Two suns shown in the sky, radiating their beams like an archer shoots her arrows. The two suns were the enemy of this world, for they created the heat and scorched the land so that not even Kholm grass could grow upon its barren surface. Only sand carpeted it, and all manner of scum and ragged creatures infested it. Winds blew relentlessly, carrying with them bits of sand and rock that smarted the eyes and stung the skin. As a young boy once said, "If there's a bright center of the universe, you're on the planet that's farthest from."
A pair of booted feet traversed the rocky cliff line that led to Mos Eisley spaceport, leaving behind a black ribbon of footsteps – like black tacks poked into the sands. The figure wound its way steadily towards the blurred shapes of the spaceport in the distance, tracing the gray lines of smog wafting from the swoop yards and repair shops with her eyes. She bent her head down, revealing her scalp to the blistering heat in an attempt to shield her eyes from their scorching gaze. However, the waves of warmth sifting up from the sands were just as hot on her face as the sun. She scowled. She hated this planet.
Admiral Dalaa glared up at the twin suns, but even her, with all of her power, could do nothing to halt the devastating heat. "Perhaps that's what we should conquer next," she mused scornfully, "the sun." Of course she knew that she could not conquer nature, but then again, it seemed that lately, her forces could conquer nothing.
It had been nearly a year since her defeat at the Maw, when she lost the Death Star prototype, and along with it, her livelihood. And worse – her reputation. She had limped away from the wreckage with nothing but her Star Destroyer, the Gorgon, and the stinging laughter of a victorious Republic in her ears. Since she had escaped with the Gorgon, many of her crew believed her to have gone mad - they would never say it to her face, of course. Insane or not, she and her crew landed on the god-forsaken spit of land known as Tatooine. But all was not lost. In the Maw, she had been constructing a Death Star prototype, and though it was destroyed in the battle, the plans were still intact. She smiled at the thought. Those plans were all that kept her going. For though she knew that though she was stuck at the pitted bottom of her career, the plans that were safely locked away in her personal datapad would soon buy her a passage out of the rut she was stuck in and into the war above. The Empire would rise again. She would be sure of that.
Dalaa was greeted by a sudden choking breath of stench as she entered the south gate of the space port. Hands clenched behind her back, she walked through the labyrinth of stucco and adobe buildings, winding her determined way past smoldering corpses and molding drinks as though they were commonplace decorations. Though it had taken a few weeks, Dalaa had finally learned to stop her own bile from twisting in her stomach while she lived amongst the filth. This was the city of Mos Eisley, a spaceport that served as a breeding ground for slavery, piracy, smugglers, and other villainous creatures. On either side of her, the city paid no attention to her as she paced the streets. The adobe buildings, giant loaves of burning in Tatooine's suns, had long gotten used to the woman's afternoon walks. The sifting sands beneath her feet had long gotten used to the wondering woman's brooding.
Seeing her pass, a Jawa stood from a bar table underneath the awning of Mos Eisley Cantina. Golden eyes were all that was visible from underneath his grubby cloak, and they glowed shrewdly. A vulture to the carrion, the Jawa advanced on Dalaa, producing a number of small parts from the depths of his tattered robes. He chose one, a restrainer bolt, and displayed it proudly as he spouted a string of incoherent bartering. Dalaa glowered at the mass of filth before her, and then, with a sharp push, sent the Jawa sprawling. He hit with a thud, squealing indignantly, billowing up a cloud of sand. Surprisingly, instead of simply marching off and giving the creature no second thought, Dalaa waited for something.
Staring down her nose, she snarled, "Fetch me a drink, scum."
Scurrying, the Jawa slinked back into the cantina. He debated asking Dalaa for credits to pay for her drink, but quickly decided he valued his life more than his pocket change. Dalaa swept the Jawa's drink off the table with the back of her hand, and its contents broiled as it hit the sand. Stalking the Jawa out of the corner of her eyes, she watched to be sure he went to get her drink. Satisfied that the lower classes still respected a good bout of intimidation, she picked up an overturned chair, smoothed invisible wrinkles from her uniform, and sat down. She smirked. Things were finally coming together.