You Must Be This Tall to Ride

[Hobgoblin]

Jedi Master Hobgoblin did not want to be on Belderone.

He wanted to be on Coruscant, for it was there his senses told him he needed to travel. Nonetheless, Belderone had to be his first stop. The planet acted as a manufacturing hub for military vehicles and starfighters. As a result, it also happened to have an orbital station for spacefarers looking to book passage to other parts of the galaxy.

Teagan, his Padawan, had wanted to come with him.

"Not for you, this mission is," Hob had told her. "Hob senses that he must go alone. Until Hob returns, train in your meditation you must!"

After speaking with the Jedi Council, they'd agreed to get Hob as far as Belderone. Someone from the Alliance would donate the shipping fee to get him to Coruscant, as well as enough to pre-hire a bit of personal protection while he was there. However, since Alliance currency did not spend particularly well on Imperial Center, funding a return trip, the Council had said, was his problem.

At the time, Hob had cheerfully waved off their admonishments. The Force would provide, he had told them, for his mission was of great importance.

Standing in the docking ring with no sign from the Force whatsoever and wholly ignored by the forest of legs, tails, and occasional lekku bustling about him, Hob had the distinct impression that the Force deemed his mission rather small and would he be so kind as to move along to the appropriate docking station so that the other passengers would not accidentally injure him?

No wait, that last was something someone had actually said.

Hob cast about for the source and found it up; a rotund gleaming silver guidebot had spotted him amongst the crowds from its hovering position and swooped in to address him. Hob "Hm!"d brightly; here was his chance to get the lay of the land.

"Of course, good droid!" he told it. "Stand still, if you would."

The droid barely had time to respond to his request before Hob was clambering up one of its arms. Finding temporary vantage atop the bot's head, he scanned the docking ring for a potential ship.

The first bay held a massive Corellian luxury yacht, the gangway thick with the well-to-do.

It would clearly not do.

A standard Thyferran passenger liner rested by the airlock at the next bay over, accepting passengers of all kinds.

Hob shook his head.

A refurbished, yet clearly older Dreadnaught had docked a little farther down, accepting a group of passengers Hob could only describe as seedy.

No.

An extended airlock carried various military personnel out to a gleaming MC80 cruiser, its weapon emplacements bristling.

Still nope.

By the end of the ring, a light freighter rested, not at the end of a boarding airlock, but inside a small repair bay.

No- wait, what?

Hob took another look over the light freighter. Though at first glance it had seemed far too big, it was not. The similarity to other light freighters Hob had seen had initially fooled him. It was half the size of a standard light freighter and gave off a scrappy impression, similar to a vornskr pup that had won a fight early in its youth and was now firmly of the opinion it could handle anything, no matter the size.

It was perfect!

Meanwhile, the droid was objecting to Hob's use of it as a vantage point. "Sir," it said. "If you'd just tell me your docking bay number I'd be happy to point you in that direction."

"Found my way, I have," Hob gave the droid a grateful pat on its silver dome. "Grateful for your assistance, I am, good droid!"

To a gasp and several giggles, Hob hopped off the droid and headed in the direction of his chosen vessel. When he arrived twenty minutes later, no owner could be seen.

The goblin lifted his trademark walking stick and rapped it on the side of the bay's entrance. "Hello?" he asked. "Anyone home, is there?"

[Li Ho Fook]

Li Ho Fook did not want to be on Belderone.

More specifically, he did not want to be on Belderone with a corpse in his prisoner hold, which he had just learned he would not be paid for. The contract had been for eight thousand credits alive, four thousand dead. Or, at least it had the "dead" option until around five minutes after the Wah had been forced to put a large, smoldering crater in his bounty's chest, which firmly excluded him from the category of "alive."

His small freighter, original of Squib Design, had undergone many an overhaul in its life, including a very sensitive hands-free comm system, but it was Fook's desire to give that personal touch that he grasped the comm mic with such fury that it might shatter as he bellowed. "You cannot change a contract once it's been ink, dawg! And you can not pull the dead option after the jack is already toast, yo! That shit is whack! Mad whack, you feel me! You best not be playin' me, foo!"

