container between hands shaking the heat away as Orse paid and thanked the vendor. Orse grabbed a handful as they left, tasting the salty and slightly sweet flavor. She didn’t comment on the taste but her expression and resounding Mmm were all the reaction that was needed.

They walked through the crowd towards the seating area, chatting about the scenery, the stands, the people. Just before the entry to the stands, Orse took a hard left. A door loomed in front of them. Thick plasteel, reinforced with heavy hinges, marked with hazard lines and a glowing panel that flickered faintly in aurebesh: No entry except for staff. The sound beyond the door, even muffled, was unmistakable and raw. Engines screaming, metal clanging, the hiss of hydraulic hammers and hydrospanners working on motorized monsters and speed demons. Orse pushed a code cylinder into the locking mechanism and the door opened.

“Ta-dah…” she said sheepishly, as if presenting the most mediocre surprise ever.

Orse let herself be pulled along for a step or two before her pace slowed, her attention splitting half on Zig, half on the space around them. There were others there. Staff, maybe. A couple of figures leaning casually against a couple of tall tables, watching the race with the kind of detached familiarity that suggested they saw this every day. A few glanced at them as they entered, then dismissed them just as quickly when they noticed an accreditation Orse had slipped around her neck. Sponsor it said on it in bold aurebesh.

A speeder screamed past the viewport just as Orse lifted her gaze. It was so fast it barely resolved into shape before it was gone. A streak of color and distortion of air. The sound followed a fraction of a second later, slamming into the viewport with a violent roar that rattled the flimsiplast in its socket.

Orse flinched slightly. Her shoulders tensed on instinct, breath catching before relaxing again. A sense of belonging traveled up her spine replacing the old anxiety she felt out there, in the crowd.

She looked at Zig again and smiled faintly. Her reaction should have felt like a win. It did, a little. She had managed to impress her just a tiny bit. That counter for something, but not entirely.

Because this wasn’t the real surprise.

And now Zig thought it was. Orse felt heat creep up the back of her neck from the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in her chest. She’d rushed it and said the wrong thing too early. Framed it completely wrong. Maybe she should have put it all in writing and explained to Zig what they were doing. Why even come up with surprises if you’re gonna ruin them? Now it just looked like this was it.

“This…uh…it’s not…this isn’t” Her voice came out tighter than she intended. She stopped and closed her eyes for half a second to gather her thoughts and stop mumbling. Zig went quiet. Orse could feel her attention shift to her, like a weight on her shoulders. Embarrassment.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, then forced her shoulders to loosen. She gave Zig a small sheepish smile.

“This isn’t the spot,” she said. “I mean…it’s a spot, and I like it. Just not the one I meant.” She still held Zig’s hand, thankfully, and started for one of the stairs in the corner, expression dire as she cursed herself internally for being a klutz. She’d best fix it quickly. They crossed the room quickly, Orse keeping her gaze forward now, focused on the heavy door at the bottom of the stairs. It was marked with hazard lines and a smaller control panel.

She stepped up to it, pulling the code cylinder from her jacket and sliding it into place. The mechanism clicked, then whirred softly as it processed the authorization.

Behind the door the sound hit different. More raw, unfiltered, thundering.

This was it.

The lock disengaged with a heavy clack and Orse pulled the door open. Heat saturated with fuel vapor, hot oil, and the metallic bite of ionized particles rushed passed them. It hit the back of her throat, sharp enough to make her swallow instinctively.

Then the noise followed suit: engines screaming, revving, testing. Pushed hard and held there. Orse’s heart fluttered. She enjoyed this part of her sponsorships the most. She tightened her grip on Zig’s hand without thinking.

“Careful,” she said, raising her voice to outstrip the noise, “It’s—” The rest was cut off.

An engine roared to life as they both poked their heads out with curious looks. There, in the pit, next to the engineers and techs and backup riders, an Arrogantus-X Skyblade-221 Swoop Bike. The woman on top of it, a Twi'lek by the looks of her, revved teh engine on a dyno in the last preparations before the race. The sound slammed against them, voilent and brutal. It rattled the floor underfoot, reverberated through their chests, made their ears ring.

Around them other speeder bikes and swoops filled each of the maintenance bays. Sleek, dangerous machines in various states of readiness, some hovering low, engines already humming, their frames vibrating with contained power, panels snapping back into place as mechanics scrambled to finish last-second adjustments. Others already proceeding to the starting line, cheered on by accomplished crews. Fuel lines disconnected with sharp hisses. Tools clattered to the ground. A mechanic shouted something Orse couldn’t quite make out over the rising noise.

