Star Wars: Scoundrel's Lot -02

Star Wars: Scoundrel's Lot
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miss mask


        Broken, lifeless, empty vessels everywhere you looked. Shells without souls, battle-worn and useless. The old Ferelheim Trade District was rightly nicknamed the Scrapyard, but it was not only derelict spacecraft that populated this dark, forsaken slice of Nar Shaddaa.

        Rundown spaceports like this were infrequent and unsightly pockmarks on the surface of Nal Hutta's largest moon, relics of a past which may have never existed; back before the trade lanes shifted and left the Vertical City to rot. When the commerce left, so did the Republic, leaving the moon a ripe apple to be eaten of worms. When the Hutts took over for good, the Scrapyard and the countless other seedy little pockmarks like it became havens for illicit activity; not that anything stolen, smuggled, illegal, or forbidden wasn't already for sale in the Hutt-controlled sectors. They were simply bad real estate; not profitable enough to be worth the time and effort of the major gangs, which gave the advantage to upstarts fixing for a piece of Nar Shaddaa's vice trade.

        It doesn't take a Bothan sage or a Jedi Master to figure out why they call it the Scrapyard. The entire vertical plinth was a monument to dust, vermin, and corrosion. The rust-covered landing decks on the upper levels of the vertical shaft were loaded to near-capacity with freighters and light-duty craft of all varieties; some of them still functional. It was where old ships went to die. Beneath the parking and service decks was what used to be Kessel-Runner's Waypoint, a full-cycle stop for overnight freighters; a place where they could stretch their legs on a layer of durasteel that didn't vibrate or hum beneath their feet, and get a ready-to-order hot meal and a sonic shower.

        Of course, these days it attracted an entirely different breed of clientele. These days, it was an unlicensed bar where one could order just about anything, if one knew who to ask and how to ask them. And not just Flameouts and juri juice, either.

        The bartender was a Zabrak with so much metal piercing and protruding from his face that he looked like he'd survived a blast from a flak grenade. His counter ringed around a hollow durasteel support beam, upon which hung rings of makeshift shelves lined with every form of ethanol-containing beverage ever distilled: some glowing in bright colors with bioluminescent fungal extracts and radioactive isotopes. Gathered around the circular bar like Coruscanti tweakers sharing a hookah pipe were an assortment of toughs from all species; among others, there was a Rodian wearing a respirator mask as if afraid to contract an illness from Nar Shaddaa's acrid, polluted atmosphere, a Klatooinian with a face like a snarling reek, a couple of stony-faced Weequay, and a particularly porcine-looking Gammorean sporting a rather practical-looking vibroaxe swung across his back and a rather impractical-looking set of spiky shoulder pads. Overall, your typical cantina bunch.

        Needless to say, it turned a few heads to hear the rhythmic clip of high-heels amidst the inebriate groaning and grunting of two dozen species, represented predominately by males. Their gazes followed up thin, bare legs of porcelain and transfixed upon the young, lithe, and distinctly female humanoid figure. She was dressed only in white: a white jumpsuit intended for warm springs and autumns on Naboo, and some sort of loose and mostly-transparent white garment over it, like a long flowing jacket or coat, but open in the front and flowing extravagantly as she moved, providing visual canvas on which to paint her smoothy-curved outline. Her hair was as white as the rest of her, straight and brushing her shoulders.

        A hundred eyes touched the angelic vision, their hearts and souls longing to touch and explore it. Then, they saw her face, and their countenances fell.

A mask. Round and smooth like an eggshell; white and crisscrossed with an intricate design laid in silver, or at least a metal filigree of similar lustre. There were no eyes. The angel was too pure to show her face. Something about her enigmatic facelessness made the casual observer forget all impure thoughts, if only for being disarmed by the enigma. In the wake of her stride, she exuded the sense that the merest gaze from a being so pure would purge the corruption from any unfortunate or curious mortal, stripping the impurity along with their flesh straight off their bones with the light of holiness in her eyes.

        Of course, the blinded girl, angel or not, seemed blissfully unaware of the feeling eyes. Her step was quick and carefree. She projected innocence, with a strong and enticing undertone of mischief. Effortlessly, she stopped within arm's reach of the bar, feeling briefly along its edges, affirming its existence in her sightless world.

        "Aavri?" she spoke, her voice ringing clear and clean and irresistibly youthful and innocent. "Excuse me, I'm looking for a Mister Aavri...."