The reply he received caused hiss beady, black eyes to narrow dangerously, and his lips curl back to reveal sharp little fangs. "So what's a playa supposed to do with Rodian stiff? You seriously ain't gonna pay shit for my work?"

The following reply resulted in Fook throwing down the handset, only to have it bounce up and around on its coiled cable before snatching it back out of the air. "Dawg, just pray no one ever puts the dead option on a contract on you, because, shit, Grandmaster do that one for free, feel me?"

A click came from the other end, and Li Ho Fook slammed his handset back into its socket before slumping back into his seat; big, fluffy tail swishing in an adorably furious manner beside him.

"Dag," he snapped. "Dag dag dag."

Razor sharp claws slipped from their sheaths within the black fur of his fingertips, scoring the arms of his seat, only adding to the myriad scratches there. "I needed that paper, too," he muttered to himself as his claws retracted. With a sigh, he hauled himself out of his seat.

He now had multiple problems: a body in his prisoner hold, an ion engine which kept going out of phase, and now no money coming in from the former to pay for bay space to fix the latter. Well, it wouldn't be the first time the Wah had cut and run without paying repair bay bills...

That still left the matter of taking out the trash, and getting his paws dirty. Nearly bare footpaws strode with the biggest thumps he could manage on such furry, padless feet, until he reached his hold, where a few keystrokes opened the hatch, and a few more popped the main hatch on his little Squib freighter. Hooking his claws deep into the clothing - and flesh - of the cold Rodian within the hold, Fook put his back into it and began to drag his now worthless bounty out and back down his loading ramp, oblivious to anyone standing in the doorway of his repair bay.

[Hobgoblin]

As if in response to Hob's earlier question, the ship hatch began to open. Hob beamed brightly; his pilot-savior was emerging to greet him!

Hob ambled up to the end of the boarding ramp and stopped.

The first sight he had of the mini-freighter's owner was a large, puffy tail. The tail was impressive, Hob decided, for it was the kind of tail that swooshed proudly as its owner walked. A tail that knotted up in humid weather, making it perfect for whipping against the ground in frustration or (Force forbid) against the face of some wild animal that sought to use it as a chew toy.

The tail gave way to what was clearly a Squib.

Hob had never met a Squib before, though from descriptions he'd learned the species was of comparable height to his own, albeit far furrier. The Squib and his tail trundled backwards down the freighter's gangplank. At the bottom of the gangplank, the Squib uttered a frustrated "Dag" and dropped the body he'd dragged out. The two of them stared at the body together.

While not the most peculiar form of greeting Hob had ever seen, it did rank up there with "blinking one's third eye" and "hopping around on one leg whilst covered in sludge".

Hob poked at the body with his walking stick. It squished.

"A most curious greeting!" Hob stated cheerfully. "However, need a corpse Hob does not. Prefer transport, Hob would, though appreciate your offer, Hob does."

[Li Ho Fook]

The maneuvering of a 160 lb, 5'9" Rodian would have been simple work for most bounty hunters, but for Li Ho Fook's 83 lb, 4'2" frame, it was a job which required a pause at the foot of his ship's ramp, before a second leg to the refuse bin. What it did not require, however, was an audience.

Beady black eyes narrowing, the wah eyed the... troll? with suspicion, one paw heading toward the grip of one of his blasters. "Don't need a stiff? Well, dag, ain't nobody needs one, today," he scowled. "And I'm not a taxi, dawg."

Instantly he regretted the additional comment. The strange alien was one he'd never seen, before, and surely Fook would have remembered another race actually smaller than himself. A full foot shoter than himself. Paw easing away from the blaster handle, the taller of the two diminutive aliens glanced back toward his ship, then returned to Hob.

"But I have been known to handle a passenger from time to time. If the paper's good. Where you need to go, dawg?"

[Hobgoblin]

The reference to 'paper' went over Hob's head (a frequent occurrence, given his height) but the question of destination he well understood.

The goblin fished around in the small pouch at his waist and withdrew a small flat disc. With a tap, he activated the display mechanism. From the emitter sprang the image of Coruscant; from there emerged a secondary image: the former Jedi Temple.

"Here, must Hob go," Hob said gravely. "Business, Hob has there. Transport will Hob need; a guide and protector as well. Small, Hob is, and prefer not to be stepped on, he does."

