Connecting Flight

[STE-V]

A data analysis program had been running for the last one thousand seven hundred and one hours.

It had been initiated shortly after Unit Iakona, Unit Nil'vak, and Unit Némain had reactivated him after eleven thousand three hundred and eighty-four days spent powered down in an abandoned homestead on Naboo, and it existed for one simple purpose. Three decades ago, a Galactic Republic research team based on Nubia had reprogrammed an HKB-3 hunter-killer droid, overwriting the Baktoid Combat Automata operating system and replacing it with software of their own design. That had been the act that created STE-V, the fifth in a series of experimental prototypes exploring ways in which the Separatist Droid Army could be undermined from the inside.

Some of the prototypes had been developed for espionage, others for sabotage; Prototype V was something else entirely. Already programmed for combat, STE-V had been upgraded. Tactical analysis software. Sophisticated countermeasures. Protocol droid neural architecture. His designers called him the ARC Droid: a mechanoid to aid and augment the Republic Commandos, available after mere days of construction and programming, rather than a decade of growth and training.

STE-V had not been the first experimental droid designed to help Republic special forces, but he was the last. During a field test under the supervision of Jedi General Gideon Lazuli, STE-V had been disabled, under circumstances that his memory banks had not adequately recorded. When he awoke, thirty-one years later, his mission had ended. The Clone Wars had ended. The Galactic Republic had ended.

And so, a data analysis program had begun. It existed to rationalise an error that conflicted with STE-V's fundamental programming. Unwavering loyalty to the Galactic Republic had been hard coded into the very root of his mainframe, and yet the Galactic Republic no longer existed in a form that satisfied his assessment criteria. The Galactic Empire represented a continuance of government, but it had abolished the Galactic Senate and exterminated the Jedi Order, thus eliminating the command infrastructure of the Grand Army of the Republic that STE-V had been programmed to serve. The Alliance of Free Planets, born out of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, had reinstated senatorial governance to parts of the galaxy, but much of its territory and demographics more closely matched the Confederacy of Independent Systems, which STE-V had been programmed to eliminate with extreme prejudice.

STE-V had been fortunate to have been retrieved from Naboo by Jedi, individuals who his programming readily accepted as authority figures. That alone had prevented the loyalty error from devolving into a full system failure. But even they failed to resemble the Jedi Order with which STE-V was familiar, and their stance of neutrality in galactic politics failed to add weight and legitimacy to either the Alliance or Republic. It was a dilemma, one that provided significant interference to STE-V's ability to operate. Resolving the error had become his core priority, overwriting all but basic survival objectives. Prototype Five needed data. Input.

The droid unit designated Trip had been unexpectedly helpful, contrary to what STE-V might have expected based on the droid's rather archaic chassis configuration. He had provided STE-V with access to holonet feeds, data that was currently being scrubbed and filtered by his analysis program, searching for a clear indication of which government should inherit his loyalty. The blue glow of a data terminal washed over STE-V, as the highly compressed data flashed by a hundred times faster than organic minds would have been able to comprehend. Additional information streamed through a data cable, jacked directly into the base of the pivot joint that attached STE-V's headpiece to his torso. Every byte of publicly accessible data - or at least, data that was available to him via the Astral Queen's holonet transceiver while landed here at the Jedi refugee settlement on Ossus - streamed through his processors. News reports. Public statements. Names. Faces. Documentaries. Biographies. Even popular culture from the past decades was analysed, and filtered for context clues about public sentiment.

STE-V's headpiece twitched. Data was flagged for attention. His neck servos whirred, orientating the ocular sensor array in his illuminated faceplate away from the terminal screen. Archives were accessed, the relevant few seconds of broadcast stripped out and replayed for three separate passes of additional scrutiny. Facial analysis subroutines measured the size and placement of key features, compensating for thirty years of organic degradation. A match was found. Recognition. Familiarity.

A query was submitted to the Astral Queen's transceiver, forwarded on to the holonet. Personal information streamed through. Service records. Declassified mission reports. News broadcasts featuring the same name; the same face. Soto Terius. Republic Commander, formerly. Imperial Officer, formerly. Alliance Captain, formerly. Current location: Corellia. Accused of multiple counts of sedition and terrorism. Someone who had progressed from the Republic to serve both the Empire and the Alliance, and had chosen to leave both. Objectivity from mutual animosity. A third party point of view; potentially valuable to his ongoing analysis.

A subroutine triggered, a new high-priority objective added to STE-V's system log. Battlefield protocols, in the response of mission abort or failure. Locate the nearest Republic Commander, and report in. Soto Terius was cross-referenced against STE-V's memory banks; they confirmed Unit Terius as a satisfactory fulfilment of that objective. A moment of pause and calculation passed before Five rose from his seat, reaching for the data cable plugged into the nape of his neck, and pulled it free.

"Scanning," he vocabulated aloud, the illuminated red glow of his faceplate flickering in rhythm with the words. "Determining current location of Unit Iakona."

[Amos Iakona]

* * *

To say that Amos had no idea why he was doing this would have been untrue. He knew exactly why he was doing this. For better or worse, the droid they'd found in the basement of his mother's old cabin had latched onto him, like a baby bird imprinting upon the first thing it saw when it hatched. In the case of STE-V, it was more a matter of programming. Something about Amos being a Jedi Commander, and thus automatically receiving his loyalty. Desmond and Cleo had received the same designation, some leftover Clone Wars protocol that applied to them because they were Padawans. STE-V had not approached the other Padawans though: he'd come to Amos directly. If he were an optimist, perhaps he'd have believed that it was because STE-V saw him as a leader within the group. A pragmatic Amos might have suspected it was something to do with his prior service with the Stormtroopers and SpecForce; some sort of military kinship between soldier and battle droid. Unfortunately, Amos was a deeply entrenched pessimist, and that led to the natural assumption that STE-V had found him purely because he was the only one with definite access to a ship.

For reasons that Amos couldn't quite fathom, that ship had been freely volunteered to get STE-V where he needed to go. Not all the way to Corellia of course, but Amos had agreed to at least get him to the start of the last leg. Maybe he felt some sort of obligation to the droid as a Jedi Commander. Maybe it was because this droid somehow connected to his mother, in ways he didn't quite understand. Maybe he just felt sorry for the damn thing, and didn't want it winding up as a pile of scrap.

Either way, here they were: Antar 4.

Amos was no stranger to the Gotal homeworld: he and Jaden had visited often back in their spacer days. The first time, Jaden had been practically vibrating with excitement at visiting the world where the Antarian Rangers had been born. Amos had made the mistake of asking if they were from the dumb kids show he kept obsessing over, earning not only an extensive lecture on the Antarian Rangers, but also on the cinematic mastery and cultural significance of each and every Republic Rangers episode. Jaden had expected a tourist haven. Amos had expected to be bored out of his skull. Neither of them had expected what they found when they arrived here; what Amos was gazing upon now.

Antar 4 had been a beautiful place, once. You could see that in the architecture; or what what left of it, at least. Remnants of grand buildings littered the skyline of Temba Port, relics of a thriving world's wealth and culture. These days they were merely monuments and mausoleums, a few bittersweet focal points amid a capital city brought close to ruin by the Clone Wars. It was the Separatists who had started it all, Count Dooku and his droid army crushing the native Gotal into poverty and submission, forced to live a life picking through the ruins of their shattered homes. Then, they had simply left, Dooku's forces moving on to "liberate" another world; and for a fleeting moment, hope had been restored. But salvation never came. The Republic ended before rebuilding could begin, and the Empire had no interest in aiding a people who had shown such affection to their Jedi betrayers in the past. The Gotal had been forced to struggle and rebuild on their own, picking and choosing which buildings to restore, which to demolish and replace, and which to simply leave as broken reminders.

Amos shuddered as he tore his eyes away from the obliterated Jedi Chapter House. He hated it here. He hated it because it made him angry, and there was no one left for it to be aimed at. The Separatists were gone. The rule of Palpatine, and his Jedi Purge, was over. The Senators who hadn't fought hard enough to aid this world, the Jedi Order that had made it a target in the first place; all were gone. There was no one left to take responsibility, or shoulder the blame: just entropy, the slow deterioration of everything into chaos and nothingness. The only place to aim his anger then was at time itself, and that made it near impossible to soothe your frustrations away by imagining yourself punching them in the jaw.

It was worse this time, too; worse than it had been when it was merely him and Jaden. As much of a struggle as it had been, the Jedi had taken a prybar to Amos' mind, opening a crack just wide enough for the sorrow, and sadness, and ghosts that haunted the broken duracrete and half-deserted streets. Amos could feel the pain and suffering of an entire city, and there wasn't a single thing he could stab, punch, or shoot that would make the slightest difference.

Trying to ignore the plight of the city around him, Amos turned his attention to Cleo Némain.

"You holding up okay, verd'ika?"

