AN:

Hello y'all. This new project marches onward as we pick up a new party member and get a better feel for the current ones. I need to say I'm having a wonderful time with Shana's Mando'a lines. Tricky, but such fun. If you're itching for translations I'm pulling this all off of the Mando'a Wookiepedia page. In other news, my prototypical Final Fastasy VII piece has been removed for total overhaul; it doesn't reflect my current feelings on the work or a fully accurate view of the characters, so for now it had to go. Enjoy, and be sure to stay tuned!

Chapter 3: To Open Tables

Mon Gazza, the lesser known podracing dustball, was a touch aside from what Shana had expected, and not for the better. She had been to Tatooine and saw there how evils like slavery and scarcity ravaged lives, but starving and homeless seemed to be everywhere here, on every corner. The fourth time she dipped into her wallet, Wren caught her by the hand, shaking his head. "We gave to them three corners ago," he said, throwing the raggedy dressed lady a look that sent her scurrying. "If you're not careful, groups will tail you so that they can hit you with each member one at a time and milk you for cash over the whole day." Naturally it struck Shana as intensely dishonest, but looking at the state of these streets, she couldn't bring herself to anger. She took refuge in her buy'ce ka'rta, her 'helmet-soul'; the tougher version of yourself brought about by wearing proper beskar'gam. It was a nuanced term, including everything from the way your boots sounded on wooden floors, to having an abundance of ammunition and secondary weapons, to the incredible multI-threat protective capabilities of Mandalorian Iron, to the self-confidence gained from the impenetrable sab'aac face of the T-shaped visor.

"Who would ceate such a dar'yaim?" she questioned. "Who would come here? And who would stay?"

Wren sank further into the look of disgust "Well it was spice at first. Any planet capable of supporting Energy Spiders is gonna become a scumhole if the spice trade gets wind." Shana flared her nose in contempt. "The New Republic naturally outlawed it, but spice trade is the lifeblood of crime; they haven't left, they've just gone underground. It's easily the most brutal life on the planet. Makes Kessel look like spring in Theed."

"Filthy stuff," she hissed, and Wren nodded in agreement.

"Then came the pod races," he continued. "Obviously a brutal lifestyle in its own right, but it has its perks. Mon Gazza is even dryer than Tatooine; no moisture to farm, so every last sip of drinking water is brought in from off planet or collected and purified, and then supplemented with the required nutrients for life. The Pod Racing Guild is the only faction on the planet that can afford a diet of 100% actual food for even it's entry-level members. They also basically control the tourist industry; Mon Gazza is actually something of a nexus of cuisine, but it's reserved by law for offworlders, PRG employees, and administrators of the other factions. Anyone without a tourist visa or PRG food card couldn't buy a single mouthful of food no matter how many credits they had."

"Is any business on this planet not steeped in death and dishonesty?" Shana seriously doubted she'd have any sort of appetite no matter what was on her plate. Not in a place like this.

Wren shook his head. "The closest thing to it is the rustmining. Mon Gazza's red coloration comes from ferric compounds in the sand, compounds that can be processed into precursor metals used in making durasteel. They brave rust storms that will eat you alive just like any other sandstorm, but if you survive it, you're in for a longer, more painful septic death. Dunestalkers will blind you with acid, dive into your chest, and lay a clutch of eggs around your heart, and the hellion worms will leap up out of the sand and cut you in half in the blink of an eye, but it's the only way for a Mon Gazzan to get a food card without a hereditary administrative position or getting involved in a highly insular and violent pod racing community."

"How do all these homeless fit in?" she questioned, dreading the response.

"Most of them are between jobs," the spacer explained. "The lifers are either disabled, usually from injuries sustained on a job, or have been blacklisted." Wren cast a glance over to his alluring yet imposing passenger. "The invalid get taken care of by their social groups and local businesses. You get blacklisted if the High Administrator's forces catch you helping a blacklister, or otherwise running afoul one of the factions; they don't last long."

Shana stopped herself from sighing, casting another look around. "Where are we going to find this cyclops, then?"

"Hakyo spends his time near the racetrack, in the parade district. He's a professional hooligan, from what I hear. They don't actually let him into the stadiums anymore."

That earned a dark chuckle from the Mando. "Can't imagine why," she joked.

"Yeah, a pissed off seven and a half foot regenerating ex-tribal savage is rarely good for your concessions numbers. The bars in the parade district don't have that luxury, refusing to serve him would mean losing potentially thousands of customers." Wren panned his head around for a moment, before locking on. "Follow, but not too close," he said.

The captain changed directions, falling in behind a Zabrak and grabbing him by the coat. The horn-headed man spun around swinging, but pulled short, holding his hands up. "Force, Eschlan! Don't do nothing to me!"

Shana watched his face, and his scowl didn't speak of the violence the Zabrak was fearing. "I'm not here for the old nerf, Graul." Wren let Graul step back, dusting him off.

"O-oh!" Graul looked as though a blaster had been taken from his head. "Water under the bridge then?"