As if to offer proof of his own desires, Hob rapped his walking stick into the floor; tap-tap!

"However, unnoticed, Hob wishes to be," Hob continued. "A companion able to closely follow Hob is who he seeks."

Here, the goblin beamed at the Squib. "A fine protector, Hob believes you would make! Hm?"

[Li Ho Fook]

One of the wah's semi-pointed ears went up, while the other lay straight out to the side, his lips parted in a look of pure, unbridled skepticism. "Dawg, that's Coruscant, yo. That's like, where every jack is an Imperial homeboy," he shook his head. "You know what they do to homies who ain't kin? They blast their ships out of the sky, dawg. I mean, I'm down. Grandmaster can go anywhere, but... unless you're down, dawg, you ain't got enough paper to hire this action. So, either you show me ID that shines like my earrings, or you step off, little man."

With a flick of his chin, Fook returned to his business. Trash wouldn't take itself out, after all, and he wasn't about to get a fine for littering. Bay fees? Those dropped off, but littering tickets were an immortal bitch, he had learned. Reaching down, he grasped the rodian's shirt once more, then paused, feeling the energy flow through himself, until the muscles on his mostly bare arms tensed, and the wah heaved.

In a display of strength which should be foreign to a wookiee, let alone something half a wookie's size, Fook hurled the dead rodian a good four meters across the bay, and into the rubbish bin, without appearing to have broken a sweat, the Force tingling in the air around him as his focus dissipated. Glancing back at Hob, he was surprised the strange alien was still there, waiting.

"What? Either you got clean ID, or you find another ship, and another bodyguard, dawg," he clarified his previous obtuseness.

[Hobgoblin]

One of Hob's large ears twitched.

Now that he was listening for it, Hob heard another voice beneath the Squib's verbal one. The kind of voice that whispered from everything. The voice that mumbled from Jedi Padawans, spoke from their Knights, and orated clearly and cleanly from their Masters. The voice that screamed hollowly from all servants of the Dark Side. From the Squib, it uttered short sentences in low tones.

Interesting.

Hob flicked a button on the display device. The image of Hob's destination vanished; in its place arose an ebony-skinned human female. Her hair kept itself perfectly. Her voice, upon speaking, called to mind images of liquid chocolate. Even the tiniest of her mannerisms hinted at elegant grace; the woman's every aspect suggested she was well-to-do. "Greetings," began her recording. "I am Sysha Vandewill, owner and Lead Executor of VanDos Botanicals, Incorporated. The bearer of this disk - the short, green bearer of this disk - is a personal friend. When I was contacted on his behalf, I learned he wishes to travel to Coruscant for reasons of mutual interest. I have agreed to fund his travel to the Empire's Capital and ease his passage onto Imperial Center. What I cannot do is supply him with more direct aid."

"With the recent Truce between the Alliance and the Empire, VanDos Botanicals profitably serves both governments. Coruscanti Medical Supply recently requested a shipment of short-lifespan fungi from my company. Provided you agree to transport my friend and our shipment in a timely fashon, my company will provide you with the necessary documents for cross-border travel, including credentials sufficient to land for delivery purposes."

"VanDos is willing to pay my friend's chosen courier a sum of thirty-thousand Republic credits for the transport of our shipment. My friend has the ability to authorize payment of half this sum upon acceptance of our shipment and another half upon delivery to Coruscant."

The ebony perfection hesitated. Feeling crept in through exquisitely-groomed cracks. "My friend is - special to me. I will gladly offer an additional ten-thousand credits of my personal funding should you keep him safe from harm during his trip. More I cannot afford."

"If you are willing to accept these terms, please bring my friend to our facility on Contruum. We will discuss anything further upon your arrival."

Hob clicked off the disc, slid it back into his pouch, and gazed questioningly at the Squib.

[Li Ho Fook]

Thirty... thousand... credits? For a moment, the Wah seemed very much a whomp-rat looking into headlights. Eight had been what he had expected for the going rate, ten if he was lucky, but... thirty? Credentials be damned, that payday would be more than enough. And additional ten grand to play babysitter for some likely senile old coot on his trip to the fur shampoo factory. Oh, yes, VanDos Botanicals did make other things, but the only one of their products to be found on his ship was their fur and body wash. It was how he maintained his lustrous, yet strong sheen, after all.