[Cleo Némain]

Cleo loved visiting new places. It was one of the absolute bestest things about being a Jedi and not having to hide being a Jedi anymore. Ossus was nice and pretty and amazing and all but it was the freedom to see and experience everything out there that Cleo really appreciated. Naboo had been amazing and Antar 4 was amazing and Cleo was oh so sure the next place they would go would be too. For now, though, she would try to stay in this moment, stop looking ahead to things that hadn't happened yet and wrangle her thoughts into being present like Master Navi had said to do.

The sights of Antar 4 were all a beautiful muddle of... muddleness. Old and new and crumbly bits covered with fresh coats of paint and squiggles in bright colors and - WAS THAT A FACE? - Yes! Yes people had drawn a face on the side of a building and Cleo wanted to stop and look and gawk but she had to keep up with Mos Mos and his long legs and that wasn't so easy for her sometimes but she scampered along just the same. The people here were so fun too! Gotal, Amos had told her. She'd never seen one before and they were fluffy and hard but soft and strong. So strong to keep going even after their planet had been all ickafied and they made it theirs again and that was amazing and... Mos Mos just didn't see it.

Cleo's head whirled away from all the surroundings and back to the big guy and for a moment she didn't answer because his light was all murky and the swirls around him were crashing into each other like storm clouds.

"Yep!" She beamed, at least Cleo hoped she was beaming because sometimes when she did then Mos Mos stopped being all stormy and he didn't deserve to be stormy. This was an adventure and should be treated as such and was no time to go getting all gloomtastic.

"Wha' 'bou you? Y' donna seem ta like i' much 'ere. Bad mem'ries?"

[Amos Iakona]

Amos almost lied. He almost played it off as nothing, or grunted out a naas as if Cleo were some Mandalorian asking him what was new. That kind of thing might have worked on Jaden. It might even have worked on most of the other Jedi on Ossus, at least in so far as they would have respected his right to act like he was fine, even when they could sense that he wasn't. But Cleo was different. She seemed to see through him in a way that no one else did, and no matter how convincing or stoic his claims to the contrary were, he'd have to watch her disbelief wrinkle up her face when she looked at him. Best to avoid that. Best to just be honest.

"Bad vibes," he corrected, with the least amount of background grunt that his gruff voice was capable of achieving. He almost left it at that, but willpower wrestled a few more words past his lips. "Bad -"

He waved a hand in the direction of one of the nearest buildings.

"I dunno. Someone else's bad memories, I guess. Feels like there's fear and sadness painted all over these stones, and I'm -"

His brow furrowed into a deep frown, as if somehow that would help. It often seemed to: not with these problems in particular, but Amos had found that a great many problems would just simply go away if you frowned hard enough at the people responsible. It was hard to scowl at the dead though. Not impossible, as he'd learned on Ord Ithil; but definitely difficult. Here was hoping this planet wouldn't wind up being a repeat of that one.

He glanced over at Cleo again, and offered the closest approximation of a smile that he could manage.

"I'm not good with this stuff. All the Force whispering stuff. I don't like feeling stuff that I can't see."

[Cleo Némain]

"Bu' y're always feelin' stuff tha' y' canna see. Like when a ship is inna Hyperstuff orra jus' flyin' 'long. Can tell even if cannah see stars zoomin' by. Orra other thin's like-a happiness anna sadness in y'rself orrrrrr..."

She stopped. Stopped walking stopped talking, and stopped looking too since Cleo closed her eyes.

"Sunshine."

Just a few seconds, not many and not enough were allowed for Cleo to just enjoy the feeling of the planet's sun on her face and the way it was warm and life giving and good. Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light as she realized she probably should have looked away before doing that and now there were spots and it was gonna mess up the other pretties in her view and she had to blink them away. Still blinking - because it wasn't gonna go away right quick of course, that was the problem of looking into things that were too bright - Cleo looked back to Mos Mos.

"Well, guessin' th' las' one issna such good 'xample since y' kin kinnnnnaa see it. Bu' yeah. Force is jus' like tha', I think. Yes, there issa all kindsa sa'ness 'ere bu' is old and mos'ly gone anna they-" She stopped to do a little half spin because a full spin would be too much and she wasn't in some sort of fancy musical holovid and wasn't wearing a dress that could go and swirl about her. Her arms were also kept in check a smidge so they didn't go all flying about when she gestured to some of the Gotally peoples. "Dunna focus onnit but instead onna wha' they gots now."

A lone finger stretched out on it's own wanting and tapped Mos Mos on the chest.

"Is nah y're place t' go playin' in their past. Give i' it's due since is solemnemnem anna such. Bu' no stayin'. They don't. 'Stead y' shoul' see the pretties they make now."

[Amos Iakona]

It was easy to forget, under all the rambling and childlike wonder, that Cleo Némain was as much a Jedi as he was. In many ways, she was more of one than he was. The living force, or whichever the heck one it was that was all feelings, and nature, and living in the moment: that was Cleo. She got the Force in a way that Amos never would. Her mind was open and receptive to that sort of thing; the complete opposite of his closed stubbornness. He was trying; but maybe that was the problem. Do or do not, and all that crap.

Once the accent was filtered out, the wisdom hit home like a hammer. She was right. What right did he have to wallow in the grief of others? What right did he have to surrender to the past, when all around him, the Gotal were working towards their future? As Cleo stopped, so did he, urging himself to look around and take in the details; to see things the way Cleo saw them. The sunshine didn't really do it for him - it reminded him a little too much of Naboo, and that was a complicated satchel of thoughts that was best left closed for now - but the colour that Cleo had mentioned, that started to sink in. Every building that the populace had reclaimed or rebuilt wasn't the same sleek and modern grey that the city must have been before it crumbled. They were pink, or orange, or blue, or yellow, walls plastered with vibrant colour. Even the architecture was different, all curves and softness instead of the angles and lines of what had been there before. Those ruins that remained were caked with graffiti, a protest against the damage the Separatists had left behind, a refusal to leave the duracrete remains untouched by colour and brightness. The Gotal weren't reverting to the way things had been before: they were moving forward. Changing. Adapting.

Amos' eyes found their way back to Cleo, all curves, and softness, and colour. Maybe there was a lesson to be learned here, worldly wisdom that he wouldn't have seen without Cleo here to open his eyes.

"I guess it does seem pretty nice."

The statement was quiet, and honest. Amos looked past Cleo for a few moments, trying to convince his soldier's mind to appreciate the artwork for more than what it literally was. Pointed ears. Puffy tail. Gormless expression, but in a weirdly endearing kind of way. Amos felt like he'd seen a critter like that before, off on one of the Rim worlds he'd visited with Jaden back in the day. Garel? Lothal, maybe? Seemed like the kind of thing Cleo would think was cute. Hell, she'd probably think a flesh-eating nexu was cute.

Amos smiled a little at that thought; nothing big, but it was genuine, and warm. He aimed it at Cleo. Maybe they'd hang out here a little longer, once STE-V was safely on his way to Corellia. See the sights. Meet the locals. Cleo would probably like that.

He forced professionalism back into his face. Not that he was getting paid for this; but Amos with a smile wasn't the kind of look that got things done.

"You wanna see if Trip has found us a decent spacer bar yet?"

[Cleo Némain]

She stuck her tongue out briefly at the mention of a bar. Probably wasn't polite but Cleo didn't like hiding her feelings. Not that bars were bad, they were full of all sorts of interesting people and smells and tastes but they were also usually grimy, even if spotless and spick and span. Or maybe that was just the ones on Nar Shaddaa. Yes, that was it for sure. Shame on her for thinking they were all like that! Maybe this was gonna be different and if nothing else they would be more Gotallies!

"Yes!" Cleo chirped and looked around as if Tripples was going to magically show up.

Then she remembered the communicator on her wrist. The button was pushed and a little blue - well more blue than Tripples actually was. All see throughy as well so that was different - version of the droidy popped up and hovered there which Cleo thought was kinda weird but she was getting more used to seeing. At least with Tripples it wasn't so different. Dessles or Mos Mos, though?? It took away their glowy bits and made them look not like themselves and that was super weird.

"Tripples! Mos Mos wantsa update. Didja fin' somethin' yet?"

[Trip]

Trip did not require a holographic projection of Mistress Cleo in order for the communications device to function correctly, but he projected one anyway. He did not project the standing figure of Mistress Cleo into the floor: that would have altered the posture of his chassis, and been less than ideal for the holographic projection at Mistress Cleo's end of the call. Instead he had positioned himself, poised and waiting all this time, beside the couch area in the crew lounge, ready to project Mistress Cleo onto the comfortable padded seating, so that his headpiece would appear to be looking directly at her. Based on his analysis of humanoid protocol and behaviour, to do anything else would have been considered rude.

The droid had been complying with the instructions of Captain Amos wirelessly. A slight error tugged at the back of Trip's operating system at that designation: Captain Amos, not Master Amos. Unit Iakona had not responded favourably to that form of address thus far, but it was appropriate: with Master Jaden absent, naval protocol and parlance stated that Master Amos was the Captain of this vessel now, and with other individuals such as Unit Némain and Unit STE-V aboard, and with the possibility of Unit Nil'vak and others joining them on subsequent voyages, it was correct for Trip to impose that distinction.