The corner of Wren's mouth twitched. "Don't count on it. Just tell me where Hakyo hangs out these days and I won't lump you."

The blaster-to-my-head look came right back. "Duraka's been on a losing streak, and Splinqui crashed and got shredded by hellions just last week. Hakyo isn't really approachable these days..."

Wren sighed, casting his gaze up in exhaspiration, before popping Graul in the throat with the edge of his hand. "Let me worry about that," he said, as the Zabrak gasped and coughed.

"He's in Stalker's Supper," Graul ground out. "But for real, watch yourself. He's got a new blaster and he's not shy of the trigger."

Wren ambled over to where Shana was waiting. "What else is new?" he muttered. "Catch all that, red?"

The Mando woman nodded once, tapping the side of her helmet. "Stalker's Supper, new blaster, bad mood."

"Knowing Hakyo, it's something excessive. Which is part of why we came strapped up."

Shana had her DC-15A slung at her front at low ready. Holstered at her thigh was a DC-15S, cut down shorter with the folding stock removed. Hanging from the small of her back was a short two-foot saber with a thick d-shaped guard. When Wren had questioned it back on the Lady, she had responded with a winning grin. "It's not in the Resol'nare, but every proper Mando'ad can at least play with the beskad. My papa is a swordmaster, alor'kad in our language. One of the best, actually."

Wren smirked. "My papa is a swordmaster. Get off planet." He wore his handsomely blued and engraved S-5, with a single square holographic sight on its top and the standard projectile launcher, on his thigh. Under each arm was an ELG-3A, and behind his back was a Q2 holdout blaster. Wren's belt was a medley of power packs and lose rounds for use in the S-5's underbarrel launcher.

Shana had taken her turn to question his choices, while he slipped on his brown bantha leather jacket. "Spent a lot of time on Naboo?" She had asked, hefting one of his ELG-3As.

"More or less," Wren said. His tone was clipped, and Shana couldn't read anything from it. "But I also just appreciate the hardware. The S-5 is more than just a great heavy pistol. The underslung slugthrower can do anything you can cook up a round for."

"Pretty," she commented. "Wood grips and nice finishes are always going to be stylish. Maybe a little too stylish for every locale?"

Wren took the slender pistol from Shana's hands, slipping it into a holster under his jacket. "I have other kit for the rougher stuff," he insisted. "We're not heading out into the wastes; parade district can be rough, but not too bad as long as you don't get caught in a post-race riot."

Wren displayed a tendency to slip through crowds with little effort, identifying passage through the bustling street that didn't step on any toes or bump any shoulders. Shana followed a ways behind, the crowd giving her a wide berth at the sight of her modified GAR surplus and Mando kit. "So why the getup?" He questioned her, when traffic crowded them together.

"What getup?" she responded.

"The white plate, the red trim, the DCs?" he continued.

Shana slapped the cheek of her helmet in exasperation. "Us Mando'ade, we color our armor for symbolic meaning. Red honors parents and teachers."

"And white?"

Shana's cheeks flushed as she stared off into space through her inscrutable faceplate. "It represents a Mandalorian concept, ara'nov solus aruetii bal hut'uun; defending lone strangers and cowards. A pledge to help others who can't help themselves, because it's right and you can. Using your fighting skills for justice as well as profit."

"I guess nobody told the Stormtrooper Corps," Wren thought with a frown, feeling a creeping chill of sadness in the cast of her gaze and the set of her shoulders. "Seeing this place must kill you," he said softly.

Shana shrugged. "My people are nomadic warriors; mercenaries, bounty hunters, assassins, body guards. You get used to it quick, being dedicated to altruism in a lifestyle like ours. Can't help everyone."

Wren nodded his head. They rounded a corner, and the architechture shifted visibly, with streets devoid of the homeless and colorful banners flying over every one of the many bars and resturaunts. The district was just beginning to fill in anticipation of the afternoon and evening races. Wren drew a beeline for one particular bar. They stepped inside, and Shana was immediately hit by the scent of liquor and hot food, even through her helmet filters. A uniformed Dug at the door took one look at Wren and pointed to the back left corner of the wide room.

Abyssians were always an imposing sight, but Hakyo was more imposing than most, a hulking wall of muscle that stood seven feet and change. He wore a huge pair of simple trousers, but for his savage people, such garb was highly formal. On Abyss it would be simply outlandish, the tribes that wore anything sported pelts and loincloths. At the belt was a small circular droid, a seemingly generic translator model with a harsh cycloptic face not unlike its master's and a dull gunmetal finish; another piece of an ensemble that would never fit in on this being's home world. There was the blaster, lying on the table next to a cup of what looked and smelled like animal blood; it was a cut down N'gant-Zarvel 9118, a short and powerful heavy carbine made shorter by the removal of its stock.

"Hakyo!" Wren called over the pub's bustle. "Old friend!"

