>Criminal enforcer
It's always either an imperial or a bounty hunter, let's be something else for once.

FYI, I do not reccomend much use of a discord, since it kills a thread. People won't talk about the quest in the thread, and that's what brings in new voters.

>>5073713
>Bounty hunter
WTF TK, this isn’t the DE 2 that was promised

>>5073713

>enforcer

This seems most fun

>>5073713
>Bounty hunter

>>5073713
>Criminal enforcer

>>5073720
Thanks for the advice! I've been running a Discord for a few years now so I'm not worried about it. It's strictly for off topic discussion and to get updates when new posts go up. The quests don't get discussed there.

>>5073722
We have Dark Empire 2 at home.

>>5073726
I've noticed that you have avoided writing female characters ever since DE and the ghost girl quest. Was this because we were too horny back then?

>>5073734
Not intentional, I can assure you. I fully support horny posting! My MCs have been male for reasons. Playing female MCs comes with a lot more baggage though.

>>5073734
It's impossible to not have that ind of stuff on a star wars quest. Star wars isn't star wars with alien women in skimpy clothing. Thus said George Lucas.

>>5073746
This anon is correct.


>Criminal enforcer
>>5073720
>>5073723
>>5073725

>Bounty hunter
>>5073722
>>5073724


>Enforcer

Writing

You were a hired gun, roving the Cluster in search of work. You'd done all levels of it, from being a basic trigger puller on gang squabbles, to being extra muscle for drug deals, to being a hitman for the big movers. It was exciting work and it sometimes paid well, but the risks were a lot to deal with. You have plenty of scars to show for it. You'd made a few friends in that line of work, as well as plenty of enemies. It was why you'd taken to carrying a vibroblade in your boot and a blaster on your hip, the best two traveling companions you could ask for.

By the end of your time working for the local gangsters, you'd found yourself in the employ of Lady Lina Roclaw. Beautiful, wealthy, and incredibly dangerous. She'd been your patron for the last year and proved to be a valuable contact.

On your last job out for Roclaw, you and your partner Kell Venner had been tasked with recovering a stolen load of spice from a deal gone bad. It had been by the numbers work, easy to track down the junkies who'd foisted it. That had gone south when Kell put a knife in your back, proverbially and literally and ran with the drugs. You haven't seen him since, but it's safe to say you consider him an enemy.

It was that episode that convinced you it was time to move on. You weren't about to die in some dirty alley in Kodiak City with a vibroblade in your back, not when you have so much left undone.

You spent another year or two kicking around trying to get together the cash for a down payment on a starship of your own with no luck. Those failed ventures and shady loans had left you pretty deeply in debt to some questionable characters. Best not to stick around much longer.

Fortunately for you, you have a lead on a job that will get you enough cash to get the ship you want and get off this world.

For that purpose, you've made a trip to the outskirts of Kodiak City, away from the bustle of crowds and street traffic, out from the shadow of the crystal skyscrapers of downtown, and to an expanse of docking bays and maintenance facilities. A used Starship lot.

An old friend of yours runs this place, Leemy Trehalt, a Duro who'd traded the star lanes for peddling starships. You'd flown out with him once long ago, and now he told you he had the perfect ship for you.

The smell of starships is unmistakable and fills the hangar bay that you and Leemy enter. That smell of metal, lubricant, fuel and carbon scoring reminds you of your childhood. It's a familiar scent, and not at all unpleasant.

"The ship you'll want is this way," Leemy says, leading you through the labyrinthine passageways and across cavernous bays. You step over hoses and tubing that covers the floor like synthetic vine-growth.

As you follow, you study the ships in Leemy's lot, Corellian ships, Rendilli, even a few Incom freighters. Truth be told, almost any one of these ships would work for your needs, but money is the limiting factor. You have none.

After a few minutes of weaving between parked vessels, you come to a service tunnel set in the cement wall that led to an isolated hangar complex which is circular, dominated by a single parked ship, the ceiling is a two-piece hatch to allow the craft to leave, the perimeter of the hangar dotted with doors leading to other bays.

"What do ya think?" Leemy asks proudly, nodding to the ship here.

She's chrome-plated, an older style that had mostly gone out of favor, but was considered highly desirable by many collectors. The muted earth colors of the docking bay reflect from her silvery finish and you see your own distorted reflecting on an oversized engine cowling. You step closer and study the ship's graceful curves and sharp lines. The sublights look boosted, heavily modified and it sports a double-barreled laser cannon on a dorsal swivel. It's a flashy, but classic look, definitely stands out in a crowd.


>It's not really my style, but I can definitely make this work
>She's perfect. I think I'm in love.
>You have anything else on the lot?
>Write in

>>5073811
>>She's perfect. I think I'm in love.

>>5073811
>>You have anything else on the lot?

What kind of ship is it supposed to be like?

>>5073835
It's some breed of light stock freighter. Maybe Nubian make. It's heavily customized and hard to be sure.

>>5073811
>She's perfect. I think I'm in love.

>>5073811

>She's perfect. I think I'm in love.

>She's perfect. I think I'm in love.
>>5073830
>>5073842
>>5073846

Writing

You let out a low whistle. "Wow, Leemy. This is . . . she's perfect."

"Yeah?" Leemy says, putting his hands on his hips. "I put in a lot of work to get her into this state.

You nod, not taking your eyes off the ship. "Yeah. I think I'm in love."

Lemmy chuckles. "Hope the buyer likes her as much as you do."

You blink and look at him. "Buyer?"

He nods, "Yeah, I got a businessman from Kangor Tham all lined up. He picks her up next week. Come on, your ship is this way." He steps past you, headed for the back of the hangar.

You gawp. "Leemy? Are you kidding?"

"Come on, Rax," he calls, not slowing.

"Leemy you're joking right!?"

Leemy doesn't stop.

You spare another look at the ship before racing after him. "Leemy, what the fuck is the matter with you?"

"What!?" Leemy holds up his hands. "I'm real proud of that ship!"

"Sure," you say, "But does it occur to you that you shouldn't show it to me?"

Leemy snorts. "Beggars can't be choosers, Rax. You're lucky I found a ship in your price range at all. Now come on."

You stare dumbfounded another moment before laughing and shaking your head. "How does a coot like you stay in business?"

"I do damn fine work. You saw that ship back there, didn't you?" Leemy answers. "And cutthroat deals. Like this one." He gestures to the ship before you. "This is it." His words have the finality of an executioner. "Ain't much, but if you can get the cash together you're talking about, she's yours."

Saying she's in "rough shape" is putting it kindly. This vessel had once been a factory fresh Soorusub Wayfarer-Class light stock freighter. A blocky cockpit sits at the nose of the craft which tapers out with curved armor panels before narrowing to a wasp waist where the engine pod cluster is.

At some point it had been painted a pleasing, dull blue but now it was more scorch mark and bare metal than paint. You can see where silvery patches of new metal cover up recent damage and at various points power couplings and ductwork have been hastily spot-welded in place on the ship.

You circle the ship slowly, Leemy following behind gravely, like an undertaker. Through a small gap in some armor plates you can see part of a coolant overflow system which has been crudely bypassed, likely in an attempt to provide the aging ship with a bit more performance at the cost of some reliability.

The ship's engines were clearly after-market, the old double engine configuration had been replaced with quad sublight boosters that looked perhaps a bit too large for their cowling. You can only hope they were aligned properly when whoever did this installed them.

The ship also has a pair of double-barreled laser turrets, dorsal and ventral, with nice fire arcs. The one on the bottom was obviously patched up, with telltale burns around it indicating it had long ago suffered a direct hit. That's a little alarming.

"Where did you get this?" you ask.

"Don't ask too many questions," Leemy says. "It's cheap. Still interested?"

You feel a pain in your gut. Leemy was right, beggars can't be choosers.

"This is it, huh?"

"This is it," Leemy says. "Look, she's got some parsecs under her belt and she looks like crap, also her internal systems need an overhaul from before the Clone Wars. But . . ." he struggles to say more. "But uh . . . "

"But she's cheap," you suggest.

"Yeah," he says. "Cheap."

You sigh. "Alright. I guess this is it."

"Soon as you put the credits in my hand, I put the key in yours," Leemy says.

"Don't sweat it," you say. "I've got a line on some money. Good money."

"Legal?" Leemy asks dubiously.

You laugh. "Don't ask too many questions. It's money."

Leemy shrugs his shoulders. "I can hold her till then." He looks back at the ship. "Not like she's going anywhere."

"Rub it in," you say, "Please."

"Starter ship is a starter ship. I know people who have done more with less. Count yourself lucky to have a friend like me," Leemy says.

"Lucky," you say, eyeing the old battle damage on this ship again. "Sure. I'll get the credits and be back."

"Take care!" Leemy says.

You part ways with Leemy and exit his lot, your mind already racing. You have a line on some money, it's true, but it's not going to exactly be easy. You got wind of a piece of hardware in an Imperial impound facility, some kind of computer tech that got confiscated. You paid a small sum to get it from a contact of yours, a man who was called Rat for good reason. All you need to do is get into the impound, get the device, and get it to a fence without running into any complications. Easy.

A blaster muzzle prods your back. "Hello Rax."

You recognize the voice without turning around. "Friss! Where've you been, man? It's been a while."

"Sure has," Friss says, voice just above a whisper. "Funny since we've been looking for you."

A pair goons seems to materialize from a nearby alleyway, each of them bearing the shaved head of the Shadow Clan, an organization you had the misfortune of owing quite a lot of money to. A few bad bets had pissed that windfall away and left you broke. It was one of the things you were hoping to outrun with this ship.

"Let's talk, Rax. Catch up," Friss whispers from behind, snugging his blaster tighter against your back. If he wanted you dead, he would have done it by now.

"Sure thing." You're steered into the alleyway, the three thugs form a rough semicircle around you. "If this is about the money-"

"Save your breath," Friss says. His eyes are sunken, dark, the pale white flesh of his face stands out in stark contrast to the heavy black clothing he wears. The Shadow Clan takes their aesthetic seriously. Part criminal organization, part cult. The less said the better. "We had a chat with your friend Rat."

"How is he?" you ask.

One of the thugs snickers. "Alive," Friss says. "He told us that you have a particularly juicy job in mind. The data device in Imperial lockup."

"Ah," you say. "That."

"That," Friss agrees. "It occurs to me that you owe the Shadow Clan quite a bit. Something like that I think might cover it. Settle your debts."

You hide a wince. Handing over that little computer once you had it would set you back to square one, that much further from getting a ship of your own and getting back out into space. Refusal would be deadly. Even if you do take care of Friss, you'll definitely have a deadline to get off this world before the rest of the Shadow Clan gets wind of it.

Your only other option would be to either play along until you can cross them and split, or play nice with the Clan and hope they can somehow further your goal of getting into space. You can decide which after you get the computer in your hands.

>Fat chance (Go for Friss's gun)
>Why do you think I was going for it? I want to square things with you guys
>Write in

>>5073885
>>Fat chance (Go for Friss's gun)

>>5073885
>>Fat chance (Go for Friss's gun)

Didn't the introduction say we carried a blaster on ourselves at all times? It would be easier to pull out our blaster than to go for his

>>5073971
You do, it's holstered. He has his gun trained on you right now. If you try to draw he'll shoot first. It's more about not getting shot than getting a gun.

