The idea of an independent radio station is born in the wake of the third annual celebration of the liberation of Freetown. Like most births it can trace its origin back to a union; in this case the unfortunate coming together of Cobb Vanth, the town marshal, and Taanti's homebrewed desert plum and cacti hooch in the saloon that is owned and run by the Weequay.
Usually Cobb can hold his liquor and usually, he knows to say no to the saccharine sweet allure of the booze after he'd indulged in his evening snort of something he'll enjoy for the taste of it and the company that comes with it. But they are celebrating and it would be rude not to toast Freetown and likewise he can hardly refrain from partaking when the townspeople raise their glasses to him, of all things, so there goes his second round. The third is not a toast, but a free-for-all of and he thinks well, it can't hurt.
After that, Cobb quickly loses count.
The marshal is not in the habit of overindulging. He is the one whose job it is to break up the occasional drunk brawl or argument, but tonight the duty of keeping the peace rests on deputy Scott's adequately broad if rather unduly surly shoulders.
The advantage of living in a town as small as theirs is that everyone knows that in spite of the stripes on his belt buckle and underneath the armour that he has chosen not to wear tonight, Cobb is a person. He is their marshal, yes, but he is also the guy who tunes his speeder bike in his free time and who offers repairs to his neighbours because his da has taught him how to fix things and he's got the necessary patience and skill with the tools.
The downside of living in a town as small as theirs is that no one will let him live it down if he somehow embarrasses himself by throwing up behind the bar.
Cobb passes the evening en route between tables, his habitual swagger turned into a stiff-legged stagger before the second moon kisses the zenith. He talks about matters of no importance, loses three consecutive rounds of sabacc to Jo and her ninety year old grandmother and he flirts shamelessly with Issa because she knows that he has no interest in her but will flirt back nonetheless.
Cobb knows everyone and their nonna in this town and there is no one for him to chat up and take home for a quick romp – which is a shame really, because that's half the fun of an every party; making out with mysterious, handsome strangers followed by a little fumble in the dark outside.
"Cobb!" Jared calls out, beckoning Cobb over to their table, where he, Becks and Mott share a pitcher of something that looks like it's as tasty as it is undoubtedly potent. Taanti hasn't been stingy with the booze and judging by how the Weeqway's bustle has turned into more of a shuffle over the course of the evening, he'd been sampling his own creations.
"Duty calls," Cobb slurs and Issa snorts into her drink and puts her feet up on the table.
Jared slides over a mug before Cobb has sunk into the free seat between the miners.
"Last one," Cobb says not for the first and certainly not last time to a round of good-natured laughter.
Two hundred inhabitants are more than enough to drink him under the table even on naught but water.
"You figured out what you're going to do with an entire storeroom of comms equipment?" Jared asks sometime a couple of minutes into their conversation, referring to a truly impressive find of mostly scrap they had hauled out of an ancient building that the sands had given free after what had to be decades.
Cobb waves a dismissive hand. He wants to make it look casual, but narrowly misses smacking himself in the face when his elbow slips off the table, almost sending him careening off the side. He rights himself with a white-knuckled grip on the table's edge and does what an every man in his position has been guilty of at least once in their lifetime:
He runs that incorrigible mouth of his.
"Maybe I'll start a radio station."
There's more than six pairs of eyes staring at him and Cobb blinks at the verbal miscarriage he'd just had. Much like other things born prematurely and out of thoughtlessness, Cobb would be happy to let it be forgotten but once the words are out he cannot just shove them back.
The joke screams up at him from where he spilled it like a drink and Cobb carefully nudges it with the scuffed toe of one dusty boot.
"Now that'd be somethin'," Becks says into the silence.
With the unmatched focus of the royally plastered Cobb studies the idea through the golden lens of his Squished Jawa and thinks that he might just nurse it into existence.
o
The only thing Cobb Vanth is actually nursing on the morrow is a massive hangover and a glass of watered down pallie juice, his continued existence merely a sad, mocking reality to be endured.
Jo is the thirtieth or so person to approach him, her habitual cheerful disposition doing nothing for Cobb's killer headache.
"Did you mean what you said yesterday?" she asks earnestly and slides into the opposite seat without waiting for an invitation.
Cobb sends up a fleeting prayer that he did not confess his love for anyone.
"About the radio station."
"Uh." Thank the suns, it's just more of this nonsense.
"You know, It'd be nice to have some music while working the mines," Jo muses.
"Nhh." Yes, yes it sure would be.
"We ain't had a bandit raid in weeks," Jo continues, "and Scott's a good deputy, he'll make a good marshal – one day, that is…"
"M-mm." And fuck no, he ain't, but Cobb does not say that out loud.
Jo beams up at him. "Glad you think so too, Marshal."
o
It takes a couple of weeks to set everything up in an empty house at the edge of town and even longer than that before Cobb is ready to give this thing a trial run. He has a brand-new pre-Empire transponder-receiver block, a signal booster, a desk with a console, datapad and comm as well as an ungodly amount of tech to play the small mountain of datasticks, chips and disks stacked into piles in a corner.
A lot of interesting items had made it out of the palace following Jabba the Hutt's demise, scavengers raiding the place before the power vacuum could be filled once again. Some of it had made it to Freetown although the town prefers to keep its silence as to the 'how'.
"And now for the weather, which is – why do I have to read this?" Cobb asks, taking off his headphones while Scott cuts the transmission by pushing the off button. For some reason he uses his ring finger, like he has forgotten how to be a normal person.
"Every radio station has a weather segment," Jared points out.
"And a traffic segment," Tess chimes in.
"We don't have weather," Cobb reminds them. "Nor traffic. What am I supposed to talk about; bantha migration patterns across the Dune Sea?" he asks despite finding himself at the risk of Issa calling him catty again, of all things.
The Twi'lek shoots him an unimpressed glance. "Just read the weather forecast, Cobb."
"What's there to forecast? It will be hot and dry today and tomorrow and the day after and if you can look out of your window and see your neighbour's house, it ain't stormin'."
"Oh, we could include a bad weather warning," Jo pipes up.
They have an alarm in town that serves this very purpose.
Cobb rests his elbow on his desk and cradles the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and blindly picks up the old, discoloured caf cup that already sports a chip near the handle and nonetheless flirts with danger at the edge of his workdesk. He gives it an inviting wiggle in Taanti's general direction.
"Can you fix me another one?"
"You had two already."
"Yeah, and I'm feelin' like a third."
"You feelin' like a heart attack, Marshal?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, come on," Becks says, hands stemmed into her hips. "After all, this was all your idea."
See, therein lies the problem. It was all Cobb's idea.
Cobb sighs, then pulls the headphones back over his ears, clears his throat and viciously stabs the on button with his index finger.
"And now for the weather. I see blue skies and dunes for miles; folks, don't forget to bring your dusters, it looks like it's gonna be another hot and sunny day," Cobb announces.
"See?" Tess says once Cobb is off air again. "You're good at this."
Therein lies the other problem. Flattery will get them anywhere.