A/N: Sometimes certain projects fall to the wayside. That's the nature of a semi-busy life.

Warnings: Hurt Vector contains many controversial topics and suggestive themes, including but not limited to: excessive cursing in multiple languages, drug/stimulant use, addiction/dependency, psychosis, neurotic behavior, hints of PTSD, slight homosexual implications, wanton self-destruction, murder, and other such fun topics. If this bothers you in any way, shape, or form, or if you are a minor (aka, under-aged), there is a button at the top of your screen that says BACK. I suggest you use it. Thank you.

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder. Characters belong to their respective owners.


[16:09:30]
109 Days Post Order 66

The planet is exactly as I left it—a hot, toxic, floating cesspool of fire dotted with acid soaked mining facilities. Slaves and indentured servants mill about in the same areas, blocking the major causeways out of the planet-side hangar and begging for a few extra creds between work hours. Unfortunately for them, I need my credits just as bad as the next jumped-up backwater dolovite miner.

It doesn't take much effort to navigate the crowd and find the exit. My armor does most of the… non-verbal negotiating, sending the easily intimidated speedily out of my way on sight alone. Not exactly conspicuous, but I don't have anything to hide on this force-forsaken planet.

Except maybe my face.

I step out from the protective barrier surrounding the hangar. It's raining and the streets are completely clear of droids and life-forms alike. My armor handles the acid easily with a thin, personal energy barrier. The miniature power storage used for the barrier can last for another several hours, at least.

Which is all good and helpful, but I don't plan to stick around that long.

Though it's only midday, the colony is already cast in long shadows, the street lamps buzzing to life very, very slowly. The sky is a blur of angry, rolling green and gray clouds. The occasional flash of lightning lights up the atmosphere with bright silver and casts an ugly gray pallor over the neighborhood—as if it didn't already look so friendly and inviting in the first place.

I stroll past the living quarters—a tall, solid building of reinforced duracrete that goes several storeys underground, somewhat protected from the acidity and the planet's heat. Most slaves, and the newer indentured workers, are packed inside like domesticated animals. Eating, sleeping, sweating and dying on top of one another. I've only been in there once.

Let's just say I made it a little more… roomy.

Past the quarters is the Medical Center. The tiny building is just a round dome peaking out from the ground, two massive doors situated close to the street for emergencies. The side entrance is the one used for casual visitors, so I veer down a path and enter that way. Inside, old white lamps swing suspended from the ceiling.

The place smells like disinfectant, antiseptic, and death.

Behind the square counter is a silver protocol droid, reading over charts and typing something into a desk-mounted console. I turn down a corridor, not bothering to ring up the droid or sign in my local false name onto a chart labeled Visitors.

I'm not sure I want to be here. But my boots keep walking, and I don't slow down.

I sense her before the doors to the private ward cycle open. It gives me half a second to prepare for the scene within, but it's not enough. I could have all the time in the galaxy and it still wouldn't be enough.

Dachi lays there on a neatly made medical bed, eyes blank and glossy and staring straight up at the ceiling. The med-droid must've just finished checking her vitals.

I haven't been around long enough to decipher all the strange quirks of Zabrak expressions, but I recognize the one she's wearing just fine. I've seen it far too many times, on far too many different peoples.

It's all the same to me, now.

The heart monitor beeps in the irregular rhythm Zabrak are known for. I scan the screen monitoring her vitals, following the lines with my eyes from the machine to the veins in her bare arms. Her chest rises and falls slowly. Tribal tattoos web out from beneath the black mask strapped over her mouth. It almost looks like there's an ethersquid sucking her face, what with the long black tube coiled over her body and spilling over the side of the bed to connect the mask to the machine closest to me. The light wheezing of the mechanical lung is deafening in this small ward.

I notice that they didn't bother to remove the slave collar from her neck.

"I said I'd be back, Dachi," I speak softly as I lightly brush stray strands of wavy red-brown hair from her forehead. "I comm'd ahead. The medical droid said there's been no change in your condition. You're still unresponsive. Past the point of no return."

My voice comes out abnormally warbled from the speakers of my buy'ce. I'm going to chalk that up to… Nerves. I guess.