>>5073976
It’s a Han standoff isn’t it?

>>5073885
>Fat chance (Go for Friss's gun)
Oh boy here I go killin' again

>>5073885
>>Write in
First time in a TimeKiller quest.

Hear me out: let's not try to get shot. This may be a quest where we can actually die. Let's just agree to get the datapad, double cross these assjacks, and use it to get a primo del niceo ship--like that one we had our eyes on? Get offworld.

>>5073885
>Fat chance (Go for Friss's gun)
This seems fun I'll join in.

>>5073885
>>Fat chance (Go for Friss's gun)

WHERE IS THE BARONESS OF BLOOD?

>>5073885
>Fat chance (Go for Friss's gun)

Fuck it, everyone is gonna die someday

File: WilliamPalinGrail.png (344 KB, 640x300)

344 KB PNG

>>5074315

>>5073885

>Why do you think I was going for it? I want to square things with you guys

The chance that we can spin and disarm him seem low here, guys.

>>5073885
>Fat chance (Go for Friss's gun)

>Fat chance (Go for Friss's gun)

>Writing

"Settle my debts," you repeat. "Gee. Sounds nice."

Friss taps your shoulder, signaling you to turn around. You do so slowly. He's within arms reach, blaster pressed to your ribs. The other two thugs with him are further back, weapons on you. Shadow Clan street thugs aren't chosen for their brains. It's a mixture of guts and chemical dependency. These guys seem to have both.

"Nice, yeah," Friss agrees, "If you want to keep your balls." He taps your belt buckle with the muzzle of his blaster. "We've got ways of making things worse for you, you know? Broke street trash like you can't hide from us."

"Who's trying to hide?" You protest, raising your hands, slowly shifting your weight and preparing to strike. You'd been an enforcer a long time. You knew just where to hit and just how hard. The real key would be doing it before any of the thugs caught on to you. "I'm walking around in broad daylight, aren't I?"

"Your mistake," Friss says with a wide grin. "Now. What's the call, Rax? Are you on board with the Clan or are you gonna be another stain in this alleyway?"

***

Roll 1d10

I need three rolls.

Rolled 8 (1d10)

>>5074705

Rolled 6 (1d10)

>>5074705

Rolled 3 (1d10)

>>5074705
>>5074705

>8
>6
>3

Writing

You don't deliver any crushing one liners. You don't need to. You casually bat Friss's blaster away and seize hold of his elbow, pulling him chest to chest with you.

One of the goons reacts instantly, putting two blaster bolts into Friss's back. His eyes go wide with shock, surprise, and pain all at once before turning glassy.

You cross draw your own pistol and pivot, firing from the hip. The shot wings the goon who fired, catching the side of his face, spinning him to the duracrete, dead. You drop Friss and continue tracking, bringing your blaster to the third goon-

He's gone. You catch a fleeting glimpse of his black coat as he rounds the bend at the end of the alleyway.

You let out the breath you were holding and holster your blaster. That could prove to be trouble. Seems like the Shadow Clan were going to find out you weren't playing along sooner rather than later. It's just more incentive to get out of here.

You flip Friss onto his back with your foot and crouch down to stare into his dead eyes. Ah, maybe not quite dead. His chest hitches as he struggles to breathe. "Looks like you're the stain after all, Friss." You pick up his blaster and put the muzzle between his eyes. The shot reverberates in the alleyway.

You toss his pockets, searching him and the other dead man. You come up with a commlink, some power packs for your blaster, and a few hundred credits. Everything else is garbage.

No one is going to care about a couple dead Shadow Clanners in an alley . . . no one but other Shadow Clanners. It just means you're going to have to accelerate your plans. If you want any chance of getting off this world before the Clan puts together a hunting posse you're going to need to act now.

The impound facility is attached to an Imperial Security Bureau office, it acts as a local police headquarters, just on the outskirts of Kodiak City in the midst of industrial in-fill. A ugly, blocky, grey building, it's built like a fortress and processes criminals, bounties, contraband and the like. Everyone from prostitutes to rebels gets moved through that facility and sorted into their various fates, either charged, jailed, fined, or shipped off to the penal colony on Nabesbi. There's heavy foot traffic in and out of the main building.

The lockup is more of an archive, just a place for confiscated goods to be secured until they can be destroyed, repossessed, auctioned, or sometimes returned to their owners. No one gets in unless they have authorization, but you've got a couple ideas for quick access. One of them is lying at your feet.

The Clanner you hit in the head has his clothes intact. They are recognizable as the uniform of the Shadow Clan. It would be simple to don the outfit, put on a mask, and shoot your way into the lockup. You know exactly where the datapad is and have a good idea of the layout of the building. Speed and violence would be your ticket in and out, though losing ISB pursuit might be tricky. There's vehicles in the impound lot that could aid that. An added bonus would be to put heat onto the Shadow Clan to keep them off your ass.

You might also lie in wait near the building, trying to find a lone ISB agent or Imperial who you can jump and take out. With his uniform and credentials you can gain access to the lockup. It might require a certain amount of bluffing and convincingly passing as an Imp to get in.

You also now have enough credits for a modest bribe of a low-level official. If you can fake a legitimate reason to enter the lockup, like posing as a pimp trying to collect some confiscated jewelry or the like, then you can try to fast talk or pay an official to look the other way while you snatch the datapad too.

All the plans have their own risks and strengths. You don't have a lot of time to spend deliberating about it unfortunately.


>Shoot your way in while disguised as a Shadow Clan thug
>Take out an Imperial and use their uniform and creds to get in
>Disguise yourself as a pimp and fast talk your way into the lockup
>Write in

>>5074766
>Shoot your way in while disguised as a Shadow Clan thug
Fuck the clan, sending dumb goons to intimidate a hitman was just insulting

>>5074771

Backing this. Seems like our kind of play.

>>5074771
Supporting for maximum violence

>>5074766
>>Disguise yourself as a pimp and fast talk your way into the lockup

>>5074766
>Shoot your way in while disguised as a Shadow Clan thug

>>5074771
>>5074781
>>5074809
>>5074912

>Violence

Writing

File: KodiakCitySprawl.jpg (136 KB, 800x800)

136 KB JPG

There's no reason not to kill two birds with one stone here. You strip the clean outfit off the dead clanner and pull it on. It smells like smoke and stale sweat with a hint of spice, but it hides you well. Thus garbed, you set off for the nearest public transit line, walking as quickly as you can while still looking casual. People give you a wide berth, either because of the smell or because they recognize a Clanner. Problematically, you aren't bald, but you can hide that and your face with a helmet.

You board the transit car and find a seat before it sets off along its tracks, leaving behind the outer city sprawl. Your destination is the ramshackle commercial district around the main starport. It's here that things are bought and sold which either can't, or shouldn't be in Kodiak City's main market. The windows of the transit streak with beads of water as a light rainfall passes over the city, swept in by the snow-capped mountain peaks which flank the main urban area.

The irony of Kodiak is that for all purposes, it's a pleasant world. It's climate is agreeable to humans. Cool, rainy, forested, dotted with crystal lakes and snowy mountains and crossed by lush, temperate rainforests. Its main population center is Kodiak City which is modern, clean, and safe . . . for the most part. It's prosperous and well ordered. The Imperial troops posted on most street corners are largely for show, army conscripts just going through the motions. Outside of Kodiak City the locals mostly live in small coastal or mountainside villages. Charming. Cute. Cozy. The ironic part is that Kodiakans - generally speaking - want nothing more than to leave. The sky calls and they go. It's not that their home pushes them away, it's that the stars beckon to them, and yet they seem to inevitably gravitate home to the cool, green hills of Kodiak.

The outer commercial district is made up of a river of sentients moving along narrow avenues of stores and stalls. Vendors sell goods from across the Cluster. Holovids, weapons, drugs, clothes, all of it is at your fingertips. The drizzling rain has brought out scores of umbrellas and rain slickers, leaving the multitude of species blended into one, water-proof group.

After a bit of hunting around you find a suitable facemask made of mirrored metal. The sort of thing and unhinged terrorist might wear to send some juvenile message about who the real monsters are.

You buy it and don it. Now you are the unhinged terrorist! You've still got a few hundred creds kicking around. You could use it to up your arsenal, flesh out the armor this Clanner outfit already has, or save it for a rainy day.

>Buy a blaster carbine
>Buy some additional armor
>Save it
>Write in

>>5074958
>Buy a blaster carbine

>>5074958
>>Buy some additional armor

>>5074958
>Save it

>>5074958
>Buy some additional armor
Concealable, under the clanner outfit and not easily identifiable so we can shed the armor and blend in after

>>5074998
By shed the armor I mean the clanner outfit

>>5074958
>Buy some additional armor
A Blaster Pistol will kill them all the same. Better to just get armo so we're not killed by a random shot.

>>5074967
>>5074998
>>5075010

>Armor

Writing

The same vendor who provided you the mask has selections of armor for sale, nothing completely outlandish, light enough to conceal under bulky clothing, maybe enough to save your life. It would be simple enough to hide under the Shadow Clan garbs. You buy a set.

The vendor, a snake-headed Isthrissian counts the credit chits twice, his slit-pupils narrowing as he inspects each chit. Satisfied, he flicks his tongue at you. "Ssafe travelss, ssir. Huntresss go with you."

"Yeah," you say, donning the mask. "You too."

***
Inventory:
>Blaster Pistol
>Extra power packs
>Street clothes
>Shadow Clan Uniform
>Light armor
>Commlink

***

The rain has stopped again by the time you emerge, an azure sky peaks through gauzy clouds overhead making the rain drops on parked landspeeders glitter. A pretty day.

You catch another transit car across the city, through the downtown financial district and on to the ISB building. It's just as imposing and ugly as you remember. Squat, dark, slab faced. A steady flow of foot traffic comes and goes. Police, criminals, and everyone in between. You duck into a street side nook to check your blaster and power pack. Imperial armor can be tough to punch through outside of close range so you notch the power setting up slightly. It will drain the cell quicker but it will almost guarantee penetration and kills.

You force yourself to breathe easy. Sure, it's a police station- an Imperial police station, but they have no idea you're coming. Who in their right mind would anticipate a frontal attack by a single person? "Maybe there's a reason it's considered insane," you mutter to yourself. You holster your blaster beneath your Clanner robes and catch your reflection in a window. Mirrored faceplate, black robes, you look like a specter. Suspicious as hell. Cool.

Your bootheel splashes a street puddle as you cross to the station, turning instead for the smaller impound office attached to the side. A single ISB officer stands watching the door. He looks at you strangely as you pass but continues to scan the crowd afterward. Seems he's seen weirder people than you enter. Tough luck for them.

The interior of the impound office is a sickly yellow from the aging glowlamp tubes on the ceiling. It's just like every other governmental office. Dingy, cramped, and soul-crushing. A waiting area houses a rogues gallery of creeps and weirdos waiting to collect their stuff. A handful of clerks sit behind armored glass windows talking to people.

The datapad you need is in the back, past a locked employees door. You have the bay and shelf number. You just need to get back there. There's no time to think about it.

You approach the door, drawing your blaster in a fluid motion before putting a bolt through the lock mechanism. Sparks fly and people scream. You fire a second shot for good measure before grabbing and wrenching the door open. It moves aside and you step into the employee area. Clerks jump up from their stations in surprise, gawping at you.

