Author: DownfallRecords

Starwars is owned by LUCASFILM



Seclusion's Scarcity, Part 3-Boring Days and Bad Nights



Davil treaded a steady pace down the spaceport corridors and out to the sun-scorched street. It was midday and Davil was in search of a lunch. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he walked towards a crop of vendors.

Mos Eisley's streets held many areas that sprawled with peddling carts. Each offering a variety of cheap products ranging from greasy foods to hobbled together pieces of scrap advertised as souvenirs.

Handing several credit chips to a badly scarred Klatooinian behind a cart, Davil walked away carrying a bantha-steak sandwich. Finding an empty seat propped against the wall of a residence, he sat down and began to eat.

Davil watched the crowd before him. The sights, sounds, and smells of a dozen different species floated through the air as they bartered and argued amongst themselves. It was scenes like these that captured his imagination. He wanted off his world. It's not enough to see these people here, I want to see where they came from.

Davil knew what it took to get off-planet; a ship or a pilot with a ship. Unfortunately both those things required what did not come easily on Tatooine; credits.

His job provided enough to get by. He rented a small flat on the outskirts of town. The rest of his credits were spent on food, and of course the cantina. He enjoyed sitting in a dark booth and listening to the pilots share their exaggerated plights with each other.

As he continued his lunch, Davil's attention was drawn to two new figures that walked quickly through the marketplace. He recognized the Sullustan in red immediately. That's the one that asked me about the Shi'viik. Davil's attention, however, was drawn to the Rodian by the Sullustan's side.

For some reason he looked familiar. Davil shook his head, I don't even know any Rodians. But he couldn't shake the feeling of recognition. He watched the two aliens as they passed through the market and eventually disappeared into the crowd.

Looking at his chronometer he quickly finished his greasy meal. Picturing the Rodian again he let out a chuckle. Perhaps the sun has finally gotten to my head. Davil stood and stretched. With five more hours of work left, he had more important things to do than worry about complete strangers.

*****

Lesk Dafoon swirled his drink about his glass, entranced by the colors. With a heavy sigh he downed the last of the powerful alcohol, savoring the burning in his throat.

He looked around the dim-lit cantina, it's large, day-time crowed noisily conversed with each other. Some crowded the circular counter demanding drinks. Others hid in booths and talked quietly.

Lesk, however, preferred to be alone. He sat slumped in his seat with a grizzled look on his face. It was covered in a dirty stubble from his recent disregard of hygiene.

It had been two days since he'd left his ship, the Aphex, to burn in the desert. Two of the worst days of his life. When the two men who picked him up from the wreck dropped him midtown, he'd not known what to do. He'd bought a change of clothes with the credit's he'd salvaged and then headed towards the nearest refuge. It just happened to end up being the cantina.

For the last fifteen years of his life, Lesk had been a pilot. A good pilot at that. He'd grown up on a floating colony high above the planet of Antar 4. The planet was homeworld to the Gotals, but many other species had come to work on the mineral mines that were spread throughout the system, prospering off the rich minerals on the planet. At the age of 25 he became employed as a pilot for Prindaar Shipping company, running loads of minerals to various worlds. Five years later he bought his own ship, and went independent. Though the money was not always as frequent, it was often better. Lesk loved the sense of independence his ship gave him. But now that was gone, and with it, so was his life.

As he finished his drink, he rubbed his eyes and let out a yawn. He couldn't sleep in the cantina, he'd tried the night before, only to find himself on the streets at the hands of an angry bartender.

Slowly, woozily, Lesk stood up. The room spun a bit, but not enough to keep him from walking. He carefully tread across the bar, avoiding the gazes of the others gathered there. Lesk accidently swayed into a pair of blue-skinned Duros' and was rewarded with curse and a push. Focusing his attention on the door he walked up a pair of battered steps and stumbled out into the night.

It's night? Lesk asked himself, confused. It can't be, I've only been in the bar for..., Lesk glanced at his chronometer and felt himself blush. Seven hours.

Shaking his head, his began to look for a place to sleep. He had enough money to a rent a room for the night, but he didn't want to spend that money if he didn't have to. If only I can find a blanket, or a...

"You look a little lost," came a savage voice from behind Lesk.