        The Zabrak had already abandoned the beverage he was in the process of mixing. "You've got 'im, miss" he spoke in his throaty, gravelly voice typical of young Zabrak males. She couldn't see the corners of his mouth turning towards his ears, but her sensitive ears heard the ultrasonic sound of his piercings gathering and colliding with each other as they did. "We've got a rule here, y'know. We don't serve masqueraders."

        "But I need to protect my face," the girl pouted. "Besides, I'm a Miraluka," she explained, "I'd show you my face, but then you'd be screaming for me to put it back on."

        "Alright, alright. I understand," Aavri said quickly, attempting to play his joke into a pick-up line, "Besides, who needs a face when your body is so... unforgettable...."

        The girl giggled, "The Dugs were right about you. You are a clown."

        All eyes still watching the stranger grew, or dilated, or opened their second irises, depending on the species of the observer. Not the least of those eyes were the pair that belonged to Aavri the barkeep. A hush fell on the room. Aavri leaned on the counter with his elbows and spoke in nearly a whisper. "You know the Dugs?"

        "Yes, of course!" the girl said sweetly, as if blissfully unaware of the steadily-building atmospheric pressure in the room. "Awlodo and Dibalba. I told them what I wanted and they said you were the son of a Bantha I needed to see." The girl giggled again, strongly emotive despite her mask hiding all facial expression.

        Aavri bit his lip. The tart's sweet. But she's so close to the bosses... Dangerous combination. He shook himself from a private and dark imagination. "I beg your pardon, miss...." he said, trailing off and waiting for the stranger to fill in the blank.

        "Limina," the girl said.

        "As I was going to say, Miss Limina...," Aavri began, putting on an impressing little show of dexterity with a couple bottles of hooch, knowing full well that the eyeless Miraluka could hardly appreciate it, at least, not in the same way most girls with eyes could, "Forgive my manners. It's rough around here. It's given me a thick skin. I'm not accustomed to having such... delicate clientele...." After a few finishing flips and tosses, he plinked a short glass full of liquid on the table without spilling so much as a drop. He slid it forcefully in Limina's direction, grinding the bottom of the glass across the counter in a grand gesture. "I call this 'Moons of Iego'. Fitting for an angel such as yourself. On the house. Go on. Try it."

        Limina pulled the glass to her and pondered its smell; an odd, earthy scent heavy with an herbal infusion, like flowers, or perhaps Bantha hide; it was difficult to tell behind the potency of the alcohol and the density of the barroom atmosphere, thick with body musk and secondhand vapors. She touched her chin, that is, the bottom edge of her mask, as if about to lift it. But she hesitated. "Oh," she said innocently, "but, to drink it, I'd have to remove my face..."

        "Is it so delicate," Aavri swooned, "that even a fleeting glimpse would break it?" He dared to brush bangs from the polished white opaque surface that hid her face; a face that lacked an organ that humans and practically every other sentient species relied on. The Miraluka lived their entire lives never perceiving the world of light and color, yet they never seemed to miss it. "Eyes or not, you're a work of art. It's a crime to hide your most beautiful aspect behind this crude and featureless shell."

        Limina drew back, and set her Moons of Iego down on the counter so hard it reverberated and resonated with the rejection in Aavri's heart, a seismic impulse that threatened to collapse it in upon itself.

        "Then I guess I'll just have to be a criminal."

        Aavri could have died where he stood.

        "Thanks for the drink," Limina said sheepishly, "but that's not exactly what I came for."

        Not yet defeated, Aavri caught his second emotional wind and answered. "Well, then, what can I get for you? Tell me. Anything you want, I can make it happen...." His voice was unabashedly amorous.

Limina exhaled deeply and drew her palms to her face, as if it could have been any more concealed. She then answered, softly, but plainly and sincerely. "A girlfriend."

        Head-snapping and spit-takes all around the bar. A sabaac game was ruined by a sudden burst of laughter and more than a few amorous stares, some disgusted, many deeply intrigued.

        Aavri's half-dozen earrings rattled as the corners of his face suddenly twitched. The first blow was just a warning. That... that was the killshot. He gaped speechless for a second or two. All he could do was dumbly repeat what he thought he heard. "A girlfriend?"