Captain Amos had left him with instructions to find a location at which spacers were likely to congregate. The damage caused during the Clone Wars conflict had left the capital city of Antar 4 lacking a fully operational starport. Landing bays were still in use by certain individuals, but many ships merely landed in the surrounding fields. To Trip's satisfaction, Captain Amos had chosen to land in one of the designated starport landing areas, but the decentralized approach to starship birthing made it somewhat difficult to ascertain where exactly star pilots might go. Complicating matters, there did not appear to be any sort of licensing or regulation for drinking establishment in the city; none that post-dated the end of the Clone Wars, at least. It seemed as if the native population simply did whatever they wished in the buildings of Temba Port.

Trip had been forced to resort to collateral evidence. Reports from Temba's understaffed law enforcement organisation listed a number of instances of violence, disorderly behaviour, and deaths of individuals with a high blood alcohol level. Trip had triangulated these over the ground scans that the Astral Queen had taken during their approach and, after first eliminating buildings that were too damaged to be habitable, and then buildings that did not appear to be currently tapping into the Temba Port power grid, Trip had determined what was - within a reasonable margin of probability - most likely to be the implied drinking establishment.

"I have, Mistress Cleo."

The droid kept his response simple; no need to provide more of an answer than was efficient and necessary. Captain Amos seemed to respond favourably to Trip's efforts at succinctness, but Mistress Cleo seemed more fond of prolonged conversations. These preferences were relayed to Trip's vocabulator, and a more expansive response was constructed.

Trip altered the output of the holoprojection being transmitted, replacing his own image with a simple depiction of Mistress Cleo's current location, and the course she would need to follow to reach her destination.

"I calculate that you are likely to find spacers here. The building is -"

The response paused as Trip ran a photometric analysis of the aerial scans they had taken. An error occurred, and then again when Trip tried to repeat the analysis. His vocabulator altered slightly, mimicking a tone intended to convey submission and apology to the majority of humanoid species.

"I am sorry, Mistress Cleo. I do not know if your culture distinguishes between the colours green and blue. If it does, the building's pigmentation is approximately at the midpoint."

[Cleo Némain]

"Thankee Tripples, see ya inna few!"

It took a bit of fiddling to close the communication thingie but keep the map up, Cleo wasn't all that great with fancy tech thingies but that was okay since she was good with other stuff and really so long as she could remember how to turn things off and on and make things go everything pretty much worked out okay. The way the map looked and moved when she moved her wrist distracted her for just a second or two and she even blew on it a few times to make sure that the wind wouldn't go and carry it away as they walked; since it didn't move she was pretty satisfied it was gonna stick around.

Turning back to Mos Mos - well, more like really just looking up a bit - Cleo held up her wrist and the map projected from it and grinned.

"Bingo bigo! Y'heard 'im. Off ta th' blgreenishness we go."

A few steps were taken, not quite skipping since that wasn't very Jedi like but certainly jaunty because Cleo felt a bit more bouncy on this world. Maybe it was the gravity or someofthat. As they followed the map something popped up like a firework in her head and Cleo looked back to Mos Mos.

"Y'think they migh' make durindfierys there? I dunna really like th' taste offa 'em an' they make m' head feel alla kin'sa funny bu' they glow all nice."

[STE-V]

Prototype Five watched the interplay between Unit Iakona and Unit Némain with interest. The prototype droid architecture that underpinned his base programming found some familiarity with the dynamic between them, but he had no memories of ever witnessing a dynamic such as this. His direct experience with organics had been limited. Lab scientists. A few Jedi Generals and commanders. The occasional Republic officer, and occasional clone. He had observed their interactions as he was programmed to, seeking to understand the hierarchies, protocols, and procedures that determined them.

Here though, there seemed to be no such thing. Unit Iakona and Unit Némain were peers, both Padawans, and yet they did not interact the way that his Makers had interacted, nor the way the clone troopers had. Though the content of their conversation was beyond the scope of his understanding, he was able to comprehend the processes taking place. One unit provided an analysis. The other unit provided a contrary analysis. The two data sets were weighed and, finding the second analysis to be more correct, the first unit adapted to accept that information. They interacted like droids, with complete unquestioned confidence in each other's programming. It was strange for organics. It seemed -

STE-V's headpiece twitched, a cognitive dissonance error causing a stray power spike to the connected servos.

It seemed nice. The notion was hard to quantify, hard for his systems to analyse. He was not programmed to simulate any sort of emotional response, nor to have any sort of preference, and yet here he did. Being among these organic units, and Trip of course, was beneficial to his efficient operation. They were charitable with their time and resources. Kind, organics called it. Kind to him. Nice to him. He would find his operation adversely affected by their absence. He would... miss them.

The light on STE-V's faceplate dimmed, as power was diverted to his cooling systems, processors beginning to raise in temperature as they struggled to rationalise the responses of his operating system. The behaviour he found in himself was non-rational. He initiated a self diagnostic, analysing the content of his operating system. Was there latent programming that was only now becoming active? Fragments of human replica droid programming lingering in his base code somehow? He found nothing, but the analysis continued to run. This was not acceptable. This was not how he was programmed.

As his analysis reached 37% completion, STE-V found himself standing outside the kind of building that Unit Trip had defined. Units Iakona and Némain were waiting for him at the threshold, not beckoning overtly, but clearly observing his slowed approach. He reallocated a few additional units of energy to reinforce the brightness of his faceplate, and quickened his pace, stepping past Unit Iakona and into the spacer bar beyond.

[Zefa Coralix]

Slowly, and with all the po-faced gravity the moment demanded, Zefa donned his replica Antarian Rangers cap. He regarded the gentleman around the table from under its smart navy peak.

“How do I look?”

“You look ridiculous,” said Howark. That his fellow human failed to appreciate the fitting fashion statement, or the fact that it paired so well with his replica Antarian Rangers jacket, complete with faux quivry fur, well, it hurt. Zefa frowned, and turned his expectant gaze on their Gotal companions.

“It’s a good fit,” Galtic offered, monotone. With a lick of a finger, he started to deal the cards again.

“Needs pants,” muttered Shagga, gruffly, over a squat glass of Colfillini malt whiskey.

“You took the words right outta my mouth, my vaguely intimidating friend!” Zefa’s words were punctuated with a prod from his inch-thick cigarra, branding his approval into the air. The cigarra was then clamped between his teeth, which stretched into a broad and knowing grin. Howark’s silent fury was like a campfire, warm, inviting, and all-too-familiar. With one hand, he inspected the first of his newly-dealt hand, and with the other, he clung to the fabric of his replica Antarian Rangers cargo pants like they were about to spring to life and run away.

“They’re not on the table,” he said, sounding like he’d just swallowed a Catharian dung beetle.

“You got credits in those pockets, boy?” said Shagga, “You know who I am.”

Shagga Shakkahusk, or Shagga the Shark, was a regular at the Ranger’s Retreat, who had earned for himself a reputation as one of the best sabacc players on Antar IV. In recognition of his infamy, his favourite table, in his favourite corner, had become known as the Shark Tank. And the Shark Tank attracted all manner of spacers, traders, and local drunks, who dared to try their hand against Shagga the Shark’s formidable hand. It was a tourist attraction within a tourist attraction. The Ranger’s Retreat was one of those themed cantinas, which drew on local history, and the noble memory of the Antarian Rangers who had once served alongside Jedi Knights in this very spot. There was framed artwork on the walls, old recruitment posters, squad pictures, and trinkets in every alcove, preserved in fancy display cases – old equipment, a family holo, a blood-stained love letter – there were even old holodocumentaries playing silently around the room, and, behind the bar, hung a wall-mounted Greff-Timms AR-1 blaster rifle. In other words, all the goofy shit that attracted tourists like poor naïve Howark, here.

“Actually, I do,” Howark, having reviewed his hand, showered a small mountain of credits onto the table. That caught the attention of everyone around, the sweet sweet sound of credits.

“Oho!” Zefa sat upright, his eyebrows had disappeared into the rim of his cap, “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere. Hey, Orgus!”

From behind the bar, a large round Sullustan, with saggy jowels and a prosthetic arm, regarded Zefa with a jerk of his bulbous head. He found himself being summoned to the Shark Tank. The others were getting restless, eager to start the game, but Zefa only had eyes for the approaching barkeep. Once he was within range, he flicked him a credit chit, and said, “Three shots of jolly juice for my friends, and I’ll have a Chandrilian Chaser. Oh, and Orgus?”

Once the bloated bartender had completed a full rotation about his axis, Zefa thumped a heavy boot onto a crate that was sat on the floor in front of him. “Any chance of seein’ our mutual friend before the season’s up? This ain’t no damn footstool, know what I’m sayin’?”

“He’ll be here,” was all the reassurance Orgus was willing to give, before he limped off to fix up the drinks.

“Yeah? Well, he’d better be… or I’m walkin’!” Replacing his cigar, Zefa reached for his cards, only to stop short of them, and smile, “I almost forgot.”