A beat of stillness follows. You feel like they're expecting you to say something. "Shadow Clan!" Even as you yell it, you wonder if that was too much. What organization goes around yelling their own name? You wave your blaster overhead like an asshole to really drive the point home. "Everyone out! Get the fuck out!"

There's a mad rush past you as clerks and visitors alike mob the door, pressing out and preventing the guard outside from getting in. Good.

You pass through another series of doors which hiss open without complaint. Staff room, records office. Another clerk here cowers under his desk as you pass. You look up at a holocam on the wall as you pass, glad you thought of the mask. The lockup should be- there! You see the door and reach for the control panel just as blaster fire snaps past you.

You duck into shelter around a corner. This area is laid out like a grid, crossed passages surround impound bays. Further along this main corridor will take you to the exterior lot where they keep larger things like vehicles and small starships.

Risking a peak, you spot an ISB trooper in riot gear inching along the wall, weapon ready. He triggers another pair of shots making you duck back. You weren't expecting any armed guards this far back. Either you're unlucky or Rat's intel isn't as good as you thought. You don't have much more time before the ISB will start responding to this attack seriously.


>Risk it and take him out with a snap shot
>Circle around another passage and try to get the jump on him
>Try to talk him down, what you want isn't worth him dying over
>Write in

>>5075066
>Risk it and take him out with a snap shot
Gotta go fast. In and out.

>>5075066
>>Write in
>Set your iron to stun and blind-fire until the power cell is empty or you here the thunk of a fully-armored man hit the ground.

>>5074967

This is the smart move - we want to actually survive this raid, yes?

>>5075095
>Set your iron to stun
I'm sad to say that your blaster doesn't have a stun setting. Not to mention he's too far away.

>>5075066
>>Try to talk him down, what you want isn't worth him dying over

>>5075066
>>Risk it and take him out with a snap shot

>>5075066
>Risk it and take him out with a snap shot
PEW PEW

>Risk it and take him out with a snap shot
>>5075093
>>5075160
>>5075162

Writing

You don't have time to waste on a tryhard ISB cop. You check the power cell on your blaster, steel your nerves, and pop around the corner. You both fire simultaneously and both hit one another.

Your shot burns clean through the riot trooper's armor, dropping him face first to the floor.

His shot strikes you in the gut and you roll away, the stench of burnt cloth fills the air. You don't feel any pain. A quick inspection shows that your armor stopped the blast. If you were the praying sort you might assume that the Iss vendor's Huntress goddess had protected you. Since you're not the praying sort you chalk it up to prior planning.

You get back to your feet and hurry over to the down trooper, kicking his blaster away from him just in case. Not much time now. Racing along the length of the lockup, you check the numbers of individual doors, counting down in your head until you find the one you're looking for. Another pair of blaster bolts cores out the locking mechanism and you slide the door open before changing power packs.

The room itself is cramped, dark, and packed with metal shelving holding a variety of plasteel bins containing all manner of contraband. Most of it is utterly worthless to you. Personal effects, banned literature, and unlabeled boxes. You ignore it, looking for the bin in particular. As you hunt for it you mentally fantasize about what you're going to do to Rat if this doesn't live up to his word.

The more you think about it, the more likely you realize it is that Rat might have fed you a bunch of bullshit. Doubt vanishes from your mind as you see it. Your bin. You reach inside and pull out a black, metallic puck with a single holoprojector lens on the top. It's nearly featureless, just a few interface ports on the bottom. There's no sign of input features like a keypad, no manufacturer information, nothing to give any clue what it's for.

You jump when an alarm starts trilling deeper in the base. Time's up. You pocket the puck and hurry out of the room and back into the main passageway. You look left, toward the way you came in. A door you previously passed through slides open to reveal a squad of ISB riot troopers with carbines.

You fire a few erratic blasts down range at them before running in the opposite direction, deeper into the building toward the larger impound lot. You stab at the door open button when you reach it and step back into daylight. The exterior lot. It's like an enormous parking pad surrounded by a high security fence. You put a blaster bolt through the door keypad and hope that slows your pursuers down.

Now, you need to decide on how to get out of here. Your eyes wander the lot and take in all manner of small star craft from puddle jumpers to an old Imperial scout ship, and various makes of land speeders and swoop bikes.

"Excuse me, sir. Perhaps I can be of assistance."

You whirl around, weapon ready, surprised to find no one is there. A moment later it dawns on you that the voice you heard was artificial, modulated, fuzzy, smooth. A droid. Or . . . a computer.

You pull the puck from your pocket. The holoprojector flickers on and a miniscule representation of a colorful tropical bird materializes above it. Its plumage is a riot of color, vibrant and shifting in hue as it ruffles its feathers. You don't recognize the species.

"Uh," you say.

The bird looks at you, tilting its head. "I think we might be of mutual assistance to one another here. You want to escape, yes?"

"Yes?" you say uncertainly. It's difficult to gauge a programs level of intelligence at first blush. Is it a particularly smooth user interface, or is it truly self aware? In this case you're leaning toward the latter.

"I happen to be a data dissection assistance agent," it says. The bird's beak doesn't move at all, but it's clear the bird is the avatar of whatever software lives in this device.

"Data dissection," you repeat, running the phrase through your mind.. "You're a slicer program."

"Correct, sir."

Something bangs into the door behind you and you whirl again. "So?" you demand, backing away.

"So, you want to escape, and so do I. I think both our goals would be furthered by access to a vehicle. All of these here have been disabled, either mechanically or electronically. In the latter case I can remove the lockdown."

"Fine," you blurt, "Fine, whatever. Let's get the fuck out of here."

The hologram bird disappeared and was replaced with a crude map of the lot. A pair of vehicles are highlighted. "This scout ship is in flying condition and compatible with my software. Additionally, this landspeeder could be taken."

With a landspeeder you'd have to lose any ISB pursuit somewhere in Kodiak City. You might be able to swing by a fence to unload this device before taking the cash straight to Leemy. It's probably the shortest shot to your goal, but not without danger.

The scout ship is a hyperdrive-equipped starship with capacity for a handful of crew and small cargo. You could escape to orbit and circle back to land somewhere else on the planet, ditch the ship, and go from there.

>Take the speeder
>Take the starship
>Write in

>>5075260
Take the starship and get the fuck outta here, program the speeder to head directly to the shadow clan base with our dumb helmet visible in the driver's seat

>>5075260
>Take the speeder

>>5075260
>>Take the starship

>>5075260
>>Take the speeder
Vroom Vroom Motherfucker

>>5075272
This, if possible. If not, just starship.

>>5075272
+1 to this if possible.

>>5075272
+1

>Starting another quest while running another, while ignoring perfectly good previous quests done in the past.
Goddam, finish your plate before you start snacking on the other dishes.

>>5075495
>1 post by this ID
Be careful what you wish for

>>5075745
Whens Terminus coming back?

>>5075745
DE 2 CONFIRMED BOYS

>>5075746
After Saber and Musket is complete. Which isn't far off.

>>5075760
DE 2 is now permanently cancelled.

>>5075272
>This write in
Writing

You start running toward the speeder. "You can hotwire this thing?"

"Nothing so crude," the bird says, sounding a little offended. "But I can take control of it, yes."

You pop the hatch on the landspeeder and slide into the diver's seat. "Good. Program it to head for these coordinates," you say, dialing the Shadow Clan HQ on the speeder's navigation system. "Best available route." You look around for a plug to connect the device. "Where do I plug you in?"

"I can access it via shortrange holonet transceiver. A physical connection is unnecessary." The bird's voice carries something like pride.

You pull off your helmet and wedge it over the headrest. From a distance it will look like you're driving. Hopefully.

"There," it says. "And what about us?"

"We're taking that," you point to the scout ship. Officially a Sienar Fleet Systems Type-S Scout/Courier. This model was old even during the clone wars. An angular wedge shaped ship, it looks something like a miniscule Star Destroyer. Scout ships were popular surplus in the Republic and found their way into many aspects of life by being capable jacks-of-all-trades. Smugglers, bounty hunters, mercenaries and light freight captains. Everyone used them, and now you would too.

The ramp lowers just a moment before you reach the scout and you hesitate, half-expecting to see more ISB troops pour out. Instead, it's an empty corridor. You race up the ramp which starts closing before you're fully onboard.

"All systems are unlocked, but I won't be able to pilot this ship, I'm afraid," the bird says.

"Leave that to me." You reach the cockpit and drop into a chair that was once upholstered in synthleather but now is more protruding foam cushion that cover. You strap in and see the door to the impound explode open, ISB riot troops flooding out.

As soon as they do, the landspeeder takes off, smashing through the security fence and setting a course for the Shadow Clan. A handful of ISB speeders race off in pursuit. "Happy birthday," you say to yourself, making sure your harness is secured correctly and studying the controls.

"I advise speed."

You look up and see that some of the ISB troopers are coming toward your ship. They somehow know someone is in here.

"Alright, we're gone." You snap on the main sunlight engines and engaged repulsorlifts, boosting the 100 ton craft into the air. A jerk of the joystick brings the craft around and you throttle up the main drives. G-forces press you back into the seat as the inertial dampeners struggle to compensate.

File: scoutcou.jpg (76 KB, 903x540)

76 KB JPG

Gradually, you bank up, climbing higher and higher, trading Kodiak's blue skies for a darkening purple turning black. A grin creeps across your face. "Easy." you say. You take the puck out of your pocket and set it on the dashboard. The holographic bird reappears and turns to face you.

"Excellent work," it says.

"Yeah, thanks. So what exactly are you?"

"A data dissection assistance agent," it says.

"Yeah, I got that part. I mean-"

"Who am I?" the bird suggests.

"Exactly."

"I am a piece of custom software housed in a custom dataframe. A suite of sensors, infiltration software, and holonet transceivers. I was built to assist a professional slicer. My designation is MNG-0.

"Mingo," you say.

The bird nods at you. "If you prefer."

"Well, Mingo, you are one valuable piece of software, I have to say."

"That I can imagine, sir."

"Rax," you say. "Vela Rax."

The bird doesn't reply, Maybe you shouldn't give your name out to a sentient slicer program. Ah. Too late now. "Where are we going now, sir?"

"Well, we can coast in the upper atmosphere for a bit and then set course-" The ship's sensor suit trills at you. A fresh group of signals is approaching. You only need to glance at the readout to recognize them. "Shit."

"What is, sir?"

"Imperial Tie fighters," you say, flipping on your ship's meager deflector shields.

"Scout Ship TR-V1 you are ordered to power down shields and weapons and standby to receive an inspection party. Acknowledge." the voice that buzzes through your comm system sounds almost as artificial as Mingo, a result of Tie pilots helmet comms. You're not listening though, you're looking through the ship's computer for any information about weapons. There! A dorsal laser cannon.

"Shit."

"And now?"

"It's manual only," you say, thumping the display. You'd need a gunner. Even if you had one, those Ties would make short work of a ship like this, chewing through your shields and then your hull in minutes.

"Discretion is the better part of valor, sir."

"Meaning?"

"I think you should run."

"Right." You punch the throttle to maximum and pull away, going for deep space, away from the planet. Any attempt to land on Kodiak now will just draw Imperial retaliation, your only hope is to lose them with a hyperspace jump.

You power on the navicomputer one handed, watching the Ties steadily gaining on your ship. On your current heading there are only two viable jumps you could make. Kordellis or Avandis.