Paw reaching up to hold and scratch his stubby jawline. "So, let me play this back, see if I'm feelin' you right. You pay me fifteen grand now, fifteen when we get there, plus ten for keeping you safe throughout, that the deal? Yeah, I can swing it for that kind of paper," he said at last. "Just gotta re-phase the engine, first, yo."

At that, he extended a paw for a shake, nodding again. "Name's Fook. Li Ho Fook. Sometimes better known as the Grandmaster. This is my ship, the 36'th Chamber. It ain't no Mon Cal luxury liner, but it ain't no hoopty, either. Climb aboard, dawg."

[Hobgoblin]

With the question on Hob's face now answered, his expression shifted to an eyes-shut beaming smile. "Grandmaster!" the goblin remarked, shaking Fook's paw. "Only a Master, is Hob. Knew another Grandmaster once, Hob did. Very powerful, he was. Expect great things from you, Hob will!"

The goblin let go of the paw and gave the ship a more thorough look-over. "Hob feels this ship is familiar. Tell me: has your ship a-" here, the goblin paused to recall a word, "- 'bitchin' sound system?"

[Li Ho Fook]

A smile laden with knowing and pride turned up one of Fook's fluffy cheeks as he looked back to the hatch of the 36'th Chamber, and he nodded. "Hell yeah, dawg. She's got a stereo so ill, she'll out-bump a seismic charge," he replied. "And that's just the beginning, yo. C'mon, I'll give you the tour."

Waving a paw, the wah led the way up the ramp, and into the ship's rather small confines. The floor had originally been simple durasteel plate, but now a veneer of what appeared to be marble tile clacked under his toeclaws, while the walls were decorated in a motif of purple and gold, and nearly every handle, lever or rail had been gold-plated in most garish fashion. True to his word, speakers studded even the most ridiculous of places, and a comically oversized holovision screen dominated the wall opposite his tiny table and eating area. Nearby was his little kitchenette, the door to the refresher and sonic shower, and built into one wall, opposite heavily locked cabinets were a pair of bunks no more than four and a half feet long. Each bed was swathed in pure, white furs of something which had been alive once, and was likely made dead becuase it was soft and fluffy.

In fact, most everything inside the 36'th Chamber looked expensive, and none of it had any business being placed to the next thing, other than as a show of the supposed wealth of the ship's owner. Only the cockpit appeared immune from the explosion of vulgar taste, until one got to the leopard-print upholstery upon the seats, and the gold-plated pilot's yoke. All told, the most tasteful thing about the interior of the small craft was its scale when compared to its occupants.

Having been a squib ship, originally, everything was properly scaled to a being of approximately four feet in height, and so while the rest of the galaxy seemed to be made for giants, inside the 36'th Chamber was a small, properly-sized bastion of comfort for those who might not reach the upper atmosphere when they stood erect.

"You can have the bottom bunk, dawg. There's a partition curtain there, too," Fook stated, tugging on the rim of a gold-fringed, purple, crushed velvet curtain. "Make your self at home. I gotta phase the engine, then we can split, yo."

[Hobgoblin]

Exactly who Mr Bitchin' was, or why his sound systems were so popular escaped Hob, but regardless, Hob entered the ship much more at ease knowing it included appropriate equipment.

As Hob passed through the doorway and into the ship proper, his eyes widened in delight. The interior living quarters exhibited a menagerie of colors, textures, sights, and (curiously) smells. Hob's excited eyes peered at everything, pausing only to offer a sad frown at the white fur bed linings. The thought of a dead creature delayed him only a moment as further garish wonders tugged his thoughts in their direction.

The ship, thought Hob, was very much the right size and in more than just the literal sense.

After accepting a credit chit from Hob's device, Fook departed the interior to work on fixing his ship, leaving the goblin alone inside. Hob pulled off his simple robe, setting both it and his walking stick on his assigned bunk. Then, he clambered up the ladder to the top bunk but, instead of entering it, one of his claw-tipped hands gripped onto its edge while the other shaded his eyes as he scanned the room from his new vantage.