        "Mm-hmm," Limina said cheerfully, the sightless yet lovely creature still seemingly oblivious to the million eyes watching her. "I've been living by myself since my parents died. I'm lonely," she said with an endearing pout that was almost overkill. "I need a friend... Preferably one I can keep on a leash so she doesn't run away." Her hypersensitive ears couldn't have missed the warm chuckling and lewd jeering coming from the bar crowd, but she maintained her facade of innocence.

        Aavri's countenance fell noticeably. So, she goes that way. That's just disappointing. Nevertheless, he never passed up an opportunity to serve his customers, and Limina was as lovely as his clientele would likely ever be. She might be out of my league, but something like her has got to be rich. Rich and careless. And she knows the bosses... so I have to help her. In a split-second, he surveyed his customers; mostly regulars, with one or two first-timers who were probably not Hutt spies, moral crusaders, or Jedi. "Well, little lady, I reckon we can find something for you. Why don't you follow me to the back?"

        "I'd appreciate that," Limina said plainly, "Thank you. I'll have to put in a good word for you with Awlodo and...."

        "Don't...," Aavri interrupted, pushing out with his open palm, "...say their names too loud. If the Hutts ever sniff them out, it'll be my head that rolls." He stepped back and slapped a large button on the underside of the bar. It made a low, yet distinctly harsh buzzing sound for a second and a half.

        Only about half a minute later and a thin durasteel panel, as rusted and dirty as everything else, opened up just on the other side of the bar, like a hidden compartment aboard a smuggler's freighter. (It served a very similar purpose when certain illicit spirits and substances had to be quickly stashed out of sight.) A young human boy clattered up on a crude, makeshift staircase. He was no more than ten or twelve; face spotted with freckles and rust smears of the same color, a shaggy, uncut head of rust-colored hair, and big eyes behind a pair of dirty goggles, which he lifted, exposing rings of relative cleanness around his eyes.

        Limina felt him with her mind. There's an old spacer's anecdote about the Miraluka: the Force wanted people to pay attention to it, so it conceived a population of humans without eyes, so they would have no choice but to listen to it and see the galaxy through its eyes. Limina could not see the boy, but she saw him through the eyes of the Force. She saw images of him as others saw him, as he saw himself; blurry and dirty.

        Someone relying on visual acuity would have missed it, as it was obscured by the bar and hidden discreetly beneath the legs of the boy's trousers, but the boy knew it was there, and Aavri knew it was there, so Limina knew it was there. A small, thin duralumin band around his ankle. Attached was a small, rudimentary transmitter, and a short-wired power cell. An incapacitator. A restraining bolt, but for organics instead of droids. Limina acknowledged the restraining device without breaking her innocent ruse. She was skilled at hiding emotions; then again, the mask made it all the more easy.

        "Binto," Aavri began gruffly, "I have a special customer. Watch the bar for me."

        "You got it, sir." The boy's Basic had an accent strangely reminiscent of Mandalorian, or perhaps even high Coruscanti or Corellian, heavily seasoned with a peppering of the Toydarian and Dug vernacular common in the Outer Rim.

        "Oh," Aavri suddenly remembered, "Did you manage to get those parts Gaado was looking for?"

        "Almost. Found the jammer he needs in an ol' go-fast," Binto explained, "Gonna be a while to get it loose, though."

        Aavri inhaled. "Well," he sighed, "I hope this one works, at least. He wants it installed by the end of the cycle."

        "But that's only six hours from now!" the boy protested.

        "You wanna explain that to him?" Aavri argued.

        Binto shuffed his foot, tracing circular patterns in the oxide dust. "Alright, alright," he said, disenchanted.

        "And here," Aavri added, tossing a clean towel at the boy, which ceased to be clean the instant he caught it. "Clean yourself up. You look like five square kilometers of bad Tattooine." He then quickly returned his eyes to a much cleaner and lovelier subject. "Follow me," he said, gesturing over his shoulder. "Let's see if we can find anything to suit you."

        "Thank you very much," Limina answered. Aavri opened a swinging door in the bar, headed for some restricted area towards the outer edge of the disk, and Limina followed. As she did, she paused, if only for a second.

        The boy was staring at her.

        She turned her head, and their eyes met, as it were. His face was smeared and obscured by a pair of goggles, which were now stowed on his brow, revealing big, soulful green eyes hoping to catch even one more brief glimpse of the beautiful creature. Her face was an emotionless mask, crisscrossed with mystical lines where eyes and and a nose and a mouth were supposed to be. Even so, the boy could feel the brief caress of Limina's eyes; eyes which went beyond the organs most creatures were born with and saw his soul. He could feel it.