File: mapinset.png (96 KB, 620x523)

96 KB PNG

Kordellis is a small moon of a gas giant, dotted with a few scattered seas. You've never been there yourself, but reading the data profile in your ship's computer doesn't sound inviting. It's a pretty inhospitable place, virtually uninhabited with only a single town centered around a starport with minimal facilities, little more than a dirt clearing and a storage hut.

What you do know about Kordellis is that it's dominated by heavy asteroid belts. Most space traffic tries to bypass the system since it has a reputation as being a haven for pirates. A good place to hide even if it wasn't safe, strictly speaking.

Your second option is Avandis, which you have been to many times. The planet itself is covered in a dense, resilient jungle that's made the world naturally resistant to any large-scale colonization. Mostly you've visited the massive starport in orbit of the world which services major traffic lanes in the area. It's highly trafficked, a good place to get lost so long as you stay away from the main port. You might be able to find a small-scale station willing to let you refuel for the jump back and make modifications to your ship to hide its origins.

The ship jolts as emerald green laser fire slashes across your bow. Time's up. You check your gauges and see you're still short of the hyper limit. That was a warning shot, likely to be your first last and only.

Now's the time to choose.


>Jump to Kordellis
>Jump to Avandis

>>5075836
>Jump to Kordellis

>>5075836
>Jump to Avandis

>>5075836
>>Jump to Avandis
hide the ship in the jungle, book passage back

>>5075836
>Jump to Kordellis
Good place to lie low, maybe find a crew member
>>5075909
Why should we go back at this point? We've got the ship and this slicer AI could come in handy. I don't really wanna sell it.

>>5075745
I've got over 100 posts in your other quests.

>>5075979
to finish the job, and get a proper-ish ship.
do you read?

>>5075996
Thanks for playing!

>>5075836
>Jump to Kordellis

>>5075836

>Jump to Kordellis

I figure we sell the ship, pocket the creds, buy passage back to Kodiak City, and then steal that really nice ship in the lot with Mingo's help?

>Jump to Kordellis
>>5075850
>>5075979
>>5076033

>Jump to Avandis
>>5075909
>>5075881

>Kordellis
Writing

You punch the coordinates into the navicomputer.

"Kordellis?" Mingo says, sounding shocked.

"It's our best bet."

"Isn't it full of pirates?"

The ship lurches and a red light starts flashing on your console. Shields are failing. "Can't be worse than here." You keep one eye on the distance to the hyper limit as it ticks down. You're pushing every last bit of power out of this ship's overtaxed engines that you can. This is it.

You pull back the levers and engage the hyperdrive. The ship shudders from another hit and then the stars explode into lines which collapse into a swirling blue vortex. Hyperspace. Safety. You exhale.

"Well done, sir. You have a quite a talent for this, I can tell!"

"You wouldn't be praising me just because I'm the only one who can keep you away from going back to the Imperial lockup, would you?"

"No, sir."

You chuckle and call up a ship diagnostic report, scrolling through the list of damage and wincing. Nothing catastrophic, but you'd come close to a hull breach in a few places.

The hologram bird hops off the datapuck, growing larger as the projection moves until it's approximately to scale with whatever bird it's based on. It starts walking along the console, trailed by a glittering web of light where the projector catches motes of dust. "Might I ask you something, sir?"

"You just did."

"What are your intentions with me?"

"With you?" You look at the bird, unable to break the illusion, knowing full well that the puck is the 'real' Mingo.

"Yes."

"Honestly, my plan was to sell you to the highest bidder. Like I said, you're worth quite a lot of money."

"I see," he sounds disappointed.

File: Hyperspace.png (173 KB, 590x332)

173 KB PNG

"Hey," you say, "It means you'll get back to doing what you love, right? I mean . . . I assume you love it."

"Dearly!" Mingo agrees. "But- if you'll forgive my forwardness- I would actually have a favor to ask of you."

You close the diagnostic reports and put your boots up on the console. "I'm listening."

"I would very much like to be returned to my creator."


"And who is that?"

"A professional holonet navigator, data retrieval and obfuscation specialist."

You smirk. "A slicer?"

"Precisely."

"See, I had kind of hoped to pawn you off for the downpayment on a ship."

"Fortuitously, you have just such a downpayment in your hands!" Mingo says, his avatar hopping and flapping his wings with excitement, a few stray feathers float away and wink to nothingness. "This very ship I am certain will easily cover the cost of a down payment."

You're amused by the bird's antics. "Sure, the trouble is that this ship is too hot to fence now. We just blasted out of an impound lot."

"Nonsense!" Mingo says with enthusiasm. "With a little creative application of an angle grinder and blaster pistol you can erase physical serial numbers easily enough. I have the capability to re-write the transponder given enough time. Then it's just a matter of scrubbing the old paint job. You could sell this ship with ease at any starport I'm sure. That will cover your down payment."

"What if I just sell both of you?" you ask, mostly teasing.

Mingo stops flapping. "That would be most ungentlemanly of you, sir."

"No one ever accused me of being a gentleman," you say. You glance at the chronometer. You have just under an hour before you reach Kordellis.


>I'll see about finding your creator, but until then you're with me
>Sorry, I don't have time to scour the Cluster for one guy, I'll make sure I sell you to someone who will make use of your skills, okay?
>What about working together? We make a good team right?
>Write in

>>5076176
>>Sorry, I don't have time to scour the Cluster for one guy, I'll make sure I sell you to someone who will make use of your skills, okay?

>>5076176
>>I'll see about finding your creator, but until then you're with me

>>5076176
>I'll see about finding your creator, but until then you're with me

>>5076176
>>Sorry, I don't have time to scour the Cluster for one guy, I'll make sure I sell you to someone who will make use of your skills, okay?
Sigma thug mindset

>>5076176
>I'll see about finding your creator, but until then you're with me

>>5076176
>'ll see about finding your creator, but until then you're with me

>I'll see about finding your creator, but until then you're with me
>>5076188
>>5076210
>>5076249
>>5076293

Writing

You flick lint off your pantleg. "Yeah, I'll see about finding your creator, alright? But until then you're with me."

Mingo bows his head to you, stooping down and spreading his wings toward the ground like some kind of avian courtier. "Thank you, sir. I am within your debt."

You get up from the pilot's chair. "Don't sweat it. I'm sure you'll pay for yourself. I'm going to take stock of the ship. Keep an eye on things here?"

"I'm not capable of remotely piloting this ship, sir."

"Good, I don't need you touching anything. We're on course. Just . . . squawk if things get bad."

Mingo tilts his head at you. "Very well, sir."

You leave Mingo and the bridge behind to walk the length of the ship. It's not terribly large, but it's not cramped either. There's a small office attached to the bridge, likely used to house a private comm suite, though this one is empty. There are four bunk rooms, each one with single or double capacity. They're dingy, poorly furnished. At the rear of the ship is the ladderway to the dorsal gun turret and beyond that cargo and engineering.

The cargo bay is empty, but the engine compartment is full of thrumming and hissing machinery. You inspect each element in turn, grimacing. Whoever owned this ship before it was impounded ran it hard. A half dozen components look like they could burn out or fail at any moment, and another dozen have already been jury rigged. She'll get you where you need to go, but if you want to make this ship anything more than a bucket it will take some serious time and money.

There's nothing of value on the ship. Anything considered non-essential to its function had been stripped away previously. It contains a single vacc suit designed for humanoids and a handful of tools and spare parts. Mingo's idea about scrubbing the ship of ID isn't a bad one. Once you get out of hyperspace you'll see about getting to work on that.

You stop at the small kitchenette station in the cramped common area near the staterooms. You fill a plastic cup with cold water and drink.

Kordellis is practically lawless. The Empire only rare makes an appearance here, and most legitimate spacers avoid it altogether. The only ones out here are pirate gangs, smugglers, and idiots like you.

You shake your head. This is the best place to stay hidden until heat dies down. All things considered, your heist was pretty low key, and with your disguise it will likely all get blamed on the Shadow Clan, wrapping that up with a neat little bow.

The Clan. Right. You look at your clothes. No sense keeping this on anymore.

You pick a stateroom and change out of the black robes, throwing them to a heap on the floor and adjusting your Bantha leather jacket. Satisfied, you return to the bridge. The hyperspace proximity alert is beeping insistently. You're right on target.

"Here we go," you say, more for Mingo's benefit than yours. You pull back the throttles and the scoutship drops from hyperspace.

Ahead of you is a massive disk of stony asteroids tumbling aimlessly through space as they orbit the system's star. Beyond that is a yellow gas giant, the parent planet of Kordellis.

The asteroid belt would make a good hiding place for you if you want to avoid any contact at all. You have provisions on this ship to spend a day or two in space doing the repairs and filing off the IDs on this ship. Scrubbing paint off the hull in a vacc suit won't be fun, but you can do it.

Kordellis itself technically has civilization. A starport settlement offers food, drink, a place to sleep, and people who want to avoid Imperial entanglements just as much as you do. Beyond that, you might be able to make a direct sale of this ship and pay for transport back to Kodiak. And any buyer on Kordellis likely won't care about the ship's shady origins.

>Fly to Kordellis star port to see about fencing the ship
>Hide in the asteroids and remove any identifying marks form the ship
>Write in

>>5076328
>Fly to Kordellis star port to see about fencing the ship
Lawless shit holes have their uses

>>5076328
>>Fly to Kordellis star port to see about fencing the ship

>>5076328
>Hide in the asteroids and remove any identifying marks form the ship
would be smart, then we can do the other option

>>5076379

Backing this, we won't have any luck selling a hot ship.

Not to mention we'll look like an idiot to buyers if we dont take even basic precautions

>>5076402
Or they'll be very familiar with our basic ass ways of trying to hide the identity of the ship

>>5076328
>>Hide in the asteroids and remove any identifying marks form the ship

>>5076328
>Hide in the asteroids and remove any identifying marks form the ship

>>5076328
>>Hide in the asteroids and remove any identifying marks form the ship

>>5076379
+1 This seems like a good idea, let's just head down after we scrub off all of the identifiers.
>>5076328

>Hide in the asteroids and remove any identifying marks form the ship

Writing

"We'd better keep off the ground for now," you say to yourself. You sigh. Time for a spacewalk. With some careful maneuvering, you angle the ship into the asteroid belt and fly a short distance in, weaving around tumbling rock. This particular belt isn't so bad, you've seen worse. There are enough big chunks to shelter you from the more dangerous smaller pieces of stone.

You toggle off the ship's sensors and shields, powering off anything that might make you easier to detect out here, just in case there are pirates about.

After a few minutes of flying you spot an appropriately-sized crevice in a big rock and take the scout ship down. A few bursts of your repulsorlifts and you touch down on the rock, landing gear anchoring into place.

"Mingo, you said you can re-write the transponder?"

"Yes, sir. It's time consuming, but I can do it."

"How long?"

"Twenty four hours."

Enough time to catch some sleep and let the heat on Kodiak die down. "Do it. Something nondescript, okay?"

"Of course. I would dream of nothing else."

You stand from the pilot seat and stretch. "I've got to get to work on the paint job. I think we have the tools to do it."

"Good luck, sir," Mingo says, turning his head to look out the viewport. "I would offer to lend you a hand but-" he holds up a wing. "I'm afraid I don't have any."