He turned around to be greeted with a vision that was somewhat less-than appealing. The man before him was dressed in multi-colored rags, each covered with symbols, as if part of a gang. He was short, but stocky, and muscles could be seem rippling under his apparel. On his face he wore a feral green. It reveled missing teeth and quite ill intentions.

"No," answered Lesk carefully, "I know where I'm going." He then quickly turned and started to walk off. After a few seconds of silence he'd thought he'd gotten away with it. He was wrong.

The kick to the back sent him sprawling to the dirt. With a thud his head hit the hard ground, blanking his vision for short span. As the world became clear again, he slowly got to his feet and turned around. "Look, I don't have any money, you're wasting your..."

His attacker's first interrupted his attempted bargain as it smashed into his mouth. The world around Lesk spun around and he found himself laying on the ground, staring at the blurry night-sky. He felt something odd in his mouth and in disgust, spit out two teeth.

As his head cleared again, he watched the stars above him. It was almost peaceful until a kick by his mugger landed on his sternum. The air was whisked from Lesk's body, repeatedly and forcefully. He brought his hands over his head, a meek protection. The kicks became more frequent, and Lesk could feel things start to move in his body. Things that shouldn't have moved. He just lay there helpless. Soon it would be over, and to be honest, he wasn't that regretful about it.

It took Lesk a few seconds to realize, but the kicking had stopped. He heard a thump on the ground to his right, but couldn't turn himself to see who or what had fallen. Startling him, a familiar face appeared over his. It one of the men that had found him at the crash site. What was his name, Davis, Davele?

"Are you alright?" Asked the newcomer, clearly concerned.

Lesk attempted to talk, but what came out was nothing more than a barely audible moan.

"I'm Davil Beven. I don't know if you remember me," he started, wiping spots of blood off Lesk's head with a cloth. "I don't think I should move you, I'll call someone who can help. He used to be a doctor."

Lesk attempted to nod, but the pain that lanced through his neck persuaded him to stop. He watched Davil slowly fade as he talked into his comlink. Within a few seconds, the rest of the world faded away too.

*****

Foontag Naboon fussed with two small cups of tea in his kitchen unit. The tea was expensive, but he wasn't about to be called a bad host. The question is, how long will I be a host?

Foontag walked from the compact kitchen, and into his main room. In a small chair sat his Rodian friend who stared into the flowing fountain. He raised his head as Foontag entered, and thanked him for the tea.

"So tell me," started Foontag. "What has brought you to this state of hiding?"

Jo De'te was silent for a long time, as if summing up his entire situation. He turned his eyes to look at his friend. "I...I had been working for Borda the Hutt," he stopped at he saw the disapproving look on Foontag's face. "Times were not prosperous, and the job payed well," he explained. "Within time Borda had grown to trust me. I was put in charge of managing his finances. I monitored his accounts and gave him advice on expenses.

Foontag nodded, understanding the various procedures used in business. Years ago Foontag and Jo had worked together in a similar position with a contracting company on Coruscant. They had risen to the top quickly, eventually becoming the co-heads of the financial board. They had been successful and prosperous and had the ear of the company's owner. That benefit, however, had been their downfall.

Both Naboon and De'te had urged the president to invest in durascien, an ore that had been discovered in the asteroid belts of Hoth. It was thought to be higher quality than duracrete or plasteel, but it had turned out to of no more value than spacedust.

Losing over a quarter of their company's profits, both Foontag and Jo had been fired. They were marked as fools and made the laughing stock of the Coruscant financial community. Both of the beings had left their homes in shame. Each attempting to begin a new life

"Borda was never attentive to his funds. I thought it would be safe to drain a small portion of his commerce to booster my personal accounts. I was wrong. One of Borda's people, a man who was jealous of my position, caught me. One day I was enjoying a comfortable life in luxury, the next I was fleeing in the alleys of Nar Shaddaa, avoiding bounty hunters."

Foontag let out a sigh and examined his fingers. "Why, Jo, did you come to me?"

"You were the only one I could trust. Most of my other associates would be willing to sell me out for the 50,000 credits Borda has on my head."

The Sullustan's eyes widened, "Fifty thousand?"

Jo gave the Rodian equivalent of a smile. "Borda is quite a bit put off by my actions."

"I'll say," said Foontag. "I understand why you've fled to this world. But with a price that large, I'm not sure even Tatooine will be able to hide you forever."