I gently rest my hand over the long black tube, the only thing keeping her alive. Every couple of seconds I feel a faint flutter press against the back of my mind. The heart monitor beeps erratically, and then smoothes out. I expect her eyes to blink, to swivel and focus on me hovering over her. I can see her just jump up, well again, and make one snappy remark or another as she clamps me in a rib-breaking hug.

She's young. Too young for this place. No more than a few standard months older than myself. She's deceptively strong, had been for as long as I've known her. She'd have to be, to survive in this mining colony on some force-forsaken rock in galaxy knows where. Years of hard, manual labor didn't age her like it should have. And it should have.

I never understood that, never figured out the secret behind it.

Oh. D'ika.

Just wake up and yell at me. Please yell at me.

"Dachi?" I ask. No response, unsurprisingly.

I think about when I last saw her before… before this. She was happy. She was so happy…

I lean forward and ease her eyes closed. My hand gently smoothes the messy tangle of hair atop her head.

"I wasn't there," I whisper, silent enough that I'm not sure if she could hear me, even if she was awake. "I should've been there."

Killing didn't bring her back. Killing never brought any of themback.

I trace her hair line, trail my gloved fingers over the contours of the horns sticking out from beneath her skin, and settle on the mask over her nose and cheekbones.

The machines continue to beep. Her chest rises and falls slowly.

My gloved palm fits comfortably over the mask. I silently will her to look at me. Open your eyes. Look at me. Look at me.

Nothing happens. There is no movement, other than the occasional flashing of the large machine beside the bed and the periodic beeps of the vitals monitor hovering over the right. My hand flexes around the mask.

She's never waking up.

A moment of weakness seizes me. An impulse. I can see myself forcibly removing the breathing tube. Cut her life support. I can see myself watch, transfixed, as her body seizes, goes through the effects of hypoxia. I could manufacture an overdose of conergin. Death would be quick. Relatively painless.

I could free her.

It takes a few, long, moments for me to regain control over myself. I let go of the mask and slowly pull my arm back, trailing my fingertips along the black tube, down her arm, and coming to a stop over her hand. I watch her face as I settle into the bedside chair, running my thumb over the back of her knuckles.

My hands are shaking. My vision blurs. Pain tightens behind my ribs. It hurts to breathe.

I sit there.

I sit there for a long time.

* * *

[16:10:04]
5 Days Later

Jate'kara jerks abruptly as we drop out of hyperspace and into orbit around Tatooine. The small comm unit situated on the piloting console begins to beep. I step away from the galaxy map embedded in the wall and lean over the console.

I stare at the flashing button.

Nate floats to my right, monitoring the ship's status. I flop into the pilot's chair and resume control of Jate'kara. "Contact one of the landing ports around the outer border of Mos Eisley. If everything goes well, we'll be gone within two days."

"So request five days, master?"

I shake my head. "Just a three day opening will be enough."

Nate beeps in the affirmative and rises from the co-pilot's chair. He floats around and out of sight behind me, presumably to contact one of the many landing pads in the city. While he's busy with that, I reach over and flip a few switches to activate an alternate transponder code—I am now Jin Tamor, piloting the Sky Fish, reporting for criminal duty. The console lights up vibrantly for a second as the codes switch, deactivating and activating respectively, and the readout buzzes across the small data screen beside the controls.

That done, I return to maneuvering around inside the atmosphere. Burning red sky swirls above, while miles and miles of dry dusty canyon and desert loom below us, zipping past faster than my eyes care to follow. Just over the next cliff, Mos Eisley Spaceport looms in the distance. Hundreds of bulbous shaped building structures dot the horizon, spewing pollution into the air.

It's the perfect setting for the seedy dealings of the Outer Rim.

Or, well, the closest raging pit of criminal activity this side of the Corellian Run.

"We are clear for Landing Platform ML-163, master."

"Thanks, Nate."

I adjust the speed of Jate'kara as we near Mos Eisley. Landing the ship is easy. Something tells me that the rest of this trip won't be. I shake my head and banish my bad feelings, taking a moment to make sure the seal connecting my helmet to the rest of my suit is secure. It's an unnecessary gesture, but from there I stand and systematically check every piece of my kit, from my chest plates to my shin guards.