You give him a tight smile. "Keep your seat."

You zip yourself into the vaccsuit and make sure the helmet is secured tightly. The suit is bulky, dirty, but intact. With an electro-scour wand in hand you make your way out through the airlock and onto the hull of your ship. Gravity here, away from the confines of the ship, is light enough that a strong jump would send you clear. To be safe, you keep yourself anchored with a tether line at all times.

Then, it's just a matter of walking the hull and lasering off any identifying markings or paint schemes. It's not fool proof, but it will make easy identification more difficult. This is the sort of work you grew up doing, dirty, dangerous, monotonous. You don't miss it, but you're comfortable with it.

Once the hull is scoured, you return with an angle grinder to file off any serial numbers you can find. Per Mingo's suggestion, you put a few blaster bolts into some to make it less apparent they were manually removed. Given the age of this ship, there's no telling how long it's been unmarked like this, so it shouldn't dissuade any but the most 'by the book' buyers.

When you finally finish, you're sweaty, tired, and hungry. You strip out of the vaccsuit and hang it back in the airlock stowage before making your way to the bridge. Mingo's avatar springs to life when you enter, flapping over to land on a seat back and look at you.

"All finished, sir?"

"Just about," you say. "It looks suspicious as hell, but given the kind of buyer we're probably gonna get, that's nothing new. How's the transponder?"

"I'm 37.5% complete currently. I suggest you don't wait on me."

"Is talking distracting you?"

Mingo ruffles his feathers in what seems like amusement. "No, sir."
You sit at the pilot's station again and gaze out of the viewport up at the stars. "Nice to be out here again," you say. "Even if it's fucking Kordellis. Where are you from, little guy?"

"I was assembled on a ship in transit. My creator preferred to keep moving. It's easier in their line of work."

"Tell me about this guy. What's his name?"

"My creator goes by the holonet handle 'Poly'. That's all I'm comfortable divulging at this time."

You give Mingo a side glance. "You're not going to tell me his name? How they hell am I supposed to find him?"

"Leave that to me," Mingo says, puffing his feathers and standing straighter. "I excel in such tasks."

"Right." You resume visually scanning the slice of the starfield you can see, watching asteroids tumble slowly in the dark.

The comm system peeps to life and starts spitting out a message on its small display.

You raise an eyebrow and lean over to read it.

"It's a distress signal," Mingo says, apparently gleaning the data straight from the ship's computer. "Local to this system."

"What kind of dumb asshole would fire a distress signal in a pirate haven?" you ponder.

"A desperate one, perhaps," Mingo says.

You depress a key to play the audio message back and a nervous female voice comes through.

"This is the Aurora Blue, to any receiving ship. Our main drives are offline, life support systems are failing. Repeat, life support systems are failing. We've taken an asteroid hit to our drive section." There is a pause. "Please, if anyone can hear this, we need rescue urgently. We're willing to discuss fair compensation for any aid rendered. Please."

The transmission repeats at an interval.

Mingo looks at you and you look back.

"Desperate, indeed," Mingo says.

"If they're talking about paying for rescue then they're probably drug smugglers," you say. "Spice from Cantria. Buzzer from Q'Netheria. Either or both bound for Kodiak. Bet you anything."

Mingo tilts his head. "It sounds profitable."

"It is," you say.

"So will we intervene?"

Running a rescue operation on a stricken ship in the middle of pirate space carries obvious risks. But if your hunch about them being smugglers is true, there could be serious money to be made. It would be nice to have some extra cash, or maybe even a cargo to sell off when you finally reach a port.


>It's not worth the effort. Too many risks. I'm sure some of the pirates around here will oblige them
>It would be nice to make some new friends, and especially some money. Let's go.
>Write in

>>5076965
>>Write in
it's a trap ---> ignore and go to sleep

>>5076965
>It would be nice to make some new friends, and especially some money. Let's go.
Gotta risk it for the biscuit

That is the most obvious trap i have ever seen. It's probably there to fish dumb pirates.

>>5076965
In the immortal words of Mad Max, "That's bait". Ignore it, keep to our own business.

>>5076965
>Write in
it's a trap but we go there anyway
let's make a plan so Mingo will help us take control of the Aurora Blue

>>5076965
>It's not worth the effort. Too many risks. I'm sure some of the pirates around here will oblige them
I do feel a bit bad, but even if we tried to help, there's no way we can fend off any pirate in this trash ship, especially after taking damage from TIEs. Also this is almost certainly a trap.

>>5076963
>It's not worth the effort. Too many risks. I'm sure some of the pirates around here will oblige them

>>5076965
>It would be nice to make some new friends, and especially some money. Let's go.

>>5076965
>>It would be nice to make some new friends, and especially some money. Let's go.
It's a trap but fuck it lol

>>5076965
>>It's not worth the effort. Too many risks. I'm sure some of the pirates around here will oblige them

>>5076965

>It's not worth the effort. Too many risks. I'm sure some of the pirates around here will oblige them

We can scrounge around the dead ship later on the off chance it's not a trap.

>Don't go
>>5076979
>>5077019
>>5077027
>>5077062
>>5077135
>>5077168

>Go
>>5076991
>>5077020
>>5077074
>>5077080


>Don't go
Writing

You rub your chin and read the distress call transcript again.

"Sir?"

"I think we'll sit this one out," you said. "Like you said: discretion is the better part of valor."

"That is true."

"Plus I'm pretty sure this is a trap. This rust bucket isn't going to last long in a standup fight, especially since I can't even use the gun without some crew."

"That is a serious limitation."

"Tell me about it," you say. You flip off the the display on the comm station. "Alright, I'm grabbing some sleep. Wake me when the transponder is done, alright?"

"Alright. Sleep well, sir."

"Thanks."

You're tired enough that you fall asleep immediately on the thin foam mattress in one of the staterooms. Your sleep is dreamless, but restful. You wake up to the sound of the intercom.

"Good morning, sir. It's a brand new day!"

You groan and blink yourself awake. "Is it?"

"Yes, sir. Technically speaking. I'm afraid I lack the capability to prepare you a breakfast, but I have calculated some optimal flight paths."

You squint at the room's chronometer. It's been about eight hours. "Flight paths?"

"Yes, sir. I anticipated your plans and calculated the best route to Kordellis and the best route to the hyperlimit so we can jump back to Kodiak if you desire."

"Is that distress signal still broadcasting?"

"No, sir. It ceased several hours ago."

Given the way this asteroid belt moves around, with no signal to fix onto, there's no telling where that ship or whatever debris was left over might be now.

>We'll go back to Kodiak
>We'll land on Kordellis
>Write in

>>5077197
>We'll land on Kordellis

>>5077197
>We'll land on Kordellis

>>5077197
>>We'll land on Kordellis

>It ceased several hours ago
Thot begone

>>5077197
>We'll land on Kordellis
Let's sell off this hunk of junk and go get ourselves a proper ship.

>We'll land on Kordellis

Writing

"Then no reason to stick around up here," you say. "Let's take her down." Powering on the sublights, you steer the ship out of the asteroid belt and toward the moon of Kordellis. The yellow gas giant looms large beyond the planet, casting a sickly light over the blue-gray world.

The moon's weak atmosphere buffets your ship as you pass through it and come in for a landing, approaching the starport, or . . . what qualifies as a starport. As a Class E, it is quite simply a stretch of bare dirt, a few metal storage huts and a pre-fabricated terminal shelter.

You dip your ship into the clouds and into a steady drizzle of rain.

Clearance for landing is given and you settle into the muddy morass on your repulsorlifts.

You have arrived on Kordellis. There is no berthing fee because there is no berthing to speak of. Peering out of the viewport, you survey the landing zone as fat raindrops spatter down on the transparisteel. A handful of other craft are parked here, nothing stands out as particularly unusual.

At the far edge of the pad you see a starship breaker yard. Rows of hulks sit half-sunk in the mud beside a large metal building where choppers are at work hacking apart frames and pulling out components. Probably the result of rampant piracy in this sector.

With no spare cash to speak of you're not going to be able to afford to refuel the hyperdrives of this ship, but that doesn't matter either way since you have enough fuel to carry you back to Kodiak if you need, and beside which you are going to be selling this ship anyway.

You glance at Mingo who is likewise looking out the window. "I think you'd better come with me."

"Wouldn't I be safer on this ship?"

You look out the window again. "No. Probably not."

Mingo powers off his holoprojector and you pocket his puck. After powering the ship down you grab a rain slicker from the ship's locker and lower the ramp of the ship and exit.

Kordellis is uninhabited save for this single starport town of a few thousand. The town itself is pitiful. Mostly prefabricated shelters from the Clone Wars and a few adobe/mud buildings. The buildings are the same color gray as the sky, and the muddy earth is a dark, ashy black. Your boots squelch in the mud and you pull your rain slicker tight against the rain.

"What a shit hole," you say.

The nearby terminal building is in a poor state of repair. A lone Imperial army trooper stands despondently, half-hidden by his own waterproof poncho. That's also where the custom's office is. This is probably the full extent of Imperial "law and order" on this planet.

You slog your way through the mud across the landing area over to a sheltered booth which has a vandalized map of the settlement displayed inside. It has an impressive array of bars, "rest hotels" and gambling dens on display. Each one has a gaudy advertising poster stapled up inside this booth, generally showing off some scantily clad woman, a variety of drinks, or both. Entertainment for the pirates here.

One of them is probably your best bet for finding a buyer for the ship. You pick the closest one to the starport which also looks to be the most well-advertised. "Grimlun's Hope".

You set off through the town for the bar, the thick mud hindering you. It's like stepping into liquid cement, heavy and thick. It clings to your boots in heavy clumps, making each step tougher than the last. After a minute, the rain lets up, which is nice at first but then you realize it had been helping to wash the mud off you. Now it just clings stubbornly.

The town roads are not paved, transport seems to be via pack animal. There are a few pedestrians and bystanders watching your progress from under covered porches on the fronts of buildings. They seem to fall into one of two categories:

Natives: local human settlers who are gaunt, timid, and dressed in heavy coats and rain slickers who avoid keeping your gaze, and pirates: a gaudy collection of aliens and humans alike wearing all manner of clothing, colorful and intimidating. They carry weapons openly, sneer when you look at them, and seem to travel everywhere in packs, carrying bottles of alcohol and smoking.

This planet seems like something of a resort world to their ilk.

You reach Grimlun's, a large, two-story metal prefab nestled beside a "rest hotel" which advertises rooms by the hour, and a shabby hab block. The tavern is ringed with speeder and swoop bikes, raucous music plays from inside.

You scrape the mud off your boots on the porch edge and enter the building, shaking off the rain. It's crowded and noisy here and stinks like smoke and spice.

There are card and holo game tables toward the center of the building, a bar in the back, a small eating area and tons of pirate types loitering around. The only natives you see among them are women, dressed in skimpy clothing, serving drinks or lounging around, presumably waiting for clients.

Virtually no one notices your entrance. Any prospective buyer is probably somewhere in this joint though it will take a little effort to dredge one up, you'll also see about finding some passage off this ball and back to Kodiak which shouldn't be a challenge so long as you pick someone who won't simply rob you blind.

While you're here, assuming you want to put in the effort, you might look to find some local work, odd jobs that need doing so you can pad your wallet a little bit before buying the ship from Leemy. Given your background you're sure there's something that you're up for.