Across the way stood a very large, almost imposing cabinet. Hob's senses suggested it held nothing of interest. Possessed by a sudden desire to examine the vidscreen, Hob leapt from his perch to the other side of the room. The goblin's own reflection peered back at him; as Hob had seen himself in many reflective surfaces over the years, that did not hold his attention for long. However, in the screen's surface he spied another item of interest: a combination cabinet and footlocker beside the bunks.

Using various pieces of furniture as footing or careful leverage, Hob leapt back across the room to the bunks. When he reached his destination, he opened the cabinet.

After staring at its contents, a slow grin spread across Hob's face. Before him was the wardrobe of a Grandmaster!

The goblin's nimble fingers began plucking item after item from Fook's wardrobe. Most he tossed aside. A few he tried on, but not many items made the final cut. Somewhere in the middle of this clothing misadventure, Hob wound up with a pair of underwear over his ears; the underwear did not stay, as Hob found confinement of his ears too disagreeable.

A few minutes later, the cabinet and footlocker were missing several items of Hob-appropriated clothing, and what wasn't strewn around the room was on his body. Now dressed in an oversized and untucked shirt, baggy pants, a ballcap, a pair of gold chains, and clomping around in a pair of Fook's too-big sneakers, Hob went searching for his erstwhile companion.

After all, it behooved Hob to show that he was dressed for the job he wanted, not the job he had.

[Li Ho Fook]

A Squib freighter was never a truly easy thing to work on, due to its small size, but when they were as heavily modified as Li Ho Fook's Roscoe CW class micro-freighter, any and all work was only made more difficult. Practically everything but the hull had been replaced, and the tiny craft now bulged with twin hyperdrives, and a pair of Corellian-made ion engines, not to mention the bulbous housings for weaponry, up front. It was only due to his own small stature that Fook found himself able to easily work on the ship. Any normal humanoid would likely have to remove multiple access panels to even get into the sensitive areas.

When Hob made his exit down the ramp, Fook stood half-immersed in an engine bay, leather gloves protecting his paws while a pair of digital goggles were strapped to his head, plugged into an access port to give him a heads-up display while he tuned and calibrated the re-phase of the engine. It was only when he heard an impatient vocalization from outside that he ducked out of the bay and turned to see who was trying to get his attention.

"Da fuq?" the wah stated when his gaze fell upon his new passenger, dressed in his personal clothes! And gold chains!

"Aw, hell naw, dawg!" Fook carried on. Pulling his goggles off, he set them aside as he approached the diminutive goblin. "Dat's my shit, homie! You don't go jackin' a playa's threads, like that! Shit don't even fit you right!"

A momentary pause came over him as Fook's face paled in horror. "Oh, dawg, don't tell me you're wearin' my drawers, too. That's messed up, homie. A playa's underwear is sacred, yo." He prayed that the strange little... thing had at least enough sense to leave his collection of designer underwear alone.

[Hobgoblin]

Hob dropped his Ta-Daaa! pose and considered Fook's question.

He distinctly recalled trying on a pair of underwear over his head but they hadn't fit. After considering Fook's possible reaction, however, the goblin decided that in this instance, discretion contained most, if not all valor, and shook his head in the negative.

Fook did have a point, though. The clothes he had on did not fit him either.

Hob sighed, an act that included both slumped shoulders and a pout. "Hob just wanted to dress like a Grandmaster."

[Li Ho Fook]

Though it was difficult to see, Fook rolled his little, black eyes, then reached up to rub the back of his neck.

"Dawg, you can't just dress like someone," he replied. "It's gots to come from here, yo." The Wah thumped a fist over his chest, indicating his heart. "A playa gotta look like himself, dawg. Can't go actin' like someone you're not. That's mad whack, and not true, yo."

Mixed emotions ran inside the Wah, and his poofy tail thumped while he decided which one should rule the day. Yes, the... thing had gone through his clothes, which was a breach of privacy and personal property, not to mention whack, but he had done so in order to imitate Fook, which was hella tight. Erring on the side of flattery, and backed up by thoughts of thirty grand, Fook gave a sigh and shook his head. "Hob-dawg, why don't you go back in and change back. I'm almost done, here. Once I finish, we'll be ready to skip, you feel me?"