And then one of the speeders surged, its engine screaming as it shot out of the pit lane, disappearing onto the track in a blur of motion. Another followed. Then another. The ground trembled beneath Orse’s boots as the machines launched one after the other, each departure marked by a blast of sound and hot exhaust that rolled through the pit like a shockwave.

For a moment, she didn’t say anything, she didn’t move, she just let it wash over her. This was the bit she loved most about being a sponsor. She felt the noise, the heat, the energy of it all crashing around her and then, finally, she glanced at Zig.

“This,” Orse said, her voice filled with barely contained excitement, “was the surprise.”

For half a second, Orse just froze as the kiss more of a reaction than the blast of engines.

Her mind blanked momentarily, breath caught between a gasp and a laugh, and the heat that had already been building in the pit suddenly felt like it had nowhere to go but straight into her face. She was too easy to embarras, she realized. And Zig was using that, probably deliberately. She felt a bit annoyed, but then….why did she like it so much?

Then Zig spoke up nonchallantly, and just like that, the moment shifted. She exhaled, grateful for the distraction, even if her pulse didn’t completely settle in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said, a little breathless at first, slowly growing steadier as she slipped into a more professional mindset, one she was familiar with. “Naruba-series accelerator coil. Third gen, but heavily modified. They’ve overclocked it past standard tolerance, probably pushing…twelve percent over factory limits? Twelve-point-four, if I’m thinking right.” She found that hard too next to the Zygerrian.

Her eyes tracked movement in the machinery as the Twi’lek rider throttled it again, the engine whining with a sharp, aggressive pitch.

“They swapped the regulator array too,” Orse continued, gesturing with her free hand at one of the consoles connected by wire to the sensors on the engine. “See how the output curve spikes at the high rev range instead of smoothing? That’s not standard. It’s a custom phase-synced governor. Lets them dump power faster on launch, but it’s poor with stability.” She didn’t even glance at Zig tocheck if she was following, confident in her friend’s know-how. “And the repulsor field…that’s been recalibrated. Lower hover profile, tighter magnetic containment. Makes cornering sharper, but if the compensator lags even a fraction,” she made a small, tilting motion with her hand, “they’ll skid out or flip. So we have a great rider for it.”

Another engine roared as a different speeder launched past them, the blast of exhaust washing over the pit. Orse barely flinched this time, accustomed now to the usual chaos of the pit. Instead, she nodded toward the Skyblade again, where a stylized marking gleamed along the side panel. It was a stylized font with neon pink and blue striping around a silver sheened fill. Hard to miss once you knew to look.

y0l0.

Her lips curved, just slightly. “That one’s ours. Well, mine,” she said. She wasn’t boastful but a hinto of pride did escape with the last word. “I mean, not mine alone,” she added quickly, her sheepishness flickering back into life. “Multiple sponsors, obviously. But I do provide parts, funding, and access to certain…harder-to-get components.”

Her eyes flicked back to Zig again, a little more uncertain now. “That build? I helped with the coil housing and the thermal dampeners. Keeps it from melting itself during sustained output.” A small shrug followed mild uncertainty. “Usually.”

Orse smiled at the compliment. It felt…good…to be validated, even though she never truly looked for that in anyone, especially Zig.

“I like the sport so I like to support smaller teams. Especially ones that like to experiment and do some of the riskier stuff. The go-getters.” She looked over to the speeder as the small team of mechanics finished working on it. The driver, a tall and lean Zeltron lady with long magenta hair tied back into a high tail that swayed sharply behind her, approached the speeder with the easy confidence of someone who knew exactly how dangerous she was. A mechanic handed her a helmet and she tucked it under one arm, then planted a boot on the side strut of the swoop and swung herself up into the saddle in one fluid motion.

The engine responded instantly, howling with the slightes pressure of her boot. The Naruba coil whined at a pitch high enough to vibrate in Orse’s teeth as the rider revved the throttle experimentally. Heat blasted outward from the exhaust vents, rippling the air around the bike.

One of the techs read out the final telemetry numbers over the noise. Another unplugged the cables from the bike and closed the maintenance hatch as he slapped the hull twice.

“She’s ready!”