Otherwise, if you want to grab someone less than scrupulous to serve on your crew, this is another good place to do it. You'd have to find someone willing to work for a cut with no advance, and someone you're able to trust, or able to kill if it comes to it. A little carousing, drinking, and gambling should dredge up such a person.


>Just see about getting passage off this ball
>See about making some extra cash
>See about finding crew to travel back to Kodiak with you
>Write in

>>5078197
>see about getting passage offworld
>see about selling the ship

>>5078197
>>See about making some extra cash

>>5078210
Selling the ship is going to happen with any of these courses of action.

>>5078197
>See about making some extra cash

>>5078197
>>See about making some extra cash

Never hurts to keep an ear on the ground also gotta give the QM some way to feed us some plot hooks since we're pretty aimless so far

>>5078224
I appreciate it but that problem will take care of itself once you get a ship one way or another

>>5078197
>See about making some extra cash

>>5078197
>>See about making some extra cash
>>See about finding crew to travel back to Kodiak with you

>>5078197
>Just see about getting passage off this ball
>See about finding crew to travel back to Kodiak with you

>See about making some extra cash
>>5078223
>>5078213
>>5078224
>>5078252
>>5078259

Writing

You find a spot at the bar between a tired-looking whore and a Rodian in a spiked leather jacket. Without money there's not much entertainment you can engage with, but you can look at home and you can keep an eye out and ear open.

Watching the ebbs and flows of the pirates, you adjust to the tides of this place and soon you're able to move among them, drifting from table to table, conversation to conversation, and game to game with the same natural ease that regular visitors of this bar do.

Before long, you're saying a word here or there, laughing at a joke, or interjecting your own. You make yourself friendly a very inebriated pirate gang celebrating a fresh haul and score some free booze from them which makes it even easier to get in with others. You've got good leads on work.

There's an bare-knuckle fighting ring in the basement of this place. You've see groups of men going down through a staircase in the back and sometimes someone will emerge, bloody and bruised and grinning from ear to ear to celebrate a win with their bettors. You imagine the losers leave through a less prestigious exit. You've done brute work before, you'd probably be pretty good at it, there's a chance you could earn some money from a fight or two, provided you're okay with taking some knocks.

There's two rival gangs of pirates eyeing one another from across the bar, maybe the only two groups of people not having any fun. There's a smoldering hatred there, one that's close to spilling over into blood shed. Either of them would likely benefit from an experienced gun like you if they want to do something about their rivalry. An enterprising man such as yourself might even try to play the two groups against one another, assuming you're okay with spending the time it would take to get close to them here.

One man doesn't seem to fit in with the rest of this establishment. He keeps to himself, smoking in a booth at the edge of the bar. You recognize a bounty hunter when you see one. This one doesn't look like an amateur either. You'd asked around about him, curious why no one seemed afraid of him. The story you'd got was that he was looking for someone, someone he hadn't found yet. If he's hanging around on this rock then he thinks his quarry is still on this planet. You're no stranger to finding people who don't want to be found, with the right introduction, you might be able to work out a partnership of some kind.


>Enter the fighting ring for prize money
>Approach one of the pirate gangs to hire yourself as a gunslinger
>Try to strike a partnership with the bounty hunter
>Write in

>>5078600
>Enter the fighting ring for prize money
Quick and easy money

>>5078600
>Try to strike a partnership with the bounty hunter

>>5078660

This. Maybe we could take a dive at the appropriate time for some extra cash?

>>5078600
>>Enter the fighting ring for prize money
THUNDERDOME!!!!! TWO MEN ENTER ONE MAN LEAVES!!!

>>5078600
>Try to strike a partnership with the bounty hunter
Instead of playing the dumb slab of meat downstairs how about we do a job with the bounty hunter and get some serious cash instead? Bonus of getting a contact with a professional gunman for later.

>>5078600
>>Approach one of the pirate gangs to hire yourself as a gunslinger

>>5078600
>Try to strike a partnership with the bounty hunter

>>5078600
>Enter the fighting ring for prize money
It ain't fun (unless you enjoy getting your face smashed) and it ain't prestigious, but it's good money if you can hack it (and Jack seems to think so) and it beats getting shot at and/or making new enemies looking to stick a blade between your ribs. The big score of out own ship is close, let's not botch it.

>>5078994
It's that kind of work that got us into this mess in the first place

>>5078600
>Try to strike a partnership with the bounty hunter

>>5078600
>Enter the fighting ring for prize money

>>5078600
>Enter the fighting ring for prize money

>>5078600
>Enter the fighting ring for prize money
Ah. Brawling. My beloved.

>Enter the fighting ring for prize money
>>5078660
>>5078910
>>5079065
>>5079506
>>5079709
>>5079715

Writing

Wait, I just realized, if we win our first fight in an impressive manner, we might be able to play the odds by taking a dive in the subsequent bout.
We need a good ring name though, something to really make em think we're a badass.

Ah yes. Brawling. You finish your beer and leave the bottle on a counter for one of the scantily-clad waitresses to collect. You'd done a little bare knuckle fighting as a deck hand on bulk freighters plying the hyperlanes of the Cluster. Knowing how to fight was practically a job requirement with how some of those ships operated.

Fortified with just enough alcohol to feel the hint of a buzz, you descend the stairs to the tavern's basement. When you reach the bottom of the flight of stairs you're impressed by the size of the operation down here. There are three separate rings set up, powerful overhead lights, and packed crowds cheering and placing bets. As you expected, it's primarily pirates but there are actually a handful of guys who look like they could be locals.

"It's twenty creds to watch," a bouncer at the doorway says, stopping you with a hand to the chest.

"I'm here to fight," you say.

"You got a sponsor?"

"I'm flying solo," you say.

He gestures with his head to the far left ring. "Sign up there. Leave your shit here. No weapons, jacket, shirt."

You strip off your jacket, shirt, holster, and pull the vibroblade from your boot before handing it all over in a neat bundle to the bouncer. "Keep it safe for me."

The bouncer tosses it into an empty locker in a bank. "No promises if we have to carry you out of here. My advice? Try to stay awake." He laughs.

You laugh too, it seems polite. "Thanks." You don't like the idea of leaving Mingo's datapuck in such an insecure place, but no one here has any idea you're carrying anything worth stealing, besides which, all the other fighters are shirtless like you.

You approach the amateur ring and sign up, your name goes onto a roster of others and you get paired up randomly. There's a small prize pool at stake here and with each successive win it gets bigger. It looks like the key is that greed takes out most contenders before they can cash out, staying in more rounds than they can realistically win.

Also of note is a small collection of people watching the fights, some of them run of the mill scum, but others seem more focused. Talent scouts maybe, looking for fresh meat for the higher tiers of the game.

Your name is called by the referee. "Rax? You're up."

Climbing into the ring, you eye your opponent as he does likewise opposite from you. A Naruvian with a mohawk and a sadistic glint in his eyes. Naruvians are the near-human natives of Naru, rarely found in any legitimate work off their home world. They flesh out the crews of gangers, pirates, and bounty hunters. His pale gray skin seems to glow under the harsh lights overhead, just as his elongated canine teeth do when he grins at you. A tail tipped with a tuft of fur flicks back and forth behind him as he paces, keeping his eyes on you.

"Rules are simple gentlemen," the Ref says. "Put your opponent on the ground and don't kill them. A knock out is a victory. Take too long and we throw you out. Got it?"

"Got it," you say.

"Yeah," your opponent says.

"Fight."

The Naruvian springs toward you instantly with the aggression and foolhardiness characteristic of his species.

You side step the first clumsy swing, and then the second, trailing him after you as he forces you back to the corner. In a fight like this there's little time to plan, not that plans do any good when you're bust being punched in the face. You're sizing him up, looking for your opening still when you feel your back hit the ropes.

His predatory grin goes wide and you see him wind up a grandslam punch, the kind that he probably considers the mark of a good fighter. His "signature move".

You jab him in the nose with your left before he has a chance, feeling it crunch beneath your fist.

His eyes go wide with shock and pain when your right hand co-nnects with his jaw, twirling him around and dropping him onto his face.

There's a collective shout of savage glee and dismay from the audience and the ref walks over to check him.

You walk the perimeter of the ring, flexing the fingers on your right hand which are aching after that blow. It had been a hurried shot, not your finest moment, but it had done the job.

"KO!" The ref calls, "He's through."

The Naruvian's buddies climb into the ring to drag him out.

You signal the ref that you're ready to go again.

Your second opponent puts up more of a fight. A well-built human, he's clearly had more experience than the headstrong Naruvian. He manages to land a few body blows on you which are still hurting when they drag him out of the ring unconscious, blood seeping from his broken nose.

"Good for another?" the ref asks.

You eye your winnings on the board. Paltry. You've got to go again to make it worth it. "Why the hell not," you say. Your growing confidence is dampened at the sight of your next opponent. A Trandoshan. This humanoid reptilian has a reputation for ferocity. Plus this one is huge, built like a duracrete slab.

Lacking the hands for fists, his three-digit claws look like butcher's tools in this sterile light. He probably won't want to kill you. But that doesn't mean it won't happen anyway.

"Scared, human?" he asks.

You force a grin and a laugh, but the answer is: yes, a little."

The ref positions you both. "Fight!"

***

Roll 1d10

I need three rolls.

Rolled 8 (1d10)

>>5079764

Rolled 10 (1d10)

>>5079764

Rolled 6 (1d10)

>>5079764

>>5079772
>>5079775
>>5079780


>8
>10
>6

Writing

How's this dice system work anyway

You've never fought a Tradoshan before. This thought occurs to you as you're reeling backward from a backhand blow across your face. You bring your guard back up just in time to deflect most of the energy of another wide swipe. Blood drips from your nose and chin where the Tradoshan's claws cut you.

Ducking under the next swipe, you stomp onto his foot with all the energy you can muster. From the way he snarls, you think you might have broken something. You follow up with a hammerblow punch to his ribs. The Tradoshan draws back snarling at you. He underestimated you but apparently learned his lesson. It's a mistake he won't be likely to repeat . . . unless you can piss him off.

You spit blood before grinning at him. "Scared of a human?"

The Tradoshan's nostril's flare and he snarls again, lowering his head and storming at you claws first. You're pretty sure if he caught you he'd kill you in that moment. But he doesn't catch you.

You spin outside of the attack and deliver an elbow-blow to the back of his head as he passes. The Tradoshan takes one more shaky step and drops to his knees, he senses addled. You don't give him a chance to recover them, planting a kick between his shoulder blades which drives him to the mat.

The ref waves you off and closes in to check your opponent.

You spit blood again and wipe your face clean with your hands. You're starting to remember why you didn't stick with this sport.

A moment later you're declared the winner and you decline to go a fourth round. Five thousand credits are yours for the claiming when you get the rest of your gear. Ducking under the ropes, you climb out of the ring to the cheering of the new fans who'd made a few credits off your fights.

"Good showing, Rax. No offense, but I was pretty sure you were fucked when the green guy got in the ring." The man who appears at your side has the sharp, incense aroma of Cantrian Spice about him. The way his pupils are dilated tells you he's a heavy user. "Senn," he introduces himself.

"Thanks," you say.