        You're an angel, the boy said with his soul. A real angel.

        If she pronounced it at all, no one heard; no one except Binto.

        "I wish I was. You're the angel here."

        With that, the masked beauty turned and disappeared, her translucent shawl folding and flowing behind her like a mist.

        Poor Binto watched her leave and stood staring agape into the darkness until someone pounded the table demanding a drink. He gave them a Moons of Iego.


        The "back" was more a closet; an old storage area built into the hollow between two parallel supporting struts of the vertical tower. If each disk-shaped level of the small city-building could be likened to the primitive locomotion devices called "wheels," walls like these were the spokes; ribs supporting the bulk of the weight of the disks. Like everything else in the Scrapyard, it looked impossibly corroded and looking for an excuse to end it all and collapse in on itself. Not very reassuring for Limina, given there were no fewer than ten disks above and the-Force-knew how many levels beneath.

        The tiny office there wasn't much to speak of. There was a small desk and two chairs, one of which was overturned in the corner and didn't really count. A collection of holos was scattered about the desk; assorted makes and models likely pickpocketed from unsuspecting offworlders on the upper levels; not the upper levels of the Scrapyard, but the really upper upper levels. There were also one or two artifacts from the shed's bygone days as an actual maintenance closet, including a sink with a tap so caked with rust that it couldn't possibly have been able to draw water. From all appearances, the shed desperately wished it were still a maintenance closet.

        Aavri pondered his holo assortment, running his waggling fingers in short circles above them like some sort of Sith wizard trying to conjure up something. He clapped loudly and rubbed his palms together briskly; a salesman hungry for the deal. "Now then, Miss Mask," he said, "let's get right to business, shall we?"

        "Where are they?" Limina asked impatiently. "I was hoping this would be more like shopping for a whisperkit in a pet store. Like, they would all be in kennels and I could pick out the cutest one...."

        "It's too risky to let people view the slaves in person these days. We've had a few... unpleasant encounters. So, it's holos only right now. Just like shopping on the HoloNet. Except, well, if we were on the HoloNet, we wouldn't be in business for long now, would we?" Aavri picked up one of the holos and turned it idly. "But you'll find our catalog's still the most complete you're likely to find anywhere in the Outer Rim." He'd already taken a seat in his swiveling office chair and had kicked his desk to spin himself one-eighty to face his client. "So, little miss," he said, tapping his fingertips together and grinning full of pointed Zabrak teeth, "what are you into? What does someone like you look for in a domestic servant?"

        The Miraluka postured, and seemed to be biting back another one of her girlish giggles, but only barely. It was so hard to tell with that mask on.

        "If I say it," Limina said shyly, "you're gonna be weird about it."

        "Lady," Aavri began, "I've seen a lot of weird tastes in my day. And you; well, let's just say you're the first female client I've had in a real long time." He reclined in his chair, propping his feet against the opposite wall. "Trust me. Whatever gets you off ain't half as weird as some of the Sithspit I've seen."

        "Well, since you put it that way..." Limina said shyly. "I want a Zeltron." She made no effort to hide the sensuality in her voice; she wore it as she might have worn a necklace or bracelets, an accent of mischief disturbing her otherwise perfect white innocence.

        Aavri snickered despite himself. Two girls. A Miraluka and a Zeltron.... He hastily choked back his laughter and cleared his throat. "Sorry, sorry," he apologized for the outburst. "Zeltron, eh?" Limina remained as sincere as a mask.

        Aavri casually took a holo from the table and switched it on. A misty light, blue and amorphous, filled the space immediately above it. Symbols formed in the luminous mist. Aavri tapped some, waved through others. Rays of light danced through his fingertips. "Zeltron..." Aavri repeated, "They're in high demand these days. Almost as much as Twi'leks. And that, I'm afraid, is a pricey piece of merchandise; top shelf." He gave the masked girl an indirect glare. "I hope you came prepared to part with that kind of money," he said contemptuously.

        "Money's no object," Limina said, like a rich little dilettante who had no idea how financially fortunate she was compared to the other ninety-nine-point-nine percent of sentients in the galaxy.

        Aavri smiled again, savoring the taste of coin in his mouth. "I guess I should have expected as much from the company the Dugs keep," he said smugly. "Turns out you're in luck, friend," he began as images loaded into his holo, "We've only got one Zeltron girl left, but she's a looker. Pink skin and hair to match. Baby blue eyes..."