[Hobgoblin]

The Grandmaster's words possessed a certain oddly-phrased wisdom. While Hob never considered Basic his strong suit, he could not help but feel that this Grandmaster used words far different from any normal speech.

Yoda, thought Hob, had been similarly regarded. Perhaps Grandmasters created their own way of speaking. Perhaps their personal wisdom allowed them to speak words of meaning, regardless of their phrasing.

An interesting thought. Hob would consider it more later.

"Very well!" Hob beamed a pointy-toothed grin at Fook. "Hob shall return the Grandmaster's clothes and his own, he shall take back. And maybe, a nap he will take as well. Tired, Hob is."

The goblin spun on one foot and march-clomped back inside the ship, leaving Fook to continue his work.

When Fook finished the repairs and returned to the inside of the ship, he found a peacefully snoozing Hob, snuggled inside the lower bunk and uttering the occasional mumbling noise as he slept.

And of course, the Wah also found his own clothes strewn about the room in the most haphazard fashion possible.

[Li Ho Fook]

"...Dag," Fook grunted the word when at last he made his way back up into the hold. Before him lay nearly every non-armored piece of clothing he owned. Shirts, pants, jerseys, shorts, dinner jackets, hats, hoodies, tanks, wifebeaters, and his precious designer underwear lay upon nearly every surface as if a bomb had been placed in his wardrobe. Well, a bomb which merely dislodged its contents, thankfully.

"Thirty grand. Thirty grand thirty grand thirty grand," the words came from his mouth in a mumble as he gathered up his clothing and put it all back where it belonged. Re-phasing the engines seemed to have taken longer, and as he closed the wardrobe doors once more, he looked down at his strange passenger. Why anyone would pay thirty grand to deliver that was beyond him. The little... thing... was odd, to say the least, but perhaps he was someone important, or at least used to be someone important and now suffering from dementia. No matter the case, he was worth thirty grand, and Fook had enough ID's left to consider a Coruscant run worth the risk. Letting Hob sleep, Fook closed the rear hatch, and plonked himself down on one of the leopard-print seats in the cockpit to run through pre-flight checks, and to complete payment on the docking fee.

"Thirty grand," he repeated to himself, eyes closed as he took a deep breath. He'd taken difficult bounties for less, but for some reason this job filled him with more trepidation than it should have. Ringed tail sweeping side to side behind himself, the Wah opened his eyes and looked down at his control panel, then reached forward to engage the engines. He paused, unsure why, for a moment, until he recalled he wasn't traveling alone. The black-furred paw retreated from the ignition switches, and Fook leaned back to call out, "Yo! Hob-dawg, we gon' skip. Might want to get your ass in the seat, here. 36'th Chamber don't take off subtle, you feel me?"

Whether or not Hob truly understood him, it seemed to be good enough to get the strange little Jedi out of bed and up into the co-pilot's seat - all controls disabled - and buckled in. With a throaty hum, the engines came to life, and in seconds the 36'th Chamber lifted from the deck plating, slowly rotated to face the stars, and Fook pulled back upon the throttle to ease them out beyond the force field. Initially it was smooth sailing, but the moment the little green light blinked on his dash indicating he had cleared the speed zone, Fook slammed the throttle fully back, and the twin Corellian ion engines roared to life. The sound only slightly preceded the sudden force pressing the ship's occupants hard into their seats as the little craft rocketed forwards and arced up toward the sky above. Atmosphere burned off in a brilliant flare until at last they broke free, and Fook flicked on the hyperdrive. Stars seemed to remain still for a moment, then stretched before the pair vanished from normal space and into a pocket of hyperspace at astonishing speed.

[Hobgoblin]

Whenever stars stretched into starlines, it always gave Hob pause.

Hob understood the - physics was the word, wasn't it? - behind what happened when a ship entered hyperspace, but watching light get pulled out like lengths of rubber cording always amazed him. If there was any lesson behind the visual and mental gymnastics the brain performed to make sense of the world around them, it was this: eyes lied, and the truest sight came through the Force.

Hob tilted his head to look at Fook, who was busy humming and beatboxing quietly to himself as he checked over over various piloting instruments.