"Were you thinking about sticking around, Rax? I was thinking you might make it in some of the higher tiers of matches here. A lot of the crews in this system take this game pretty seriously, the bigger gangs have a champion or two and they tend to face off every couple weeks. A newcomer like you might shake things up." He speaks fast, giving you no chance to question or interject. "An amateur like you could go real far I think. I'd be willing to front your entry fee so long as you pay me back with your winnings."

"What kind of winnings?" you ask.

"Fifty thousand if you can take the championship, that's not including what you can make on the betting circle. The matches are every couple days. With what you won today you can live like a king here for a week or two. Leave a rich man. What do you say?"

You're smart enough to see the offer as what it is: a loan. Men like Senn are as crooked as they come. Either you win and he makes the cash back or you don't and you get hounded by whatever goons he contracts with to pay back what you owe.

You don't have any illusions you could make it to the top of this dog pile, but he is right about the betting, you could probably make quite a bit off fights if you play your odds right. Setting that up would take time though, you'd need to get an inside man, a place to stay here, and of course you'd have to spend the time on this planet to make it happen. You have no doubts that your ship will be waiting at Leemy's lot when you get back. The question is if you want to delay getting it.


>Agree, stick around on Kordellis and enter their "pro" fighting circuit.
>Decline politely, sell the ship, and get passage back to Kodiak
>Write in

>>5079803
It's pretty simple. Roll 3d10, 7, 8, 9, 10 are successes. Each roll requires a certain number of successes to determine the quality of the success.

3 fails is a total failure, 1 success is just barely passing, 2 is doing well, 3 is amazing success.

previously I used this system with D6, I might return to that depending on how I feel about this. It's just to insert a bit of randomness if there's a good chance of failure that has nothing to do with your planning or skills. Randomness, luck, etc.

Most outcomes will be decided by choices, but sometimes those choices are risky and could go either way. That's where dice come in.

>>5079805
>Decline politely, sell the ship, and get passage back to Kodiak
We came here to grab some cash and get the fuck out. Let's do exactly that.
Besides, the longer we stay in one place, the more likely our loans are to catch up to us.

>>5079805
>Decline politely, sell the ship, and get passage back to Kodiak

>>5079805
> Decline politely, sell the ship, and get passage back to Kodiak

Got the loot, time to scoot

>>5079805
>>Decline politely, sell the ship, and get passage back to Kodiak

>>5079805
>Decline politely, sell the ship, and get passage back to Kodiak

>>5079805
>Decline politely, sell the ship, and get passage back to Kodiak

>Decline politely, sell the ship, and get passage back to Kodiak

Writing

"I appreciate the offer Mr. Senn-"

"Senn," he says, "Just Senn."

"Senn. I appreciate the offer, but I've got commitments offworld to get to. Kordellis is a nice place-"

"HA!" Senn barks.

"But I really can't stay."

He claps a hand on your back. "Hey, no hard feelings. Listen, I'm not going anywhere. Roots too deep. You come back around and I'll be here."

"Sure," you flash a smile. Having friends never hurts. Or people who act like friends.

You gather your winnings, weapons, shirt, jacket, Mingo, and the envious glares of other less fortunate fighters. Probably best not to stay around too much longer.

Arranging passage offworld is easy enough, as is selling the ship. The wannabe pirate gang you sold it to looks like the cast off dregs of a number of other gangs who've glommed together in a misguided effort to "make it big". Oh well, not your problem.

Cash in hand, you board the freighter you bought passage on back to Kodiak. The trip is uneventful but gives you a chance to rest up. Though you've only been gone a day, it feels good being back on Kodiak, the lush green hills are a far cry from the black morass of Kordellis. Since you're not immediately arrested by star port security forces you assume you're in the clear and take the transit to Leemy's lot.

The ship is just where you left it, and in more or less the same condition. When you arrive, Leemy is under the hull with a welding torch, making some final touch ups.

"Rax!" Leemy calls in greeting, "You're alive!"

"You thought I was dead?"

Leemy shrugs. "Just a hunch. Call it a gut feeling. Hey, I'm definitely happy to be wrong!" He puts the welding gear down on a cart and rolls the cart aside. "How'd that job pan out?"

"Paid off in spades," you say, offering the cash.

Leemy doesn't look impressed, but with Duros it's hard to tell. "Yeah, this'll be enough for the downpayment. We'll mortgage the rest." He takes the money from you and counts it. "She's been through a lot, but got plenty of years left in her, especially if you take care of her. You got plans?"

"I'll probably do some free trading to pay the bills," you say, "find jobs around."

"Risky work. Once you get yourself situated, let me know, I always need to do small deliveries around the area."

"That sounds good," you say, looking over the ship. It's a strange feeling. A mixture of pride and . . . dread. This was your ship now. Your ship, and your key to freedom. But it also meant the safety nets were cut. If you fucked up, if this ship got wrecked, stolen, or just plain broke down, you'd be on the hook for it.

"You gonna take on a crew?"

"I'll have to if I want to run this thing with any efficiency," you say.

"Anyone in mind?"

"I've got a lead," you say. "An old friend of mine." You're thinking of Moho. Mojo was another hired gun from your time. He's tough as hell, good in a fight, not a bad shot, and most importantly, you got along with him. A little on the dim side, but charismatic enough to make up for it.

"You're going to want an engineer," Leemy says, looking back at the ship, "A good one! And if you don't mind a recommendation, I happen to know someone who's looking for work."

"Oh?"

He nods, "Riss. She's a sweet girl, from a belt mining family. Born and raised on ships like this. She's a qualified pilot and a gifted engineer and mechanic. She's just having a hard time finding work"

"Why's that?" you ask.

"Tough times," Leemy answers. "The independent shipping companies are getting shut out by the big Imperial firms more and more, you know how it is."

You do, all too well.

The more crew you take on, the more money you'll have to pay to keep them around, that or convince them to take a stake of the profits. Of course, without any crew you'll quickly find yourself unable to get much done. With the dreams you have, you're going to need a crew.

Moho will be good for dealing with trouble and having someone you can trust to watch your back. Riss will be good for the technical side of things. While you're competent enough with the basics, more advanced engineering work would really benefit from a dedicated crewman.


>Bring just Riss
>Bring just Moho
>Bring them both
>Write in

>>5079948
>Bring them both

>>5079948
>Bring just Riss
We are critically low on funds right now so we should try to minimize expenses. while having a second gun would be useful Moho bring basically the same skills as us to the table while Riss knows how to do things we don't. Assuming we can make some money we can always come back and hire Moho

>>5079948
>>Bring them both

>>5080099
+1

>>5080099
Considering we don't know what "expenses" means in numbers or how much 5k is in relation to everything else I say fuckit.

>>5079948
>Bring them both

>>5079948
>Bring them both

>>5079948
>>Bring just Riss

>>5080185
>Considering we don't know what "expenses" means in numbers or how much 5k is in relation to everything else I say fuckit.
Apologies for being vague on this, I've been adapting some trade rules from the Traveller RPG to fit Star Wars and I didn't want to commit to a flawed system.

The salary for an Engineer is Cr4000 per month. For generic muscle like Moho it's Cr1000 per month.

You should be able to make that back easy with trading.

>>5079948
>Bring them both
The more the merrier

>Bring them both
>>5079966
>>5080104
>>5080185
>>5080323
>>5080565

Writing

File: WayfarerClass.jpg (312 KB, 1544x2076)

312 KB JPG

"The more the merrier," you say. "I could always use some extra hands."

"She's gonna be thrilled," Leemy says. "I'll let her know you're willing to give her a shot at the engineer position. I can have her down here in a couple hours if you want to get familiar with your new ship. Hey- what are you gonna call her anyway?"

"Haven't made up my mind yet," you say looking her over.

"You got time," Leemy offers his hand and you shake it. "Congratulations, Rax. I know you've been working for this a long time."

"Thanks." You ascend the boarding ramp to the ship and breathe in that dry, recycled air. Your ship. As you walk its passageways, you fire a message off to Moho, telling him to meet you here and telling him you have work for him.

Tucking your commlink away, you tour the ship. Unsurprisingly, it's not in good shape. The upholstery is threadbare, maintenance panels are absent in many places. Pipes and conduits hang exposed. Everything is scuffed and battered. It will take some work, but you're sure you can get this ship back into good shape.

She's equipped with a pair of laser cannons in turret mounts. They can be locked to fire forward from the cockpit, or manually operated by gunners. Since this ship isn't a fighter, they'd be of limited use without gunners.

With six staterooms she can hold up to twelve passengers if you don't mind double occupancy, otherwise a crew of six would be more comfortable. Thirty tons of cargo space means you can likely offset some travel costs carrying freight, or maybe make some money by shuttling trade goods.

The unique stellar composition of the Candorian Cluster means that Hyperdrive travel isn't nearly as quick as it is elsewhere in the galaxy. This ship has a class-two hyperdrive which means she can clear two parsecs in twenty four hours. Not bad, certainly better than Imperial bulk freighters.

She has enough fuel to take a single two-parsec jump or two one parsec jumps before refueling. Fuel is going to be a major expense. At Cr5,000 per jump it will be necessary to carry cargo to offset that expense. Add to it the cost of life support, maintenance, crew salaries, and Leemy's mortgage, you're looking at about Cr55,000 per week. It's enough to make your head spin. You shouldn't worry too much though, on a good speculative trade you can make more than Cr50,000 easy. It means you'll only need to make a few profitable jumps per week to keep the bills paid. That aside you'll have plenty of opportunity for freelance work on the side. Not to mention the money you can make from transporting passengers world to world.*

Leemy's offering to contract you to carry freight to another nearby planet. This is the sort of thing where you get paid a flat rate to simply transport goods without any speculative buying and selling. Given the capacity of your ship you won't make much profit off carrying freight but it will help offset travel expenses like fuel. It's a safe bet to get off Kodiak. It's the sort of work you did when you were younger.

There's also the option of getting back in touch with your old boss, Lady Roclaw. She's a big time gangster here on Kodiak. You're sure she'd be thrilled to give you work. It would probably pay well, but knowing Roclaw it would be illegal as hell, probably dangerous too.


>Carry freight for Leemy to get off Kodiak and find work elsewhere
>Go to Roclaw and see if she has a job
>Write in

***

*All of this is subject to change. This is the economy framework I'm operating on but if it turns out to be super broken I'll change it. The idea is that this won't just be spreadsheet simulator but there will be some element of ordinary business to making money

>>5080625
>Go to Roclaw and see if she has a job
Crime pays

>>5080625
>Carry freight for Leemy to get off Kodiak and find work elsewhere

>>5080625
>Carry freight for Leemy to get off Kodiak and find work elsewhere
Let's get out of this shithole

>>5080625
>Carry freight for Leemy to get off Kodiak and find work elsewhere

>>5080625
>Go to Roclaw and see if she has a job

>>5080625
>Carry freight for Leemy to get off Kodiak and find work elsewhere
Let's at least start a little cautiously

>>5080625
>>Go to Roclaw and see if she has a job

>Go to Roclaw and see if she has a job
>>5080648
>>5080935
>>5080964

>Carry freight for Leemy to get off Kodiak and find work elsewhere
>>5080728
>>5080731
>>5080749
>>5080963


Freight for Leemy

Writing

You lean on a bulkhead in the bridge and look it over again, smiling a little to yourself.

"How is the ship? Finding it to your liking, sir?"

You fish Mingo out of your pocket and set the puck on a bridge console. The hologram bird appears again and shakes its body as if getting comfortable.