The Zeltron pilot smiled, slid her helmet on and surged the swoop enough to kick up hot air and force nearby techs to step back. The bike slid cleanly out of the bay and joined the slowly moving line heading toward the starting lane.

“There she goes,” Orse said then looked back at Zig. “C’mon.”

This time she was the one holding zig’s hand as excitement took over. She guided them out the hangar and down, closer to the starting line to an observation platform where crew chiefs leaned over railings with datapads and headsets, tracking the outgoing racers.

Some of the crews shook their heads, others smiled. one crew chief gave her the finger guns whisch she replied with. The last one to notice them was Karoula, the Besalisk chief of the Silver Stars racing crew that she was the sponsor of.

“‘Bout time you joined us! It’s about to start. Let’s see if those upgrades of yours work.” He seemed annoyed, though his tone betrayed affection just as much. Orse gave him a faux salute as she reached into one of the lockers near him and pulled out two heavy audio headsets. “These help,” she said, offering one to Zig. “Otherwise you won’t hear anything except engines.”

She slid hers on first, adjusting it over her white dreadlocks before tapping the controls on the side. Immediately the sound changed. Muffled were the sounds of engines and ambient noises, enough for the voices to cut through underneath. Crew chatter, race updates, telemetry callouts…

“Pit lane clearing in thirty seconds—”

“Skyblade Two-One-One reading green across all outputs—”

“Watch the fourth row launch spread—”

She clicked through the crew channels until she found their own.

The track lights at the starting line flashed from red to bright blue as engines rose together into a deafening chorus. One by one, the racers began roaring on the launch grid. Repulsors whined as the bikes hovered inches above the duracrete, heat shimmered around them in visible waves.

Orse leaned forward slightly against the railing. Her pulse matched the rising engines. She turned to zig and motioned for her to join her.

Then the launch klaxon blared and the first lap began.

The words were were barely audible over with the rumbling storm of engines, but despite the chaos around them, they were clear enough for Orse to understand. Somehow they still struck a chord and made Orse swallow. And then she remembered Vez, and the guilt crept in. Subtle, deceptive, almost imperceptible, but still there. She smiled back, a weak smile that she was thankful Zig didn’t notice.

The race itself became a blur of noise, cheering, and adrenaline. The Silver Stars performed brilliantly, the Zeltron rider pushing aggressively, lap through laps, overtaking two racers, then three on a hard inside turn that made several crew chiefs nearby curse loudly into their headsets. Karoula nearly crushed his datapad in excitement. “That’s the governor adjustment!” he barked over comms, turning toward Orse, pointing his finer. “That responsiveness! That’s all you, my girl!”

Orse tried to look modest about it and failed as he smile widened and cheered excitedly. Zig cheered with her. Every time the Skyblade hit a corner, or another straight, Orse found herself unconsciously explaining something else about the airspeeder: the modified thermal dampeners preventing power blee, the rebalanced repulsor stabilizers, the reinforced coil housing that let the engine sustain overdraw longer than regulation standards allowed. There were no regulations here. This was Group Besh, after all. Everything was permitted. Zig listened to all of it, eagerly devouring the information bit by tantalizing bit as her own expertise filled in the gaps that Orse left out. She wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, but Orse seemed to focus on the complicated stuff, trusting in Zig’s know-how.

By the midpoint of the race, they were both leaning over the railing together, shouting over engines and laughing whenever another racer nearly spun themselves into the barrier trying to keep pace. The Silver Star racer dominated but ended up taking second only because the regulator on the Skyblade malfunctioned in the last corner. Karoula declared it a robbery and immediately began ranting about regulations. He was reminded, politely but firmly, that there are none. None that he could leverage, anyway.

Once the chaos of the race started calming and crews began hauling speeders in various states of disrepair back into maintenance bays, Orse led Zig back in to the Silver Stars pit where they met the rider, Iri Domaa, the Zeltron responsible for riding that airspeeder to within an inch of its life. She was…well she was undeniably hot, but her insight into the speeder: how it ran, how it leaned, the airflow, the flaps the engine. The duo absorbed all of it. It’d have to be replaced…a lot of it. Such was the way of these races. Tehy usually broke the engine after one or two races. Orse would be busy getting replacement parts soon enough.