“Please, not again,” droned Galtic, “It isn’t necessary. We are not mind-readers.”

“What you are, Galtic, old buddy, is an electromagnetic emotion detector. And that puts you and prince charming, over there, at the kind of advantage I don’t rightly call fair.”

On the table, there was a small grey electronic device. Zefa reached out to press the button on top, only to have his wrist seized in Shagga’s large hand. The Gotal gambler snarled, “I will not suffer that noise again.”

“Your choice, pal,” Zefa shrugged, “If Shagga the Shark can’t beat the fearsome Zefa Coralix in a fair game of sabacc, it’s nothin’ to be ashamed of. It’s only a reputation, right?”

In the sudden silence, Shagga’s fierce amber glare drifted from his opponent, to the cantina itself, and every pair of eyes that were concentrated on his position. With a low growl, he relented, and retreated into his seat, with a stiff nod.

“Alright…”

He pressed the button, and, at once, a deep pregnant drum beat filled the room, this was followed promptly by a throbbing baseline, and a flurry of funky electronica. By the time The Duke, the Zeltron prince of song, had started to serenade them with his sensual soulful voice, Zefa had armed himself with his cards.

“Let’s play.”

[Cleo Némain]

"OHMAHSTARS I looveee this song!" Her hands clapped together and Cleo started humming along with The Duke because he was fifty shades of awesomesauce and catchy and all the right things that music should be. Not that she had any idea what the lyrics were hinting at or her cheeks would have turned fifty shades of red too like The Duke himself.

It made making coming into the bar all sorts of better too. It made things brighter, even if the people inside weren't all the bright to start with. Zeltrons had that ability, she'd been told, but she'd never met one in person and OH MAN if she got to meet The Duke it would be EVERYTHING. But really, any Zeltron would do because they were pink and reminded her of all kinds of berries and so they were berry people because who the heck didn't like berries no how? No one Cleo knew, that was for sure! Even berries in porridge could make Mos Mos smile from time to time when it was fed in the cafeteria back on Ossus and that said something about berries all together.

But back to the bar! And looking for Tripples and some spacers to try and get Stevie Droid where he had to go. Not that Cleo was very good at finding peoples for that sort of thing. After all, she'd just kind of snuck aboard the Knightfall and met Cap'n Barty and Attony and all the rest. It worked, but probably not so good for a droid as it had been for a Cleo.

There was another problem with bars: They were not made for vertically challenged people. Thankfully, Mos Mos had no such issues and still humming along Cleo turned to him and barely managed to stop head bobbing enough to really look up at the big guy.

"Y' see Tripples anywheres?"

[Amos Iakona]

Amos was glad that the music managed to capture Cleo's complete attention; it meant she didn't end up seeing the grimace of dismay that formed on his features the second he walked in. The onslaught of sound was grating and cloying. Too happy. Despite appearances and presumptions to the contrary, Amos was not allergic to joy. He smiled. He enjoyed things. He just enjoyed quiet things. Personal things. He enjoyed a good conversation, a few good laughs and a few good beers with a few good folks.

This place? This place was some kind of custom crafted hell. It wasn't just the music, either. It was the shallow, fraudulent facade of it all. There had been bars like this all over Naboo. TGI Fredas, with it's try hard spacer vibe, engine components bolted to the walls and swoop bikes inexplicably parked on display at random awkward points. Planet Hollastin, with it's garish Hutt Cartel theme, faux enforcer wait-staff asking do you want spice with that? and all manner of tasteless appropriation of interstellar crime. There had even been a Stormtrooper themed bar that opened up while Amos was still stationed with the Scouts; a whole group from his unit had gone to scope it out, but Amos refused. It felt like indulging a lie: and while there were times when lies and deception were necessary, that was a thing that was supposed to weigh on you, not be mined and plundered for a few cheap laughs.

The specific theme made it worse, too. Amos was no expert, but he'd heard of the Antarian Rangers. Knew what they'd been: soldiers who had the Jedi's backs. He liked that. Respected that. This whole being a Jedi thing was a headache he often found himself struggling with, but the Alliance staff on the Wheel and on Ossus were part of what kept him grounded, and from feeling like he'd fallen utterly out of the world he knew and into one where he didn't belong. If only the Rangers still existed. If only they'd somehow managed to survive their way through the Jedi Purge the same as the rest of them. He could use more people like that in his life.

Maybe he'd even get lucky, and they wouldn't run off to do their own thing like all his other grounding influences had.

He shook that thought aside, burying it so deeply that even Cleo wouldn't be able to see it. Lucky, too: Cleo's attention had apparently abandoned the music and turned back to him. He frowned a little at Cleo's question.

"Trip is back on the ship, Cleo. I know you asked him to meet us here, but -"

Amos hesitated, beginning to hear his father's voice coming out of his mouth. He switched direction, softened it a little; tried to put aside the Sergeant and Stormtrooper who usually took the forefront in situations like this, and remind himself that he was just a lowly Padawan, talking to someone else in the same boat.

"He's got an old-fashioned chassis. If you're gonna be in charge of looking after him when we go on expeditions like this, you've gotta be patient with him taking his time to get from place to place."

[Zefa Coralix]

"...so the Ithorian said 'Sorry, I left it in my other herdship!'"

The joke crashed and burned like an Ewok in an X-Wing. Zefa's expectant face soured. With a curt gesture to his companions, he retreated to his contingency plan. In turn, and with varying degrees of reluctance, the men knocked back their shots of jolly juice.

"hic-AHAHA!" blurted Howark.

Next, Galtic's thick rubbery lips peeled back, in a long merry bleat, "Ehhhh-eheh-heh-heh-heh-eheh."

"Hmph." Shagga was unamused. He slammed his empty glass on the table, and suddenly bellowed, "HAAAAAAAAAW!"

"That's better." Zefa bit down on his cigarra and considered his cards. Duds, every one. If his luck didn't change soon, he was going to be wiped out in no time. And, for someone who belonged to a species that didn't visibly communicate emotion, Shagga was looking mighty pleased with himself. It wasn't looking good. He discarded the Five of Flasks. "Trade."

He reached for his Chandrilian Chaser. From over the rim, he spotted some new faces: there was a small, but very cheerful-looking girl, a mountain disguised as a man, and what the hell kinda droid was that!? Alarm bells sounded inside his head. With the heel of his boot, he inched the crate closer to himself. And, by the look of it, he wasn't the only person to have noticed the strange trio of newcomers. Heads were turning, so he kept his down.

"Will ya do somethin', already?" Shagga grunted at the other Gotal. Galtic was unphased. He pored over his cards with the quiet contemplation of a scholar. Even the intense vocal gymnastics of The Duke failed to damage his calm. At length, he selected his card, and traded up. No sooner had he completed his turn than the music started to crackle and break, and the cards flashed blue. It was a Sabacc Shift, meaning everyone's hand had just randomly changed - one of the more infuriating elements of the game. This time, when Zefa glanced at his cards, he had to suppress a smile. Yes, Sabacc was an intense infuriating, and sometimes dangerous game of chance, but it certainly helped when you had a magical music box. Whoever said cheaters never prosper?

[Cleo Némain]

"Oh."

The thought hadn't even gone and occurred to her. This was Tripples, after all and he was a sort of special droid. Not that all droids weren't special and amazing but Tripples was her friend and Cleo didn't really second guess her friends and what they could or couldn't do. Still, she didn't think Mos Mos was giving the droidy enough credit. Oldish Tripples may have been but he wasn't that slow. Was he?

"I'm thinkin' Tripples is more a cappa-caper- able than y' think. He'll surprise ya, jus' y' wait!" Cleo grinned and nodded all self assured.

She was thinking that Mos Mos was being a bit grump because he was still cloudy and that was his reason for not believing in Tripples so much and that was okay. What was also okay was the way the Gotallies at the table with the music were making all kinds of funny noises. They tickled Cleo's ears a bit and made her grab Mos Mos' hand and tug him towards a table nearby so she could listen to them clear as a bell. Well maybe not so clear, she didn't want to intrude and really when you had Stevie Droid following you about, you had to find a spot where the big guy could fit!

What wasn't okay though was the way the music suddenly went staticy for a bit and it made Cleo feel like her entire world had gone the same. She was just about sit down when it happened and she actually flinched like something sharp had jabbed her head. It wasn't just the music, though! Something else had happened then, the static had a feeling that came along with it and it wasn't a good one, but it wasn't a bad one either, just a up to no good one.

[STE-V]

STE-V observed for a moment as Unit Némain forcibly conscripted Unit Iakona into an apparent secondary objective to locate adequate seating. It was an odd design flaw in the humanoid units, that remaining standing required such an expenditure of effort; clearly they lacked the kind of self-locking joints that allowed a unit such as STE-V to remain effortlessly standing even while powered down, with little or no undue strain on any of his points of articulation. It was a base feature of organic models however, and so STE-V accepted the need and requirement without any reluctance.