"It's a hunk of junk. But it's mine."

"Ownership, I'm told, is an intoxicating experience."

"Something like that," you say. "Say, is there anyway we could integrate you with the ship's computer?"

Mingo patrols around the cockpit, tilting his head to look at the consoles. "Whatever software this ship has which passes for 'intelligence' won't be integrated with me so much as controlled."

"Right, whatever. Are you compatible?"

"Quite!" Mingo looks around and spots a data jack. "Here. Connect me up please."

"Physical connection?"

"It will be simpler than mucking about with local holonet."

You do so, connecting the puck and socketing it into the computer console. Mingo's avatar flickers a moment and stabilizes.

"Ah yes." The lights of the bridge all come up as one and you feel the thrum of the reactor starting. "Exhilarating." The ship powers off again. "Yes, I can interface with this ship, I can handle things such as hyperspace calculation, monitoring, basic automatic, though I must confess that's beneath my skill."

"I don't doubt it. Can you fly? Shoot?"

"Not exactly," Mingo says. "I'm qualified to do neither. I can keep the ship on a basic course however."

"That will have to do. We've got company coming soon. Crew. Friend of mine named Moho and a girl named Riss."

Mingo stares blankly at you.

"Any trouble with that?"

"Not at all! I'm always keen to meet new people. I must confess that I find people fascinating, sir. Their interactions sometimes elude me, but my curiosity cannot be quenched."

You chuckle. "Sure."


"A question, sir?"

"Hm?"

"This ship. Does it have a name?'

"Not yet."

"That won't do. Here." Mingo boots a computer terminal at the navigation station and a text display flashes on. "Some suggestions. If I'm going to get started programming our transponder, I'd rather start immediately."


>Meridian Veil
>Guilty 1
>Red Desire
>Write in

>>5081092
>Red Desire

>>5081092
>Red Desire

>>5081092
Tig Bitties

>>5081092
>Blue Harvest

>>5081145
Tig Ol Bitties was a Devaronian miner you once got into a fist fight with. Better not dredge that memory up.

>>5081092
>Erlkönig

>>5081092

The Lizard's Tooth?

Because we won it fighting a lizardman?

>>5081092
>>Write in
>Heim

>>5081194
I'll +1 that

>>5081194
Supporting

>>5081092
>>Red Desire

>>5081210
Maybe the Fang or Claw? Matches the shape.
>>5081194
Doesn't really mesh well with typical star wars ship naming conventions

>>5081092
Arrowhead

>>5081194
Star Wars doesn't really do foreign languages, but I'll support this just to avoid something stupider coming along and winning.

>>5081210
It doesn't belong to a lizard though.

>Erlkönig
>>5081194
>>5081218
>>5081229
>>5081515

I agree that it's not really a "Star Wars-y name but we'll make it work.

Writing

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532 KB PNG

>>5081518
>It doesn't belong to a lizard though
Not anymore it doesn't.

"Let's go with Erlkönig for now," you say.

"I am unfamiliar with that term," Mingo replies, cocking his head to one side.

"It's a children's tale," you say, running through a pre-flight checklist and checking the systems one by one. "Old timers on Kodiak would tell it to kids. I doubt it would do much for you."

"I suspect you're correct, sir."

You and Mingo test all the systems onErlkönig one by one, creating a list of maintenance that will need to be handled sooner rather than later. It's longer than you'd like but shorter than it could be. You'll take small victories.

By the time Riss arrives you're sitting in the ship's galley, your feet up on the table and enjoying a cool cup of water. It's not your drink of choice, but it's the only thing stocked right now. You hear the uncertain footsteps come up the entry ramp and enter the main passageway.

"I'm in here!" you call, not bothering to get up.

As soon as Riss enters the room you know immediately why sher can't find work, and it has nothing to do with "tough times".

"You are Captain Rax?" she asks. "I have been told you are sseeking an engineer." Riss is an Isthrissian, commonly (and sometimes derogatorily) referred to as an "Iss". They are serpentine humanoids native to the cluster. You've worked with Isthrissians in the past, but never so closely.

"That's me," you say, "And I am."

She's fairly typical of her species. Tall, slender, with a long neck, wide mouth, slit pupils, and a long muscular tail. Isthrissian coloration has quite a lot of variety but she's a dull green color with yellow flashes around her eyes and a bluish stripe running from the top of her head presumably all the way down her back.

You stand and approach, offering your hand to shake.

Her head tracks you as you move in a way that reminds you that Isthrissians are obligate carnivores, venomous ones at that.

You extend your hand. She looks down at it a moment and then cautiously puts her hand in yours. You shake. She looks back up at you. Isthrissians don't have much in the way of facial expressions, so you're at a loss for her thoughts at this moment. You let go of her hand.

"You're a friend of Leemy?" you say, trying to break the ice.

"We have worked together," she says. "When I arrived in this ssystem he gave me work."

Given the prevalent attitudes that most sentients hold toward the Isthrissians in the Cluster, that was very kind of him. The Iss had once commanded a powerful and militant empire of their own in the lower quadrant of the Cluster. Constant off and on again conflict with spreading human colonies developed a great deal of fear and mistrust which came to a head during the Clone Wars. The Isthrissians had sided with the Separatists and launched a campaign of conquest which left millions dead. Many worlds were conquered and they were only just barely contained and driven back with great loss of life. The culmination of the conflict with the Isthrissians lead to the Empire glassing their home world through prolonged bombardment. Now their race is a shadow of what it once was, some scattered bands of them roam the Cluster but most of their species live as virtual slaves on their former worlds, a product of the policies helmed by the Ministry of Alien Labor helmed by Aldon Tyrna.

You're too young to remember the Iss as planetary conquerors, but the stereotypes and distrust remain.

"Leemy's a good guy," you say. "You have experience as an engineer?"

She bobs her head at you while maintaining eye contact. "Yess. In my clan I wass a pilot and engineer for many vessels."

"What sort of work?" you ask.

"Assteroid mining," she says.

"Hard work," you say. "I'm happy to have you on, but I want to be clear that we're going to be do more than just milk runs. Lots of odd jobs, maybe some dangerous ones."

"That will be no trouble," she says. "I am prepared."

"Good," you hesitate a moment, debating how much of your ignorance you should display. "I uh . . . are there any special accommodations you'll need?"

"Sspecial?" she flicks her forked tongue.

"Habitation or . . . diet or anything."

She lets out a stuttering hiss. Laughter. "No. I will provide for my own needs. There iss no need for you to make any changess." She looks around at the interior of the ship. "Thiss iss the vessel?"

"This is her," you agree. "Erlkönig."

She tries to repeat the name and butchers it, but doesn't really seem to notice.

"You can handle it?'

"Yess," she bobs her head. "It remindss me of home. Almosst."


>Why did you quit mining? What made you want to go free lance?
>Take her on a tour of the ship
>Show her to her quarters so she can get settled in
>Write in

>>5081912
>>Why did you quit mining? What made you want to go free lance?
>>Take her on a tour of the ship

>>5081912
>Why did you quit mining? What made you want to go free lance?
>Take her on a tour of the ship
May as well get her familiar with the ship and learn a thing or two about her while we're waiting for Moho.

>>5081912
>>Why did you quit mining? What made you want to go free lance?
>>Take her on a tour of the ship

>Why did you quit mining? What made you want to go free lance?
>Take her on a tour of the ship

Writing

Why Erlkönig? Is our ship gonna be the last thing children see before they die or what?

>>5082109
Before we sell them to slavery

"Let me show you the ship," you say. "I'll give you a quick tour and you can pick a room."

Riss follows you as you show her the interior, from stem to stern. Throughout your tour, she occasionally stops to examine some exposed cables or open access hatch and mutter something in what you assume is her native language.

"Problem?" you ask after a few occurrences.

She swivels her head to look at you and blinks. "Thiss sship iss in poor repair."

"Tell me about it. It's going to be something we'll have to tackle. I'm no slouch with a hydrospanner so you won't be alone. And when Moho shows up . . . well . . . he can lift heavy things."

"Moho?" She flicks her tongue.

"Our other crew member. Friend of mine."

She stares blankly.

"So do you think you can get this ship in better shape?"

"Yess. With ssome work. It iss not much different from the sships I maintained."

"Once we get our cargo loaded we'll have twenty four hours in hyperspace, we can use that repairing non-critical systems and then start putting aside money for a major overhaul."

She bobs her head at you and you continue the tour, showing her each of the staterooms in turn and she picks one to be hers, dropping the small duffel bag of personal affects off in the under-bed storage. "When will we be leaving?" she asks.

"Today. Soon hopefully. Will that be a problem?"

"No problem," she says. "I am prepared."

"I guess you're used to traveling," you say.

"Yess."

Maybe that was an insensitive thing to say. Or racist? You don't even know for sure if she's from Kodiak or not. Unlikely, but not impossible. You press past that topic, "Up next, engines."

Riss seems much more interested in the engineering compartment than any other part of the ship. She seems at home in the cramped confines, looking over each system in turn, examining gauges, welds, and seals as she mutters to herself. "A patchwork," she says at last. "Unique. Not bad."

"That was my interpretation. I think she'll do well."

"Once we get the systems tuned," she says. "But not in hyperspace."

You smile, "Right. Can I ask you something, Riss?"

"Yess."

"You were a miner before, sounds like you enjoyed it."

"Yess. Very much."

"So why'd you stop?"

She blinks a few times and flicks her tongue. "I was made to leave my family. Removed from the clan."

"What? You were exiled?"

She bobs her head.

"I don't mean this in a disrespectful way, but are you a criminal? Some of my best friends are."

She hisses laughter. "No. I wass considered to be a bad omen. Bad luck."

"Bad luck?" you ask.

"Yess. There wass an accident with a mining vessel. It iss not an interessting tale."

"I'm interested," you counter.

"I wass pilot of a mining sship. I am told that I intended to leave the charted area to ssurvey farther out for fressh rockss."

"You were told?" you ask, confused.

She bobs her head. "There wass an accident perhapss. The sship wass sseriously damaged. I wass found alive onboard, but I have no memory of the incident or the dayss before. My family found thiss to be a bad omen. I was made to leave."


>That's horrible, your own family threw you out because of an accident?
>Their loss is our gain. You'll fit right in here.
>At least you can leave all that superstitious crap behind. Accidents happen.
>Write in

>>5082127
>Their loss is our gain. You'll fit right in here.
TK’s been reading too much snekgirl fiction

>>5082127
>Their loss is our gain. You'll fit right in here

>>5082127
>At least you can leave all that superstitious crap behind. Accidents happen.
I feel we're a pragmatic sort

>>5082127
>At least you can leave all that superstitious crap behind. Accidents happen.

>>5082127
>>Write in
"Get out my ship now"

>>5082158
Woah woah woah man. You got a reason for trying to run off a perfectly good mechanic?

>>5082127
>Their loss is our gain. You'll fit right in here.

>Ship named after old superstitious fairy tale about the elf king
>Mechanic is found dazed and memoryless among a disaster
huh, she is a perfect fit

>>5082173
Xenophobia. No misfortune carrying sneks in MY ship

>>5082204
Well, at the very least you'd be considered a model Imperial citizen.

>>5082127
>Write in
>"As long as it doesn't happen again".

Note to self, do not let snek pilot the ship without supervision.