The brute turned, his eye blinking slowly. and roared, huge arms out wide. Shana grasped her DC, but Wren stepped into her line of fire. With a laugh, Wren proceeded to unload a vicious flurry of strikes on Hakyo's bare abdomen. The sound of the impact of Wren's limbs against the Abyssin's body managed to cut through the noise filling the joint. Wren continued long as he could, but eventually his strikes began to slow, and he gave up. Hakyo roared again, and those in the place who were PRG members and in on the joke roared as well, with laughter and toasts.

"Kandosii," Shana thought to herself. "He's good. Damn good." She'd seen plenty of superb brawlers in her day, but Wren moved with all the speed, power, and stamina of a world-class pit fighter. The Abyssin brushed his belly with one huge clawed fist, completely unharmed thanks to his dense bones and thick hide. Wren turned back to her, a grin on his face.

"It's cool, come on and eat," he said. Seats were pulled up to the table and they were sat with an extensive menu. Shana cast Wren a look as he ordered without hesitation. Eventually the Dug water's eyes fell on her, and eventually the whole table joined. She relented when Wren gave her a subtle nod, pulling off her helmet and setting it on the table.

"Not really hungry," she said sheepishly. Wren stifled a chuckle.

"Give us a second," he said to the waiter, grabbing Shana by the shoulder plate and tugging her into whispering range. "I thought I mentioned, all those homeless get handouts from the more beneficent PRG factions, that's how they get their aqua-nutria." He pointed to her menu, continuing; "That's the second figure there. Cost in credits, and how many bottles of aqua-nutria they hand out from the profits."

Shana relented, her face scrunched with a mix of emotions, none of them pleasent. She did order herself a plate of seared fish and veg, however. Hakyo began a grumbling tirade, setting his translator droid on the table so it could be heard. "Friends," it said, speaking as though it were Hakyo, not an intermediary. "One of our old guard, who has spent much time away, has returned to our fold at the perfect moment."

The easy, relaxed grin on Wren's face shifted to confusion. "Perfect? I'd heard Splinqui had..."

Wren knew the look that Hakyo had adopted. The brute motioned to another at the table, who hit a button on their wall panel. A sliding screen deployed, sealing their booth off from the rest of the resturaunt. Grim faces were sported all around. "Yes," Hakyo continued. "Splinqui the Charitable is dead. By all appearances but one, an accident."

"All but one?" Shana inserted. The Abyssin cast his lone eye on the Mando, studying her intently.

"You travel with a female of your kin, Brother Eschlan. You never told me you'd mated again," the Cyclops said through his translator.

"...Excuse me?" Shana's hand inched towards her beskad, but Wren held her back with a grip on her elbow that kept the blade in its sheath. Hakyo issued a rumbling sound that the droid didn't translate , and after a few moments Shana realized it was a humor vocalization.

"Yes, all but one," their host continued. "Splinqui crashed in the wastes, a half kilometer from the Greater Gorothra Hive, largest and oldest documented Hellion community on Mon Gazza. Naturally, he died, one of thousands of racers claimed by that hive. Like I said, it was a near perfect accident."

Wren frowned, massaging the bridge of his nose. Hakyo was, as Abyssin's went, extremely eccentric. Unlike most of his kind who found their way into the space lanes, Hakyo didn't leave to become an enforcer in spacer communities. He was kicked out of his birth tribe on Abyss for his intolerable disregard for the traditional Abyssin way of life. "The point, Hakyo."

The cyclops chuckled again. Wren knew it as a grim sound. "The High Administrator declared the site of the crash to be a monument, and has already hired a mercenary force to level the hive so construction could begin. This makes the crash site inaccessible, but we managed to bribe our ways into some of the fragments of the wreckage." Hakyo straightened to his full height. "They were covered in Baradium residue."

"Then he was murdered," Shana said. Those at the table nodded in agreement.

"Splinqui was integral to the Open Table Movement, as he called it," Wren explained. "Mon Gazza is prosperous enough to leave the Food Laws behind, and has been for a decade and a half. The only reason these laws haven't been revoked is the say so of the High Administrator. His family owns the original charter granted by the Hutts to develop Mon Gazza. As a champion racer, Splinqui was one of the few able to go to bat publicly against the food laws without fear of retribution. Now that he's dead, the Open Table Movement will crumble."

Hakyo blinked once. "Indeed. Unless we can link Splinqui's murder to the High Administrator, the needless hunger of this planet's poor will continue, maybe for many decades more."

Wren scowled. This was far more than he'd bargained for in coming back to Mon Gazza; getting involved in this would waste precious time and possibly raise all kinds of unwanted attention. He was about to voice this concern when he felt a tug at his sleeve. He turned bad was instantly fixed by a pair of forest green eyes. There was a look of desperate need on her face; it was the most winning pout he'd seen in quite a long time. "Please, Wren," she said softly, but with passion he couldn't ignore. "These people need us."

Cursing himself the whole time, Wren couldn't bring himself to say no. "It is decided," Hakyo said, raising his mug of animal fluids. "To open tables!"