His attention though was directed elsewhere. His oculars scanned the surroundings, tactical processing running an assessment of everyone located in this particular establishment, cataloguing them one by one. It would have been easier of there was a local starport registry for him to cross-check facial recognition against, but STE-V had been programmed and equipped to function in a variety of environments, and Antar IV fell well within those criteria.

First, STE-V excluded the Gotal individuals. While it was entirely possible that the Gotals here possessed starships, there was also a significant likelihood that they were merely locals who had arrived via speeder or pedestrian transit from elsewhere on the planet. While STE-V's records did suggest the possibility of non-Gotal immigration to this world, it seemed statistically more likely that non-Gotal would have arrived by ship that they were still in possession of, and so that became the first in a string of filters. STE-V continued his scrutiny, analysing clothing choices based on the environmental appropriateness of their selections, and also indications of wear and tear that would allow him to filter new arrivals from those who had either been here for a prolonged period, or who perhaps visited worlds such as this frequently.

This criteria narrowed the individuals within the cantina down to a select few. There was one individual whose status as a spacer was slightly ambiguous: he had the hallmarks of an offworlder, and STE-V watched him pay for a beverage with Imperial currency; but his clothes were old and worn, which could mean he was an immigrant, or an importer, or even a local buying drinks with earnings from the gambling that seemed to be taking place here. The individual that STE-V deemed most likely to be a recent non-native was the human proximate to the source of the audio disruption that STE-V had been detecting: his clothes appeared to be so new that the sales tags had not all been removed, and they matched with items on sale within the cantina itself - not just an offworld arrival, but a recent offworld arrival at that.

STE-V reran the assessment to be certain. He filtered through the background noise to collect a fragment of vocalisation from the human, analysing it for accent and local vernacular. That pushed the percentage likelihood a little higher, bringing it within STE-V's default mission parameters. He queried his operating system for a next step.

Target identified. Establish contact.

The droid strode across the cantina calmly, weaving effortlessly along a path that avoided contact with any of the patrons or furniture that arrayed themselves as obstacles. He reached the table in a few leisurely seconds, and prepared to vocabulate a greeting, but an environmental analysis suggested that the ambient noise might be too high for his words to be properly received by the species present. His faceplate fell, analysing the audio device for a moment, before a hand reached out to depress the control that would halt the device's output.

"Hello there!" STE-V enthused into sudden silence, turning his attention directly to the 83% probability offworlder starship owner. "Please excuse the interruption, unidentified human unit, but I require a moment of your time."

[Zefa Coralix]

There was no way to ignore the heavy clunking of metal feet, but Zefa did his best. Eyes down, and with the focus of a Calan monk, he studied his cards, and prayed for the droid to simply pass him by. Of course, that was too much to ask. It came to a halt right beside the table, arresting the attention of the others: Shagga looked annoyed, but then he always looked annoyed, whereas Galtic inspected the new arrival with the reserved interest of a mad scientist. It was in his fellow human that Zefa spotted his own emotional cocktail of apprehension, fear, and distrust. Howark was frozen, gaping, like a man about to run for his life.


The mood of uncertainty was shattered, however, when the droid suddenly banished The Duke with a long mechanical digit. The silence was crushing, and about as pointed as a hundred hungry vibroblades. The flash from the cards lit up the faces of the three players, painting their surprise (or, in the case of the Gotals: their duracrete apathy) in shocking shades of blue. Zefa didn't move an inch. He was eight years old again, and his mother had just discovered him, and his best friends, Taowi, Willam, and Jeet, huddled around the disembowelled remains of the station's only protocol droid. It took a week to undo the damage they had done, and an entire day before he was able to sit down again. Oh, how he'd had eyes for Jeet back then, but, after seeing him crying ugly snotty tears, things were never quite the same between them. And, it occurred to him, as he surfaced from behind his sabacc cards to regard the looming death droid, just how much the tables had turned.

"That's- shit!" Upon opening his mouth to speak, the cigar fell from it, scattering hot embers in his lap. He quickly recovered, and used it to gesture, with practiced ease, first, at the droid, and then at the table, "That's a kind offer. I'm not going to say it isn't. But I have business to attend with these, here, fine gentlemen. Now, if you don't mind..."

At a glance, it was sure as hell easy enough to tell if a droid was built to serve you a drink, or blast you full of holes. And, honestly, wasn't that all that mattered? One look at the droid was enough to confirm that weren't no gorram wine dispenser on his arm. And yet, in a momentum of uncommon bravery, Zefa reached out, and switched on the music box again. With the return of The Duke's funky sound came the return of his golden hand. The other cards crackled with their unscheduled shift, too. He could only hope the boys were too distracted by the threat of potential imminent death to notice the change.

"Cheater."

Oh, well.

"Say what, now?"

Impassive as ever, Galtic leaned forward, deactivated the music box, and all the cards changed. His point was made: "Cheater."

Shagga was less restrained. The table was overturned as he rose to his feet, with a snarl, sending the cards, the credits, and the music box to the floor. With a flick of his wrist, Zefa threw back the hem of his replica Antarian Rangers jacket, revealing a holstered WESTAR-34. The Gotal gambler's advance faltered at the sight of the shimmering dallorian alloy.

"Yeah. That's what I thought. You might be the shark in these waters, Shagga, but you have to be quick on the draw to get the jump on-"

"Banthafracker!" The cry came from Howark, who threw himself at Zefa, in a frothing rage. They toppled to the floor, where Howark struggled to relieve him of his ill-gotten gains, "Give me back my shit!"

[STE-V]

STE-V had not been programmed for this kind of situation, and as a result his predictive algorithms had failed to prepare him for the sudden change of circumstance. As the fight erupted around him, and the overturned table tumbled past, STE-V remained completely still, processing his way through archives and programs in search of even the briefest subroutine that might conform to this situation in a beneficial way. The manner in which the second human had attacked the first more closely resembled a wild animal attack, and so STE-V loaded himself into a Hostile Fauna configuration, a myriad of commands and processes slowly beginning to boot up systems that had been left idle within the urban surroundings of Antar 4.

Slowly, the pistons and servos in STE-V's neck whirred, angling his headpiece to aim at the two Gotal as if they might offer some sort of wisdom or context. They did not, and so after a lingering moment the headpiece angled downwards, the droid's ocular receptors now orientated towards the entangled humans on the floor below him. He lights in his faceplate dimmed and flickered momentarily as ran a threat assessment on what his operating system now considered hostile wildlife, evaluating the second human's strength and predatorial proficiency while also evaluating options for a course of action. In the space of a few seconds, countless calculations ran, possibilities swarming and being whittled away one by one until a prudent decision was reached.

Servos humming and buzzing again, STE-V's form shifted, a hand reaching down to grasp the secondary human by the back of his clothing. "My apologies, auxiliary human unit," STE-V vocabulated, as the arm began to slowly but effortlessly hoist Howark from the ground. "But you are interfering with my operating objectives. Please desist before I am required to -"

That vocabulation never completed. It was interrupted by an alert from STE-V's peripheral motion sensors, alerting him to the fact that one of the Gotal units had pulled a blaster and was attempting to brandish it in a manner that the droid's operating system evaluated as mildly threatening. The act of aggression directed towards him specifically triggered a shift in STE-V's programming, activating combat subroutines that he was not currently drawing upon. His hand did not disengage from the auxiliary human unit, but it's counterpart rose slowly. With a clunk and a whir, mechanisms began to shift and reconfigure the droid's entire forearm, multiple barrels and discharge emitters taking the place of the dactyl manipulator that had been there moments before.

The spectrum of STE-V's faceplate shifted to a slightly darker, more blood-like shade of red. His voice retained the same cheerfully optimistic and patriotic that it always had, but the words were delivered more slowly, the pitch dropped ever so slightly, more stress placed on each of the individual words.

"Go ahead."

It was an invitation to the Gotal, one uttered with STE-V's weapons package (http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/starwars/images/2/25/HKB-3Hunter-KillerDroid_SGtD.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20091222165934) held clearly in view, though not aimed at anyone in particular.

"Make my day."

[Cleo Némain]

This wouldn't do! No no no. This was supposed to be a nice quiet place that was supposed to help Mister Stevie Droidy find a pilot to take him where he wanted to go and now there was skipping music and angry shouting and GOTTALIE FOLKS JUMPING - which wasn't really so bad as far as Cleo was concerned but that was besides the point - but this was like a bar fight thingie and then Stevie was involved and that was no good because she couldn't let her friends go and get into fights and Stevie was a friend, even if he wasn't like Mosmos or Tripples.

She was quick like lightning, or maybe a ro-roo that'd been covered in butter, either way Cleo slid from her seat at the booth and positioned herself between the flipped up table and it's former cardies and Stevie. Her arms went up and flailed a bit which made her realize just how tall Stevie was, which was too tall but not too tall to be seen by a tiny wiggling Cleo.

"OI!" She shouted as she faced the droid, rather than the folks. After all, they were having a good ol' fashioned fisticuffs cheater cheater beater - okay, except for that one Gotally but she had no say in what he did or didn't do anyhow - and Stevie was the one with the firepowers.