Tiny streams of light began to coalesce in Hob's lap, mirroring the starlines streaking by outside the cockpit window. Then an idea occurred to Hob, and he began to shift the starlines from a simple mirror into a pattern. Timed to coincide with the beats in Fook's rhythm, the starlines took on an array of colors. A miniature holoconcert light show took shape with the beams bouncing and dancing through his mental fingers, and Hob grinned.

Of course, when Fook looked Hob's way, the only thing there to see was the goblin sitting patiently in the copilots' chair.

[Li Ho Fook]

Despite Fook's idle oral music-making, the Wah was fully attuned to the processes of his little ship. The 36'th Chamber's past as a Squib micro-freighter was long gone, and other than its basic shell and some of its standardized functions, the ship might as well be fully considered a Wah design - if there was such a thing. Yes, its parts and pieces were mostly sourced from big-name manufacturers, but they were never intended to work together on such a craft. Inside and out, Fook had made her his own, and he could feel a connection to it, knowing to pay particular attention to his new engines, lest he blow another.

When at last all seemed to be on track, Fook tapped in a verification of the automatic pilot, and only then pulled his other paw from the flight yoke. "Dag, new engines got some balls, yo," he chuckled to himself. Glancing over at his passenger, his little white eyebrows crimped. The goblin seemed unimpressed. Well, speed wasn't everything, to some people, Fook supposed. They were wrong, but he still supposed it, anyhow.

"Well, they're hella mad over the whack turbines this tub used to run," the Wah then snorted. "Autopilot's set. Not much to do now but relax. Gonna be a while, dawg." Claws tinked over a touchscreen, summoning a countdown timer to appear in a for m of heads-up display on the main viewshield. "Oh, dawg, forgot to ask: your race eat meat, homie? I gots eats either way, just wanna know, feel me?"

[Hobgoblin]

The goblin flashed a row of pointed teeth. "Hob must thank the animal for its contribution, but yes, Hob can eat meat." The goblin wrinkled his nose at the memory of certain other meals he'd eaten. "When terrible, it tastes not, any food, fine is."

Hob un-wrinkled the nose and tilted his head to look at Fook. "To drink, what have you?"

[Li Ho Fook]

Slipping from his leopard-print seat with ease, Fook smiled. "Dawg, I got eveything," he replied. It was literally only a few feet from the cockpit into the living quarters, and the Wah cracked open the refrigerator to pull out a pitcher of something liquid. A pair of glasses were procured, and into them was poured something thin and purple. Once the pitcher was replaced, he extended a glass of the purple drink to the goblin.

"Grape, yo," Fook stated. "Gonna fry up some nuna and make some greens, for dinner, dawg. Meantime we can chill, check some vids," he nodded toward the comically oversized holovision screen built into the wall opposite the little dining area. "And maybe y'all can tell me what business you really got on Coruscant. Ain't nobody goes there for their health, homie."

[Hobgoblin]

"Not for Hob's health, does he visit the homeworld of the Imperial Machine!" The goblin peered at the purple liquid in the glass before him, suspicious of its intent. Giving it, first one cautious sniff, then a second, he took a sip.

A slow smile spread across his face. It tasted good.

Hob gulped down the rest, wiping the fresly-created juice goatee from his mouth using a sleeve and issuing a hefty Belch! "Delicious!" he remarked.

A delightful rush of energy began flowing through him, and in the midst of this delightful charge Hob noticed a collection of parts strewn across the floor of Fook's ship.

"Hob must travel to the land of the Machine," he explained. "To the Temple of the Murdered Order. In the Temple, in a place Hob has learned of, a small garden hides. From this garden, Hob desires to retrieve a certain bush. When aware of Hob's mission little Sysha became, she requested a cutting from the bush. For this cutting, she helps Hob cross the Divide. Much aid, medicinal aid, she believes the cutting can provide."

"What the bush is, what it does; these things Hob knows. Hob does not deny it may provide her what she seeks. But dangerous, the trip to the hiding place will be. Hob must first enter the Temple, then to the Archives for information he must go. When have the information, Hob does, the garden, Hob can reach."

When Fook turned from his cooking, he saw the goblin sitting on the floor in the middle of a patch free of circuits, wires, and other various components that had found a home on the floor instead of as part of the ship or within a storage bin. Hob had assembled the parts into a miniature walking droid, with blinking lights for eyes, mismatched casings for legs, and tiny grabclaw arms that clacked open and shut as the droid marched forward. "If afraid of the journey, you are, find another companion, Hob can," Hob said as he peered at the droid with a creator's grin.