        As Aavri pressed buttons and waved his fingers, the holographic light coalesced into one female form after another; most of them humans or near-Humans like Twi'leks, Togruta, and Mirialans. All of them appeared to be bound in some way, usually standing as if against a wall with their hands tucked behind them as if in binder cuffs. They were all dressed in exotic attire: a purposeful packaging, as it was accepted slaver logic that clients could be enticed much faster into buying a slave clad in flattering apparel. Most of them were wearing similar devices to Binto's; some as collars around their necks, others around their wrists or ankles.

        Finally, Aavri stopped on a short video loop of the Zeltron in question, and Limina immediately bounded to her feet and pointed excitedly, "That's her! That's her!" she exclaimed.

        Aavri looked at her sideways, through the translucent holo. "I'm gald you like her," he said plainly.

        Limina froze suddenly and relaxed her stance. Almost stepped out of character there. Almost blew my cover. She was about to say something when the salesman interrupted her, eager to wrap up this most strange transaction. "Let's continue this conversation in the language of the deal," he said impatiently, almost coldly. Limina could read the growing suspicion in him already. She could smell it; feel it through the gossamer ripples of the Force.

        "She's young and nubile, flexible, quite talented," Aavri said quickly, "and she wasn't easy to come by. Miss Mask, I can't accept less than twenty thousand for her. In cash, of course."

        "I want to see her," Limina said sternly, no longer seeing a need to hide her impatience. "How can I buy a slave when all I have to go on is that glitchy little holo image!?"

        "We've been through this already," Aavri asserted, his natural crimson tint growing even redder, "It's impossible. The slaves are on anonymous freighters, stuck in traffic holding patterns somewhere up there." He aggressively traced mad patterns in the sky, emulating Nar Shaddaa's barely existent traffic lanes. "Miss, I'd love to show you around the shop, hell," he added with a snort, "I'd gladly let you take her for a test drive. But it's not going to happen. We've got to stay off the scopes; and believe me, we treat our merchandise a lot better that the Hutts. We don't go feeding ours to rancors and sarlaccs when they fail to meet performance expectations. We're not evil. So help us out. Try to see things from my perspective."

        "You forget who you're talking to," Limina said, pointing rudely to the side of her head, level to where her eyes would be, were she of an ocularly-inclined species. "You choose your words poorly."

        "Well, sorry," Aavri riposted through gritted teeth, "perhaps I'd be more mindful of your race's unique traits if you'd take that damned mask off..." He realized intimidation wasn't the best sales tactic, but he'd almost reached the limits of his patience; if Zabrak even possessed patience.

        Limina turned and paced contemplatively with her hands folded behind her back. She needed a moment to clear her head, to think. As she did, however, she could only think of D'zi's bound and distressed image in the holovid, an image that raised her simmering blood to a boil. The short video loop had been prerecorded, of course, and there was no telling how long the girl had suffered in this sad state of affairs. Twenty thousand would have been a small ransom for Dizzy's father, but well above the kind of cash she walked around with. Then again, when she'd come here, she hadn't expected to buy Dizzy's freedom with credits. Blood was so much cheaper.

        "Twenty thousand?" she said musingly, tapping her chin. "That's robbery, you know."

        "She's the best-kept and best-looking Zeltron you're likely to find," Aavri pattered, "Top shelf all the way. Top shelf isn't cheap."

        Limina hummed a middle-C. "Deal," she finally exhaled.

        Aavri smiled as only a salesman scoring the deal of his career can. He offered his right hand. "Deal!" he exclaimed with a great deal of relief, "Shall we shake on it?"

        "Oh!" Limina said, feigning girlish curiousity at the gesture, "Of course."

        Two palms clapped together, and Aavri's off-hand grabbed her by the wrist and gave her a warm, hearty shake. He smiled full of nexu teeth. A cold and familiar feel of duralumin shot through Limina's sensitive nerves. A metal band, just like Binto's.

        Limina knew what it was right away, but before she could react, Aavri flipped a switch on his holo, and searing hot electricity flashed through every nerve and muscle in Limina's body. Even as she collapsed to the floor, she found herself losing the facade of her personality, reverting to her native cold logic, remarking silently at how brutally efficient and effective the tiny incapacitator was at... well, incapacitating; the small voltages and current oscillated just enough to resonate with her entire nervous system, setting her whole body on electric fire and contracting every muscle in her body. At last, the pulse was switched off, and Limina could expand and contract her lungs again.