"This ain't th' way to go an' make friends like!" Cleo finished with a nod of her head.

Then her attention flashed towards that rogue Gotally and she stared him down something good. "An' YOU! Y' don't need'ta go anna do tha'. Is only gonna cause more issues."

She kept watch even as he mumbled cause more issues and dropped his arm back to his side and then nodded again. Good, no blasties that took care of that.

Course the bad thing about putting yourself into a full mess was realizing it was well and above yourself. The air was still all tense like and it was then that Cleo looked back from Stevie to the card guys to Mosmos to Tripples and then her arms finally fell to her sides and she let out a breath that ruffled the hair lingering around her face because truth be told, she didn't think she had any control over anything else right just then and there no mores.

[STE-V]

Once again, Unit Némain asserted her status as the ranking Jedi on this expedition. Prototype Five's faceplate flickered, immediately beginning an intensive evaluation of his standing orders and objectives in search for understanding of what protocol he had seemingly violated. His linguistic processors analysed her speech patterns and phrasing, scrubbing out regional vernaculars to reduce her words down to quantifiable instructions. She spoke of making friends, and had discouraged the Gotal Unit from his use of firearms. A resolution without violence. Diplomatic protocols. Prototype Five had engaged tactical mode during a peaceful negotiation.

STE-V recoiled in horror, his tactical package immediately retracting and withdrawing back into his chassis. His attention shifted to Howark, still held aloft by his other hand; this was rectified, perhaps a little more suddenly than Howark might have liked, depositing the auxiliary human unit unceremoniously on his posterior.

"My apologies, Commander, I -"

The droid's vocal processor stuttered and stumbled, considerable processing power being consumed by the diagnostic searching for whatever programming or memory error had led to this grievous deviation from propriety. Error compounded upon error, STE-V's processors struggling to derive an appropriate course of action from these new parameters. He revisited the recording of Unit Némain's words, once again searching for some subtext that might contain instruction. There was nothing. STE-V's faceplate visibly dimmed, safety protocols initiating to reduce power to his servos, his chassis slumping into a forlorn idle stance as a result.

"I am sorry, sir," he vocabulated quietly. "I am unsure how to function correctly in this situation."

[Zefa Coralix]

As the promise of violence collapsed in clumsy heaps around the droid and its miniature companion, in its place rose a wall of prickly tenuous silence. It was pierced by a sharp screeching sound, coming from below, where Zefa was presently attempting to retrieve his sealed crate from the spot between the girl, the droid, and the overturned table. On all fours, he pulled the crate towards him - another unceremonious screech of metal - he shuffled in retreat, and pulled it towards him again, and again, until it was clear of the group. Suddenly aware of the renewed quiet, and how it was attempting to bury him like a Hothian blizzard, Zefa glanced up.

"Oh! Hey, there you are." His Antarian Rangers cap was plucked from the floor, by the droid's feet, and deposited neatly back onto his head. Then, with the crate tucked under one arm, he rose, and planted an open hand on the droid's chest, "Sup, bro. You ready for that chit-chat now, huh?"

A sly glance back to his ex-Sabacc partners, "Yeah, that's right. Me and my buddy, here, have got some business to discuss. So you might want to reconsider those violent proclivities of yours."

He gave a firm nod. The atmosphere was murderous, but not quite as potentially murderous as his new best friend.

[Amos Iakona]

The altercation at the card table hadn't gone unnoticed by the rest of the cantina's patrons. All eyes had turned in the direction of the commotion, save for those of Amos Iakona. This wasn't his first time in a situation such as this, and unfortunately it seemed probable that this would not be his last. But, you didn't sail and serve with Jaden Luka for as long as he had without learning how to handle yourself when your companion did something stupid to kick off a bar fight. Amos' attention was on the room, on the other patrons, on the barman reaching below the counter for a blaster carbine, the scattered associates of those playing whose itchy trigger fingers were straying towards their holsters and concealed holdouts.

Unlike previous times however, Amos reached out to study his surroundings with the Force as well; or at least, he did so consciously, rather than relying on whatever passive whispers the Force may have provided in the past. Amos was a Jedi who struggled with what he was. He struggled to do much of what his fellow students on Ossus found easy, simply because he did not believe it should be possible - or rather, he did not believe it should be possible for him. There was no denying that the Force acts he saw with his own eyes were real, but that was the Force of others, not the ghostly imitation that Amos was attuned to. A failure of imagination was how one instructor had described it. Another had drawn upon his years of Imperial service as an excuse, a regimented mind that was not accustomed to the flexibility needed to accept a knew understanding of the world. Amos himself expected it was more a failure of intelligence than anything else. He'd never been much of an intellectual, and all this thinking and feeling was lightyears outside of his wheelhouse.

This was easy, though. This was something he could wrap his head around. Instincts were a thing, even animals had that. And there were people who could instinctively read people, pick up on those teeny tiny facial expressions, and on body language, and all of that stuff. This was the same, just with the Force's help. And so he felt the room; and the room felt bad.

One figure in particular caught Amos' attention more than the others. The Gotal, nestled comfortably in a corner booth with good line of sight on the card game, stood out because of how calm he seemed. He wasn't tense, he wasn't wary: he had the mind of a seasoned veteran, or a trained professional. Whether he was a retired soldier, a gang enforcer, or a bounty hunter who just happened to be passing through, Amos neither knew nor cared: all that mattered was that he was dangerous, and that he was reaching for his gun.

Amos kept his movements slow, his hand reaching not for his weapon, but for the buckle of the innocuous bandolier-like strap that draped across his body, holding an odd cluster of connected metal and synthetic parts across his back. As the apparent catalyst of the disruption provided his convenient noise based distraction, Amos let the clip fall loose, still watching as the Gotal's blaster slid out of it's holster, shifting into an aiming position beneath the booths table.

Action came as an explosion. Amos reached out with the Force, flinging it ahead of him like a whip that looped and grappled it's way around Cleo. With a tug of his arm, and a thrust from his feet, Amos wrenched Cleo backwards and leapt into the air, the bandoleer swinging free and depositing the odd contraption into his offhand. A grip was grasped, and a button triggered, and suddenly the contraption sprang into life, parts rapidly arranging themselves into an ovoid outline that quickly filled with the rippling fluidic purple of a Gungan energy shield.

Amos landed in a crouch an arms reach or so ahead of Cleo. His theatrics worked as intended: caught off guard by the surge of motion, the calm Gotal's attention had shifted to Amos, a snapped pair of shots splashing harmlessly against the energy of the shield. "Cover!" Amos grunted at Cleo, sliding his own blaster from his hip, and waited for all hell to break loose.

[Cleo Némain]

Cleo wanted to help, she sure did because that's what Cleo liked doing. Helping was important when you could but it was also all kinds of important to know when you weren't gonna be so great at it. Talking to people, sure! That Cleo could do. But blasters and fighting? Ehhhhh not so much, nope nope noppers.

So cover it was. Which meant a quick duck under the table since nothing else really seemed to go and fit the bill right then and there except maybe the booth or the chair or y'know, behind Stevie droid but the table was close to Mosmos and so really that seemed like the best option.

Course, it seemed like the good idea. True, Cleo was safe from blaster gunk going everywhere and all the shouting and icky stuff up top. But she wasn't safe from all the gross icky - UGH issat GUM orra BOOGEROO?? - Yeah, not so safe down here at all. Ew.

[Zefa Coralix]

In the space of a second, the stillness erupted into bursts of angry colour and splintered wood. Cantina throw-downs were sudden, that way, like mortars falling from the sky; the safe ones, you heard; the silence, however, was to be feared. In the silence, you could feel it coming, like electricity in the air. And then... boom.

Zefa dived for cover, and rolled into place beside the girl, who was presumably his new friend's friend, judging by the way she'd chided him like a finger-wagging mother. The table was turned over without ceremony. Now they had some protection - well, not including his droid friend and the big guy with the shield. Who even carried a shield!? Zefa fumbled for his blaster as a flurry of shots sailed overhead and blistered the wall behind them.

"This is not how I pictured this day would go," he said to no-one, "Have some drinks, play some cards, get paid. Have some more drinks..."

His train of thought was derailed by a too-close-for-comfort blaster bolt, that painted his unlikely companion a striking shade of green. He fired her a smile.

"Stay low, girl. I got this."

As he turned his beloved WESTAR in his hand, it caught the light and gave a majestic shimmer. Then, with one hand on the rim of the table, he pulled himself up, just enough to catch a glimpse of the action. The big guy was the centre of attention, which suited him just fine. From his ensemble of attackers, Zefa picked a target, lined up his shot, and-

"Is that gum!?"

He removed his hand from the table at once, a picture of disgust. Then, with a blinding flash, his blaster was shot clean out of his hands, and sent spiralling through the air.

"Aw, shit!"