The flashing button on the comm unit catches my eye again.

I don't want to hear the message. I know I don't.

I activate it anyway. A miniature blue hologram of my younger sister crackles on. Her pacing form appears to be moving, though the holo remains stationary on top of the console.

"Yan'ika, where are you? Please return this call." The message ends there and the image disappears.

I stare at the blank space. When was the last time I spoke to Jah'ki?

Oh. That's right. Over half a standard year ago. Time flies when you're on the run from ghosts.

I switch off the comm unit and exit the cockpit.

It's early morning on this side of the planet. Not quite early enough to warrant waiting inside my ship until the rest of the city wakes up, but still. Early. I walk down the loading ramp as it descends, stopping at the foot of the plank to wait for Nate. He's taking his sweet time to follow.

A ta-da tune beeps when he finally arrives, stopping just an arm's length away from me. His wide, large mechanical eyes are dim. Given the dark atmosphere of the port, it's unusual. Nate hovers, looking like a disoriented, overstuffed lovechild of a 2-1B medical droid and one of the rust-red 3PX protocol series. There's wear and tear on his extra external armor plating and the repulsorlift sputters from time to time. He deserves a thorough look-over from someone who knows more than just how to kick start a fidgety hyperdrive.

But I can't contact them. Not just yet.

"You know what I'm about to say, Nate."

The intensity of light in his eyes flickers. "No unauthorized cargo checks. No close examinations of the ship. No unauthorized repairs…"

"And?" I prompt.

He let's out a few quick beeps. "No browsing the holonet for droids with female programming, master."

I reach over to him and pat his metal head while I fish around in my back pouch.

"That's right. If we need a new droid, I'll buy one. But not now, and probably not soon. And here." I hand him three miniature grenades—one sonic and two frags. A portion of his abdomen slides out to reveal a hidden compartment. I place the grenades inside and watch as they disappear into my droid.

"Do not," I state with extra emphasis on each word, "use these unless absolutely necessary."

Nate responds with a melancholy melody I don't recognize. I wait a few seconds, but it soon becomes clear he doesn't intend to say anything more.

"Okay then. See you later," I say.

Nate floats back up into the ship. The ramp rises soon after.

I wonder what's gotten into him.

"Oi, Mando."

The 360 degree view-screen situated in the corner of my helmet's HUD flashes a warning signal. I turn to greet the short, hairless humanoid approaching. Hunched over and leaning heavily on a staff taller than itself, its elongated face shakes side to side before rearing up to look me in the visor. Its bald, yellow skin looks like dried and heavily beaten leather, only slightly darker than the ragged linen robe it wears.

I've never seen one of these before.

"I don't recognize your species." I state plainly.

It growls. "I don't care, kwaag. Payment upfront for use of this landing platform."

"You are the owner of this hole?" I ask, looking around.

To the left, a globe shaped security droid dips under the hull of my ship and buzzes around us. It beeps in the affirmative repeatedly as it bumps into my helmet.

Stupid, kriffing, irritating…

With as much power as I can muster, without obviously showing it, I swat the droid away. It screams in a series of loud, high-pitched beeps, as it bounces over the sandstone floor.

I resist the urge to toss the small sentient around to negotiate free rent and sift through my back pouch. Credit units aren't worth much these days, but then again they never were well-accepted out here, before. So instead, I pull out a handful of gold flecked truguts. Kneeling down to eye-level, I hand them to the sentient.

"This should cover three days stay, and a refuel."

The creature looks at the credits in its clawed hand, and then looks at my visor. I can see the beginnings of an argument behind its eyes, but it gives my helmet—and the blaster in my thigh holster—a few suspicious once-overs. Eventually it seems to decide that the credits are enough and nods once.

"No explosions," it warns gravely as it limps away. The security droid I swatted earlier rolls across the ground before its repulsor activates and sends it spinning into the air around the tiny retreating sentient.