        "This how you treat all your customers?" Limina said between heavy breaths.

        "Only ones as special as you," Aavri said, the gravel in his voice having transformed into dry, sifting sand; breathy and maleficent.

        "But I thought we had a deal," Limina bargained, "Twenty thousand...."

        "Somehow I doubt that. Besides, you're worth at least fifteen yourself."

        Managing to get herself on all fours, Limina met his unfeeling eyes with her absence thereof, seeing him through the eyeless mask. "Awlodo won't be happy."

        "Oh, but I think he will," Aavri said. "I'll give your bosses credit for becoming ever more creative in their endeavors to undermine us; sending such a beautiful spy. You were very distracting. Really had me going for a while. 'Miraluka girl seeks Zeltron girl for good times,'" he mocked, "The idea really gets a guy excited. But I see what you are now. You're just a pretty thug in a mask."

        Limina slowly got on her feet, saying nothing. Her body language screamed indignation.

        "Speaking of...," Aavri moved, "you can lose that mask now." In one swift and none-too-gentle strike, he struck the top of his captive's head. Limina pouted, feeling her brain bash around inside her skull and smelling blood in her nose. Her face clattered to the floor with a hollow, woody clop. Her bleach-white bangs fell in folds about her face like a curtain.

        "Now, who sent you?!" Aavri shouted, growing ever redder like a Tattooine twin-sunset. "I can guarantee you things are going to go downhill very quickly for you unless you come clean right now. Now, who are you!?" He grabbed Limina beneath her chin and looked into her natural face.

        Aavri's eyes instantly dilated. Behind Limina's veil of loose hair, there was no face. There were no eyes, not even the vestigial eye sockets Miraluka generally had. There were no cheekbones, no defined jawline. There was only a smooth, pale surface, as pearlescent and featureless as the mask that had been hiding it. A mouth cracked open with a hiss, sucking in breath. It was not a Miraluka mouth. It was more like the jaws of an acklay; full of sharp, fang-like teeth that shouldn't have been there at all.

        Aavri's face turned from red to the color of the oxidized durasteel surrounding him; pale, dry, and severely lacking the strength and fortitude that once characterized it. At a loss for words, he spoke, as most sentients would, in the basest of expletives. "What the kark are you?!"

        Limina -- it, whatever it was, spoke in voice most alien, deep and guttoral with a staccato resonance, betraying no emotion.

        "I am Xan. I am no one. I am formless. I am justice."

        The being raised its right arm and extended its fingers, beholding the incapacitator band and examining it as a curiosity, as a child with a toy. Eyeless, faceless hunger. "I wonder," it began, "is this how you took D'zi Kagiya? Have you caused her to suffer with a device such as this?"

        By now, Aavri had reclaimed his powers of reason, if not all of his courage. She's ... or he's ... its a changeling. Though I've never seen a Clawdite do that with its face.... He ambled backwards and nearly fell to reach something stashed under the table. "I'm done screwing around with you, changeling," Aavri panicked, "Go back to hell where you belong!"

        Shots sung from an emergency hold-out blaster in Aavri's palm, a Merr-Sonn Model Q2 that was so impossibly old that it may have pre-dated even the Republic. Bolt after bolt sizzled, three of which burned thumb-sized pockmarks into the stained wall behind the demon that wore an angel's robes. The creature took the full brunt of the rest; the hot plasma burning holes in its dress, exposing the robe of flesh it wore underneath as soft, fragile and vulnerable. Aavri's nostrils flared with the pungent scent of singed flesh. Aavri pulled shot after shot out of the tiny self-defense pistol until it clicked empty. Even then, he kept clicking for a while, praying he could squeeze a few more bolts out of it.

        The creature, Xan as it called itself, reflexed into a chesty stance, arms outstretched, muscles tensing with every hit. It stood motionless. It made a faint, wet sound, and Aavri's heart stopped beating while he watched the laser-cauterized blaster wounds seal themselves, popping back to the image of perfect health.

        "You see," it said deeply, "I am not so easily disposed of." It twisted air with its right hand, and crushed an imaginary muja fruit. As its fingers clenched, several bony protrusions like horns sprung from his wrist. The duralumin incapacitator band popped like the top off a bottle of vintage Corellian ale, and, as it was designed to do, overloaded its power cell in a violent and brilliant display of sparks and shrapnel. Xan was unharmed. Its arm and all five fingers were still intact. "Also," it added, "I am not so easily restrained."