[Capra Fal Coneri]

A lopsided sneer of satisfaction tugged at Capra Fal's maw as a carefully-aimed blaster shot snatched the firearm clean out of the hands of the dark-skinned human. It wasn't quite the shot he'd been going for - he'd been hoping to take a finger or two with it, just for flair - but it would do. One less gun shooting at him, and a little less potential resistance from the spacer when it came time to do business regarding to the contents of that container he was so indelicately covert about.

Of greater concerns were the spacer's new-found companions. The mid-skinned one with the shield was of particular concern: there was nothing especially impressive about a Gungan energy shield - or about anything Gungan, really - but the fact that this individual had elected to bring one with him, in such a fascinatingly portable configuration, that was an equal mix of interesting and unnerving. People who were prepared were generally bad news: that degree of forethought suggested experience, and experience folks had a tendency to be somewhat harder to kill than inexperienced ones. The small fair-skinned human piqued his interest too: her words had apparently neutralised their pet battle droid - for now at least - and he'd seen the way that her instructions, nigh incomprehensible as they might have been, had exerted an unexpected influence over The Shark. That, and mid-skin's unusual feat of acrobatics for a human on a planet with this gravity, led to an uncomfortable speculation. Force Wielders.

He didn't go quite as far as mentally dubbing them Jedi: like political ideals, the distinction between Jedi and Sith had been simple in his youth, which the recent generation had usurped and proliferated into a thousand new variations, because one couldn't believe anything in this world without first ascribing a bespoke label to it. The do-gooder intervention certainly seemed Jedi, but it was equally possible that the dark-skinned spacer had hired mercenaries of a sort: certainly, he did not seem like the sort of individual readily equipped to keep himself alive without assistance. So much for their scheduled business deal, Capra Fal supposed: he'd done the human a courtesy by allowing his sabacc exploits to run their course before interrupting, but the human's conduct during the game made him skeptical that their business dealings would have gone much better.

Fortunately, Capra Fal had not intended to play fair himself, and was plenty prepared for this. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, a shrill whistle unleashed into the chaotic air of the Ranger's Retreat. The gunmen who had joined the fray of their own volition suddenly froze, turning to the booth that Capra Fal occupied. Those who hadn't intervened suddenly drew arms, half the bar's patrons transformed into a firing squad awaiting his orders. The independents who were wise set their blasters aside, and raised their hands slowly. Those who were not, or perhaps were too foolish to understand who he was, were unlikely to live long enough for their naivete to prove problematic.

"Zdraveite," he offered in greeting, still reclined in the comfort of his booth, though a booted foot stood ready to transform the table into a barricade at an instant's notice. "I am Capra Fal Coneri, pakhan of the Markhor Crime Syndicate. My apologies, but you haff stumbled into my business, and this is unfortunate, for you. Hand over the gambler and his cargo, and perhaps we can resolve this misunderstanding in peace, da?"

[Amos Iakona]

Amos had no idea what a pakhan was - some sort of spiced meat, perhaps? - but from the context, and from experience, anyone who introduced themselves as part of a 'Crime Syndicate' probably wasn't someone to be taken lightly. Amos had sensed as much, in some fleeting way during his survey of the bar when they'd entered, and felt some small amount of satisfaction in that small success. The Gotal's offer wasn't entirely unreasonable, either. Misunderstanding definitely felt like the right descriptor; though perhaps Amos was simply confusing that with a sense of not understanding how this had happened. Who was this gambling spacer, why should he care, and what in the blazes were Cleo and STE-V doing getting themselves tangled up in any of this? The prospect of simply holstering his weapon and walking away was mighty tempting, and perhaps the old Amos would have taken it.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Amos had sensed the Gotal. He had felt the intent rolling off him as he spoke, the baseline malice, the duplicity of someone who was just as likely to shoot them in the back as let them leave. He felt the fear that rippled from the other patrons, both the bystanders and those apparently in the employ of the pakhan and his Syndicate. He'd fought people like this, and worse, served under this kind of a man. He knew what they were about, and knew how they functioned. His jaw clenched, regret already forming in the pit of his stomach.

"When I give the signal," he said, his voice deep and low, rumbling beneath the ambience towards Cleo and her new companion, "Make a break for the door. Steve and I will cover you."

Amos shifted, rising slightly from behind the cover that he had fallen into. Shield arm held horizontally, he positioned the Gungan technology horizontal with the edge of the table, both a barrier and a window to both let him regard the Gotal directly, and protect him from any blaster fire that might be launched towards his head - from that direction, at least.

"It's an enticing offer," he admitted, slowly and carefully, "But I think we're going to have a problem. I came in here for a quiet drink, and I would love to get back to that, but my buddy here?"

The Padawan jerked his head in the direction of STE-V; attention shifted from him for the briefest of moments, and he exploited the opportunity to idly rest the barrel of his blaster against the wrist of his shield arm.

"He's been having a really bad day, and Steve should really activate combat protocols and subdue you all with non-lethal fire."

A split second passed before recognition flashed across the Gotal's face, but that was all the hesitation that Amos needed. Sliding his blaster forward, through the purple energy curtain of his shield, he aimed a shot towards Capra Fal's shoulder, and fired.

[STE-V]

Subterfuge. Coded messages. If STE-V had been capable of smiling, he would have.

The instant Unit Iakona's shot rang out, STE-V commanded his weapons package to extend once more, and activated his riot suppression protocols. Circuits in his weapons array realigned, substituting the lethal crimson of his blaster bolts with expanded cerulean rings of stun energy, which launched forth across the crowded cantina indiscriminately. It was a callous course of action, perhaps, but STE-V had been programmed to neutralise dangers with extreme prejudice, and if any innocents were inadvertently stuck down by his stun blasts, well, better that than the kind of lethal injury they might have suffered were a threatening situation allowed to persist.

Various gunmen returned fire; only one shot managed to graze across STE-V's chassis before his defensive protocols activated, a spherical bubble of protective energy shielding springing to life around him. Inferring Unit Iakona's objective from his words and actions, he repositioned himself, interposing himself and his shield between the gunmen and the doorway, and concentrating his weapons fire on those who presented an immediate danger to Unit Némain and Unidentified Human Unit.

"Taste blaster, criminal dogs!" his vocabulator bellowed enthusiastically, as two more gunmen tumbled unconscious and unmoving to the ground.

[Cleo Némain]

Was that the signal? Wasn't much of a signal. Cleo had expected some sort of fun hand gesture or a snap or a wink at the very very least, but nope. Just more blaster fire and Stevie being all hero like and... Well, that left her with the whole breaking for the door thingie and while Cleo didn't want to go and leave Mosmos and Stevie alone, they looked like they had things all sorts of handled. So off her to task, then!

Mosmos hadn't specifically stated that she was to take the Fan-O'Duke with her but, well, no brainer! Besides, she'd already taken a liking to the guy and now that he had no blaster of his own, well, was time to get the frickity frick out!

Cleo reached out, with her hand because trying to use The Force instead of your limbs was just silly and she wasn't that good with doing that sort of thing anyway and if she MISSED the sleeve of his shirt and grabbed ANYTHING else, oooooh no. Not good. So she tugged on the edge of Fan-O'Duke's sleeve and nodded towards the door.

"Tha'? Tha's our cuey! Time t' go!"

She wanted to say more, but blaster fire was all kinds of loud but it was gonna come out all Dunna worry, Mosmos anna Stevie got it. An' you? Y're gonna bes safe. 'M here. Well, nah f' much lon'er, cause 'm gonna be out there soonish an' y're gonna come with, ye?

Cleo looked at Fan-O'Duke with all sorts of expectations and hope. She wasn't gonna force him to come with her, but well, she hoped he would! She didn't want to stand outside on her own like.

[Zefa Coralix]

"Hey, hold up now!" He protested, pulling himself free of the girl's tenuous hold, "There ain't no way I'm leavin' until I got what's rightfully mine."

The rim of the table split from an errant shot, forcing Zefa lower, hands clapped in futility against his rumpled Rangers cap. Despite his limited mobility, he managed a nod, indicating somewhere in the direction of her two friends. If she dared a glance, the strange-talking girl would spot his maximum security case, positioned squarely between their defenders and... the Antarian mafia? He expelled the surrealism of the last 30 seconds with a huff of disbelief. He had questions, so many questions, like: Who was this crack-shot Capra Fal and what did he want with him? Because there ain't no way in hell all this drama was unfolding because of a bogus game of cards. And then there was the big guy and his droid, protecting a total stranger. What was their deal? What was in it for them? It occurred to him then that there was only one logical answer that made any sense.

"Oho, I get it now," he said, suddenly, and started to rummage around the waistline of his pants, "Come to a bar, cause a scene, start a damn shoot-out? You think I don't know what's going on? Girl, you must think I was born yesterday."

From the lining of his pants, he produced a string of small red cylinders, emblazoned with the crest of the krayt dragon. Firecrackers. And not your tragic garden-variety firecrackers that sound like breakfast cereal and blue milk, no, these were original Boonta Eve firecrackers. Or, as they were more colloquially called, ear-bleeders. Next, out came a gold-plated personalised lighter, upon which was engraved the message: Z, with love, D. The fuse was lit, and for a manic second, Zefa watched it hiss and burn, as he visualised himself not-dying moments from now.