[Li Ho Fook]

Cooking fried nuna wasn't an art, it was a religion, where Li Ho Fook came from. The nuna had to be properly cleaned, the breading needed to be spiced just so, and the oil had to be at the right temperature. All things were well in control while Fook worked away in his little kitchenette, back to his passenger. Chunks of nice, greasy whomp rat were tossed into an iron skillet which was set to high heat, followed by a hearty helping of greens, once the meat's fat had rendered down. He managed his kitchen with confidence and grace, simply nodding as the little goblin spoke.

"Medicinal bush, huh?" the Wah laughed. "Dawg, I am so with you, there. This playa partakes of some leaf from time to time, too, feel me?"

Into the fryer the nuna went, and he stirred the greens once more. "Gotta be some mad strong ganj to go to Stormtrooper Central, though, homie. I mean, like, killer bomb-ass grade leaf, yo."

The remainder of his cooking didn't take long, and he plated up with ease before turning to head to the table. Then he froze, blinking his black, beady eyes at the tiny droid.

"Dawg, you just build that?"

[Hobgoblin]

The goblin looked at Fook's questioning face, then down to the droid, then back to his host, then back to the droid. After thinking a moment whether he'd built the droid or whether the droid had used him to build itself, Hob answered with a firm "Maybe!"

Then a scent caught his nose and he sniffed the air. "Time to eat, is it?" he asked. He affected an air of nonchalance, but his stomach rumbled a betrayal. Thinking back, he'd eaten his last meal some time prior to Beldarone and could do with replenishment.

Hob stood and clambered into a seat at the dinner table that, for once, was not as high off the floor as he was tall. Fook set a plate, utensils, and a glass of water before him, then settled into his own seat at the table's opposite end. A can labeled "Dat Purple Drank" sat next to Fook's plate. The goblin briefly wondered if it were the same juice he'd gulped down earlier, curiosity, foretaste, and saliva mixing in his mouth.

More wouldn't be so bad, would it?

Then, Hob forced his attention back to the collection of food in front of him. He'd been presented with a fine meal. Overconsumption was the essence of greed and to take beyond his necessary share would lead to Darkness.

The Offering of Gratitude would be fitting. Hob clasped his hands together and closed his eyes.

'In the Force
All are One
One are All
Who Shares with Us, We Thank
Who Receives from Us, We Nurture
Excess is Unnecessary
For No Greater Reward Exists
Than Continuation of Being
The Cycle
Is the Way
Is Life
Is the Force
May You Who Pass into the Force
Live Through We Who Remain'

And with the Offering's conclusion, Hob snatched a fork and began a quest to scarf his entire meal down immediately.

[Li Ho Fook]

Fook eyed the basic droid, hoping no important systems had gone into the creation of such a toy. The smell of fried nuna and fresh greens brought him back to reality, and he slipped into his seat at the table, only to hear the strange little goblin rattle off some sort of prayer. Feeling compelled to add his own form of blessing, even if just for show, the Wah's mind turned before he bowed his head and spoke reverently.

They see me rollin',
They hatin'.

With that, it was time to tuck into his own meal, unused to having company along for the ride. At least company outside of the prisoner hold. Much of their meal was taken in silence, but something about Hob's little prayer nagged at Fook's mind until he could not resist inquiry.

"Yo, you really believe in all that Force shit, dawg? Like, the religion and stuff? You some kind of Jedi or somethin'?" He asked. Fook knew well of Jedi legend, and the corresponding bedtime stories of the Sith, meant to frighten children into doing what they were told. Both were common enough on his world, though his race did not follow one path or the other. The Force had been inflicted upon his race by the witches of Dathomir, the planet the Wah's forest moon home oribited, but after the experiment was deemed a failure, the two races fell back out of communication with each other. Transporting someone to Coruscant was dangerous enough, but if this little half-pint was a Jedi, things just became much more complicated.

And complications often added to Fook's price tag. He could practically see the credit signs racking up behind his eyes. Thirty grand? More like fifty.