As the hustle and bustle woun down and the pair said their goodbyes to the crew, Orse led Zig away from the track and toward the quieter industrial sectors of the southern districts. Her droid shop sat wedged between a machine parts supplier and an old speeder refurbishing garage, its exterior marked by flickering neon Aurebesh and a stylized holographic mascot or a Twi'lek mechanic. It was quaint and dirty and not at all a good place for a date…except for Zig. Her eyes bloomed when she saw the interior was full of parts, pieces, bits and bobs of various droids. Some in partial assembly, some nearing completion, almost all waiting for brain to operate them. In as much as it was parts shop.

“I have a couple of these stations on different planets in teh galaxy, just in case I need to lay lor or repair one of the crew,” she said as she entered after Zig and turned on the rest of the neon lighting. The familiar scent of ozone, lubricant, oil, and overheated circuitry wrapped around Orse like a blanket. Droid limbs hung from wall racks beside diagnostic tools and half-disassembled chassis. Workbenches were crowded with datapads, wiring coils, and open housings. Orse relaxed almost immediately upon entering.

“As much as I love the speed court and the adrenaline, this is more my speed,” she admitted quietly. She tossed her jacket over the back of a chair and moved naturally toward the central workbench. Zig followed close behind, already eyeing the half-disassembled astromech sitting in pieces across the table. It was an new Rpublic model, or an imperial one. Either way, it was military.

“Oh, this poor guy got gutted,” Zig observed, passing her fingers over the exposed wiring and servos.

“Black market memory wipe gone wrong,” Orse replied. “Some idiot tried bypassing the secured processor housing with a fusion cutter.”

Zig winced. “Painful.”

“Very.” Orse sat down at the table and dragged another chair next to her. “You mind helping me fix him?” There was a nervousness to her question. A slight break in her voice that betrayed her desire and her terror.

Zig smiled wide, her grin something between cocky and genuinely flattered. That “What took you so long” look came up as quickly as the smile did. “Of course!”

They spent the next hours working side by side almost effortlessly, learning about how each of them worked, their preferred workflows, their desires and wants. It all came through, through their work together. Orse handled the finer circuitry with a good quality solder wand, and some Force assistance, while Zig rebuilt damaged servos and recalibrated movement assemblies with the confidence of someone who had spent years elbow-deep in machinery. Conversation flowed easier there than it had anywhere else that night. They talked about the race first: the near collision on lap six, Domaa’s absurdly risky overtakes, about how one racer had definitely been running fuel injectors illegal on the planet.

Soon enough, effortlesly and as naturally as breathing, their talk softly drifted into deeper discussions. Sponsor work. Custom builds. Engineering theoies. Slicing. S.T.A.R. and what it meant for Zuza and all of them. They even talked about Zig’s potential as a racer where Zig admitted she’d thought about it before, had done it in her own ways, but never like this.

Orse looked up from the circuitry she was soldering. “I think you’d be good at it,” she said without thinking. She had meant it, but probably not meant to say it. Before Zig could reply she added. “Uh what I mean is I’ve seen you ride. You have the confidence for it.” Zig blinked, then she smiled. That same stupidly pretty smile that kept making Orse lose track of her thoughts.

“You think so?” she teased.

Orse immediately regretted speaking. “I mean you understand machines really well,” she corrected quickly, focusing very hard on the soldering iron. “And racers who understand their own builds usually do better…and survive longer.”

“…That’s somehow both encouraging and threatening.”

Orse snorted softly.

Then her commlink rang.

The sharp sound cut through the comfortable atmosphere instantly. Orse frowned, setting the soldering tool down before pulling the device from her pocket.

Vez.

A strange knot formed immediately in her stomach. A slight tug on the Force that made her feel unease as she saw the name ringing…ringing…

She answered.

“Hey—”

“Orse!” Vez’s voice was tense. Too tense. “Where are you?!”

Orse straightened instinctively.

“At…the shop. With Zig. Why?”

Static crackled briefly across the line.

Then—

“It’s Zuza.”

The warmth drained out of the room all at once. Orse’s stomach dropped. Ziag was on her feet, inches from the comm, recognizing the tone, speaking. “What happened?!”

A moment’s pause was enough to raise the tension even more. “I think she’s been taken.” Vez sounded furious underneath the fear. “S.T.A.R. found Frong when he came back. He was….hurt. She lost contact with Zuza’s transponder thirty minutes ago.”

Orse looked up immediately at Zig’s expression. The Zygerrian had already gone pale.

“I think it’s the Collective.” Vez’s voice lowered.

“What…what makes you say that?” Orse asked, unsure what to make of it all.

“Because the Brotherhood just announced a war headed for the Collective’s home system.”