I step out from beneath the ship and take a careful look around. The walls are high, and are the same color as every other building on this desert rock—dirty yellow brown. Only one sun is up and barely peaks over one of the walls, casting an ugly red glow over everything in the area. In the distance, a group of repair droids haul a tube bigger than themselves towards my ship and begin hooking up for the refuel I requested.

I exit the hangar and nearly trip over a tiny robed Jawa. It squeals in surprise and runs back to the other four of its kind crowding the opposite side of the doors. The street is dusty and as yellow as everything else. Across the way is a living settlement that appears more like a couple of sphere shaped boulders crammed together in half the space they should've occupied.

To my right, along the outer walls of the hangar, several vendors are in the process of setting up shop, stocking their stalls with wares varying from food to weapons to droid parts. I walk slowly, pausing by the first stall.

Several bolted together sheets of plastisteel stand against the wall. A canvas coverlet hangs over the top of the stall, draping down the sides and back, and held in place by lengths of twine.

This looks about as secure as a space pod with an open-top sunroof.

A table stretches to each false wall, displaying an impressive number of blasters listed in size and price. Most of them are old models, clearly weather-worn and dotted with sand. The prices are written on pieces of flimsy and bolted down. Behind the table floats a Toydarian, its bulbous stomach peeking out beneath a too-small vest as he continues to place down weapons for display.

"Are these in firing condition?" I ask.

The Toydarian sets down a small Merr-Sonn holdout blaster and rotates his body to stare at me. "Kipuna koth'galu?" he asks with clear irritation. "Chuba tinka me dwana gulu'punyu? Kava me tari kanuta, tirin? Ne'tapa stoopa tapu, mando."

I flick my hand in an unimpressed gesture and pick up one of the blasters closest to me. I examine the weapon while my visor automatically pulls up stats. It's an old, heavy blaster model. "Merr-Sonn. Model 23?" I verify out loud.

"Hopo punyu, mando? Daa'punyu pul'ix tasa'mulia. Ji dwana nuto, nich'konia che kopa- 200." The Toydarian offers as it resumes stocking the display table.

I turn the blaster in my hands a few times. I don't need another blaster, but I like how the weapon feels in my hands. The handle's strangely rounded and the metal is slightly melted on the right side of the barrel. The paint's flaking in most places, and dirt's clogged in every exposed crevice. And from the look of things… it would definitely need more than a few modifications.

It's probably more work than it's worth. A new scope. Hair trigger. Precision chamber. Maybe a custom power pack.

Yeah. It's definitely way more work than it's worth.

"Da dwana. Sold." I drop five gold peggat chips onto the table and hook the blaster to my belt as I exit the stall. My visor adjusts automatically to the change in light.

A couple of children, all of different species, zigzag around me, running in the street and laughing as they toss a sphere-shaped remote between themselves. Even from this distance, I can tell the small droid's repulsor is malfunctioning, as it can only stay aloft for no more than a few seconds before crash landing into a child's outstretched hands.

Their ragged clothes, dirty faces, and obvious lack of adequate footwear don't escape me.

Can't help everyone. Don't think about it.

I glance at the flashing timer in the bottom right corner of my HUD. 10:29. While it's never too early to venture into a cantina—especially in the Outer Rim—I think I'll take it slow. Wait a while. Browse the stalls until the streets get a little more crowded and the spaceport wakes up. Maybe I'll find more of these cheap, old antiques. Unlikely, but doesn't hurt to check.

I wonder if they still sell those tiny, sweet pastries around here…


End Notes

Huttese Translations
Kipuna koth'galu? - Firing condition?
Chuba tinka ji dwana gulu'punyu? - You think/say I sell bad gun(s)?
Kava ji tari kanuta, tirin? - How (do) I make money, then?
Ne'tapa stoopa'tapu, mando. - Don't ask stupid questions, mando.
Hopo punyu, mando? - Know your weapons, mando?
Daa'punyu pul'ix tasa'mulia. - That weapon need work/fix.
Ji dwana nuto, nich'konia che kopa- 200. - I sell (it) to you, one-time price, 200.

Expletives And Slang
Hurt Vector - a person who seems to attract misfortune to themselves and others around them
Kwaag - A Tulgah expletive
Kriffing - expletive