"Fire in the hole!" he bellowed, hurling the firecrackers over the droid's head and into the ranks of Gotal gangsters. There was a break in the sound of blaster fire, a bleat of panic, and then-

"Hooooly Sith!" Zefa howled, beneath the din of what was almost certainly artillery fire, exploding, inside the cantina. He burst from cover, swept up and holstered his pistol with organic fluency, and slid between the legs of his would-be protectors. All around, the cantina flashed with ferocious colour, illuminating the stark shapes of Capra Fan's thugs as they scrambled for cover. Throwing his arms around the case, he stood, and took off at speed. And between the last bursts of ear-bleeders, he could be heard shouting in retreat:

"Hey, --holes, you can -- my Corellian --!"

[Amos Iakona]

The wave of sound slammed into Amos as much as the other gunmen, staggering him for a brief moment. Blessedly, that affliction impacted those shooting at him as well; Amos blinked his senses clear, silently cursing himself and his lackluster Jedi reflexes for not having done a better job of sensing and preparing for the spacer's dubious assistance.

As Amos' vision cleared, his patience waned. An interruption had been provided, and he exploited it. His pistol slid back into his holster, empty hand reaching out instead of him, commanding the Force to grasp hold of Capra Fal's blaster. The effort was not elegant, but it was effective: the Force snatched the blaster free, hurling it across the room, by sheer coincidence striking one of the other gunmen in the side of the head. Amos pressed on, a further thrust of the Force thrown at the disarmed Gotal to knock him off balance; and then in resistance to the imagined recoil of that effort, he pushed himself into a turn, shield raising to bash through the air and unleash a wave of Force energy that slammed into the gunmen to the side of him, as if the three of them had been physically struck. As the motion was completed, a hilt was plucked from his belt, and his lightsaber activated with a flourish, Amos dropping himself into a ready stance, shield held ready, 'saber held high.

"Trust me," he growled, exploiting the panicked silence that the snap-hiss of his lightsaber had caused. He kept his motions slow, backing up towards the doorway, eyes and senses probing and glaring at anyone still armed. They reached out behind him as well, carefully seeking out Cleo and her charge, ensuring that things were at the very least delayed long enough for them to get clear.

The amethyst light of the lightsaber flickered, deepening the intensity of his scowl. "This will not end well for you."

[Capra Fal Coneri]

Capra Fal swore, loudly.

This was not how things were supposed to transpire. This city was his. This cantina was his. Control was his. It was by his grace and permission that people such as Zefa Coralix were permitted to do business here, and was out of respect that his enforcers had not simply snatched the human as soon as he had walked through the doors, and deprived him of the item that Capra Fal desired. He had arranged this buy, in this place, to keep things tidy. His men. His territory. His rules. Paying the man for his dubiously acquired wares might not have been easier, or simpler than alternate means, but it was cleaner, and his city had seen enough destruction at the hands of outsiders to last for a hundred lifetimes.

He could not have foreseen this, and that irked him greatly. What had first seemed like coincidence, and then preparedness on the part of the human, now seemed like deliberate interference. Competition. Rivals in his desire for the artifact. Capra Fal was not a man who tolerated such things, and get circumstance bound his hooves. This was Antar 4. When a man with a lightsaber - a man with the Force - crossed your path, you did not simply gun him down as you would any other insolent. Regardless of fact or reality, anyone with a lightsaber in hand and the Force at their fingertips was a Jedi, plain and simple; and this was the home of the Antarian Rangers. The mystique that the Jedi brought with them was woven into the bones of the people here. There were already whispers, and wonderings. Stories from offworld said that the Jedi had returned, rebuilding their Order on the distant world of Ossus. With the borders of the Galactic Empire and the Alliance of Free Planets peeling back to leave Antar 4 in the neutral space between, some believed that they had the freedom to choose a side, and craved for that choice to fall upon the Jedi.

It was almost folklore now, the belief that the Jedi would return and save the people of Temba, and Antar. Over the decades, Capra Fal and his Syndicate had done their utmost to quash such foolish hopes, and yet now, here was a Jedi Apparent, here to challenge him, and his authority, and his control. It could not be allowed to stand; and yet, it could not be addressed directly, either. A tyrant he might be, but he was no fool: nothing would turn the populace against him faster than to brand himself an enemy of the Jedi.

"At ease, drugari," he instructed to his men, emerging from behind the debris where the Force had unceremoniously hurled him. He held up a hand for emphasis, first for attention and then joined by his other in a gesture of symbolic surrender. "Do as the Jedi instructs."

[Trip]

Trip's sensors had detected energy discharges at his intended destination. Weapons fire, he had calculated, with an eighty-seven point three percent likelihood. Such events were detrimental to the survival of the organic units in his charge, their fragile construction not configured for the hardships of combat - not even Captain Amos, despite his programming to the contrary. That was undesirable. An analysis of such a hypothetical caused numerous errors in his operating system. Trip had diverted increased power to his locomotion servos, increasing his pace through the Gotal city.

As he sped - at precisely one hundred and seventy-three percent of his normal speed - towards his organics, his sensors expanded their area of focus, initiating a tactical survey of the surrounding buildings. Vantage points and choke points were analysed. Escape routes were calculated. Topographical scans were consulted, searching for alternate avenues beyond those deliberately designed that might be accessible for himself, his organics, and the significant weight of Unit STE-V. The structural damage to many of the local buildings was significant, floors and toppled walls lacking the integrity to be considered a reliable walking surface. Other avenues were eliminated, calculated as passing too close to locations of population and organic activity, a direction that Captain Amos and Mistress Cleo would no doubt find it undesirable to choose.

Trip's rear tracks struggled for purchase as he made a sharp turn around the last corner at speed, the rear of his chassis drifting sideways and swinging towards the apex of the curve, dust and gravel billowing like a bow wave. The droid's forward impulse did not abate, his progress not slowing in the slightest. The sound of explosions in the distance caused his forward limbs to hunker down slightly, an erronious urge from faulty programming, which to an outsider might suggest some flawed belief that aerodynamic considerations might make a statistically noteworthy difference. Trip's operating system did not flag this as an error, however: his organics were in danger. Mistress Cleo was in danger. All other errors would be ignored, until that core imperative was addressed.

Mapping software calculated a minor variation to Trip's route, one that would have been ignored at standard velocities, but that suddenly became applicable given his increased pace. The droid swerved to the left, diverting away from the deliberate roadway through the city, struggling across an uneven path of rubble before reaching the relative smooth surface of a collapsed wall. Warnings triggered in Trip's safety protocols, as more power was diverted to the locomotion servos, an imminent danger of overload calculated. These were ignored for exactly thirteen point four seconds: just enough, Trip calculated, to bring the risk of damage within acceptable margins.

Trip's ocular receptor turned red with determination as the seconds counted down; as he reached the fractured edge of the fallen wall, his velocity carried him onwards, a hyperbolic trajectory carrying him over obstacles that would have taken him almost an additional forty-two seconds to weave between, and into a clattering but successful landing a few meters away from the only point of egress from the building. Trip's sensor array pivoted on its housing, orientating his sensors towards the doorway, errors beginning to abate as he watched the first of his organic companions exit at speed.

"Mistress Cleo!" he vocabulated, increasing the volume of his auditory output to be more easily heard. "I have calculated a pathway towards safety. Follow me."

[Cleo Némain]

Oh goodness, oh dear, oh frell. Everyone was supposed to just do as they were supposed to and this whole thing was supposed to be easy but, no. No. They had to go and make everything haywire and loud. Too loud, probably, if the high pitched whine in Cleo's ears was anything to go by.

She tried to hear over anything, oh really she did, but it weren't no good. It left her putting a finger against one and then the other while her voice was making small "mawp" sounds that Cleo didn't suspect worked a bit, but she'd seen it in a holodrama somewhere and it'd made sense then so it seemed worth trying but really all that was happening was her threads were getting frayed and she was getting ready to stamp a foot and demand everybody knock it all the crazy antics off when...

"TRIPPLES!"

The sight of the droid was perfect, just perfect! Cleo looked up to make sure Fan-O'Duke had that case was that was all so important like and he was close by. This time, he had no reason not to listen to her. Not that Cleo wanted people following orders or anything weird like that, she was a Padawhat, afterall, not a right proper Jedi who could go and tell people what to do.

But STILL. This place was all kinds of danger and she was supposed to be all hero and save this guy! Right? RIGHT.

"Tripples, we got'sta go now." She thought she'd heard him say something about safety and following and that was just right.

Cleo's attention turned on Fan-O'Duke. All of her attention. Which probably weren't fair, and Cleo wasn't sure why it made people listen to her more, but now seemed right, even if she did have to shout a bit to hear herself over the highpitchedness.

"An' y! Dun argue no mores! We are followin' Tripples an'na tha's tha! S' hol' tight t' tha' case a y'ers anna le's go!"