The Odd-Couple
--sparkvallen
It had been a long day in the insufferable heat and humidity at Wingnut's Garage. Rym Svoby had been toiling with the 'bike for nearly eleven hours, putting the separated parts and accessories back together in such a way that it would run again. Only when the repairs were so difficult that even she was stymied, Rym muttered an ancient Correlian curse she'd heard her grandmother use in her youth, then she'd return to her work from a fresh angle. Otherwise, the woman worked in the grimy conditions in silence.
The speederbike's damage was a result of a very destructive crash that had sent its rider, a young and brash Rodian, slamming onto the roof of the cantina he'd just left. Rym had heard about all the ensuing chaos when the drunken patrons had thought the planet was under bombardment in their stupor. The teen's father had had the wreckage sent to Wingnut's in the hopes that he or his staff could make the 'bike viable again. It was his hope that the med center could repair his son as well.
Rym sighed loudly and leaned away from the partially re-built 'bike to sit in a crouched position. She wiped her hands on her already soiled tunic, then pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "The rest of this mess has gotta wait," she said to herself. "I can't see straight no more."
Standing up, she weaved her way around the wide variety of junk and supplies (more junk than supplies) that filled the garage bay, making her way to the office. Everyone else was long gone, having either completed or given up on their repair projects hours earlier. Rym was grateful for their absence; had they been around, she never would've used the telekinesis trick to get the hydrospanner from the tool chest. She'd learned in childhood not to use some of her skills. That only led to stares and questions. And potential trouble, as her grandmother had warned her.
With her greasy hands, she procured a scrap of paper and wrote a note for Wingnut:
Worked on 'bike 'til I had to stop. It's about 3/4 finished now. Will be in after 10 planetary hrs. to finish it up. Don't let Spyder touch my hydrospanner if he gets here before me.
--Rym
She placed the note prominently with its new grease stains and left the shop. Rym heard the door auto-lock itself after the snap-hiss of its closing.
Wingnut's Garage was located on the fringe of Coronet City, in what had once been part of the original city but was now the home of the seedier elements in the metropolis. Knowing the potential dangers that existed, especially for a female, Rym melded with the shadows and dodged the glaring light left by the glow lamps that still worked. If all went well, it was ten minutes walk to get to the room she rented in the cheap tenement building. If she were delayed, it would take eleven minutes; the low-life population seldom slowed Rym Svoby down.
Her stomach rumbled over the roar of a high-powered swoop that sped past her. OK, food would be a good thing 'bout now, she thought. It would only be a slight detour in her night's plans to stop to eat.
"The usual?"
"The ususal," Rym replied, without looking up at the night-shift waitress. Rym thought she was called Merc, but she couldn't be sure. She settled into the booth with her back against the wall rather than the seat back, so she could look out into the cantina. It was quiet thus far but she didn't want to be caught off-guard.
The nerf-burger, she knew, would only take six-and-a-half minutes to prep and serve. Rym was well-aware that nothing here was served fresh. The food sat in its holding station under a warmer until some poor fool finally ordered. She didn't care. She just wanted her food and to get out.
Later, she'd think it amazing how many things could go wrong in six-and-a-half minutes.
"Lot of activity going on 'round here," said a silky male voice. He slid into the booth seat across from her.
"Not interested."
"Someone with your skills could be pretty useful..."
Rym knew the routine by rote. Every other evening, some gang banger was trying to tempt her, to bring her on board as their personal mechanic. Much like the Rodian's speederbike she'd been working on, the street gangs were rough on their vehicles. And she knew from experience living in that part of Coronet City that it just wasn't feasible for them to bring their stolen 'bikes and swoops to Wingnut's.
"Not interested."
"Someone with your skills could be a powerful enemy of ours too, with those talents in the wrong hands," he continued.
"Not if I keep doing what I'm already doin', where I always worked," she countered in an icy tone.
"We'll be watching you. Closely."
Under her breath, she muttered, "Whatever, Sithspawn..." as all hell broke loose.
Svoby ducked instinctively into the booth as glass, steel and duracrete came crashing into the cantina. She heard the screams of surprise and hurt as those at the bar as they were pummeled by the blast. Her wild, untrained intuitive sense gave her a picture of four loud, and Spice-high teens climbing through the rubble and making their way over the bodies to the bar and the safe.
"Yeehah!" one whooped loudly, confirming her vision.
So much for the nerf-burger.
The feedback of blaster fire made her cringe. She wondered if it was the bar's owner, the cook who was likely packing or the drug-wasted kids that were doing the firing? Rym pulled her comlink from her belt and keyed it to the Emergency Services system. She didn't dare talk even when the droid dispatcher came online; she could only hope its software was sensitive enough to pick up the chaos in the cantina and interpret that as danger. With them being high on Spice, Rym also didn't want to try to take them on herself.
Using her intuitive sense to keep tabs on the teens, Rym began plotting her own escape. If they operated like the usual novice thugs, they'd also rifle the bodies for any bounty. Still tucked into the privacy of the booth, Rym scanned the damaged ceiling for ideas. Drawing on her telekinetic powers once again, she wrenched a steam vent free of its already-weakened hold and sent the vent and burning gas toward the would-be thieves.
The perfection diversion. Creativity points for you, kid.
As the steam hit the teens, they shouted in surprise. Rym took advantage of the distraction to dash along the perimeter of the booth-seating toward the hold they'd left in the side of the building. Her adrenaline pumping, Svoby skittered back into the gloom of the night as she heard the approaching sirens of the Emergency Services security team. Evidently the comlink trick had worked, or some other innocent had called the authorities from the outside.
Rym had no intention of remaining to give a statement or to even make sure that the teens were apprehended. Events such as these were just a regular part of the nightlife in her neighborhood of Coronet City, Correlia. Getting involved proved nothing except that you had a death wish. Whether or not those four were incarcerated meant little in the grand scheme of Rym Svoby's life.