        Aavri backed and fell against the far wall of his little office. He was out of trump cards, his hand too weak to bluff. "Alright, alright," Aavri panicked, "You want your Zeltron? It can be arranged. I'll make the call right now." Aavri began scrambling for his comm, but had lost it somewhere in his pile of holos. Frantically, he dug through the pile, casting aside gizmos and devices with reckless abandon.

        "No," Xan growled. Growled, like a vicious animal, like no animal Aavri knew, but rather like the combined growls, snorts, and hisses from a thousand predators, both sentient and feral. It set Aavri's teeth on edge. Even so, indignity boiled within him again. "Changeling," he said, turning to face the faceless demon. "Shi'ido," he concluded. "You're Shi'ido." He laughed nervously. "Never thought I'd meet one; not like this. You're careless, you know that? If I was a shapeshifter, I think I'd learn to do faces better, so I wouldn't have to wear a mask. Tends to draw attention. I should have known."

        "A face is a mask. The mask is my face. The face of innocence slain." It pointed an accusing finger, like every personification of Death or Judgment known in the galaxy. "By you. You and the gang you run with, Weemarra da Fierfek."

        "Whoa, whoa, whoa, sister!" Aavri pleaded, palms out in a sign of surrender, "Or brother. Whatever I'm talking to...."

        "I was born male."

        "Riiight. Look, if this is about the Dugs, I know they're into some pretty wicked stuff. Slave trading. Illegal arms dealing. And I'm sure the junk hyperdrives we've sold have deep-spaced a few fringers careless enough to buy them. But that's not me. I'm just a pusher. A salesman. Hell, I'm a bartender. If you're out looking for revenge, or on some righteous quest, or whatever, I'd recommend you start with the Dugs."

        "I think I'll start with you."

        Xan began to change, but not into anything natural or known. His body was like a lump of clay being shaped by a sculptor with a twisted imagination; expanding, growing musculature, horns, claws. His maw widened and bore even more razor teeth. Arms like an acklay, in multiples of two. It grew. It hissed. It mutated, like a living blight of flesh and bone, like billions of years of evolution and adaptation every second.

        Aavri lost it. He pulled a vibroblade from his boot and flicked it on. The little knife buzzed pathetically. It was hardly a weapon, but the sprawling creature blocked the only exit, and it was the only option he had left.

        The entity's voice came from somewhere; maybe its mouth, maybe one or more of several other mouth-like orifices opening up on its sprawling body, which was spreading like a fungal blight over the floor and the door and the ceiling, writhing with sharp insectoid arms and tentacles and teeth.

        "I will consume you!" it bellowed, sounding barely sentient. "Consuuuuume youuuuu!!"

        "Come get me, then!" Aavri shouted a wild Zabrak battlecry and charged the creature, stabbing and slashing. There was no telling where its vitals were at this point. No matter. He'd slash and rip and tear until it was nothing more than ribbons of flesh and fragments of bone.

        There was screaming, and tearing, and ripping. A sucking sound. The sound of fractured bone. Blood spattering. A final crunch.

        No one noticed. The office was in a remote part of the cantina, towards the rim of the disk, and virtually soundproof.


        Binto had nearly fallen asleep, leaning on his arm at the bar. The Weequay had started up a dejarik table and were arguing over the legality of certain moves. The Gammorean and the Klatooinian were arm-wrestling. The Gammorean was winning, thirteen-to-three, and the puggish Klatooinian looked ready to go axe-to-axe with the plucky, pig-faced womp rat. Nothing really remarkable.

        He hated every minute he was stuck here. There were parts he had to deliver and install before morning, and there'd be no sleep at all tonight if he couldn't get it done fast. His incapacitator chaffed his ankle, and he tugged at it in a vain effort to loosen it. If only I could circumvent the anti-tampering system, he'd often thought, though less in words and more in the idea of it. He knew what the consequences of tampering with it would be; same as the consequences for leaving the transmitter's radius without being given specific permissions to do so. Boom.

        So instead, Binto's imagination dwelt on fairer things, like the angel-girl from before. What was her name? What was she? Was there a greater being, the will of the Force, or whatever, that had heard Binto's prayers and sent a beautiful angel to free him?

        Childish foolishness, he told himself. His mind turned to greater pursuits, like his ship.

        Aavri didn't know about it; not yet, but in Binto's mind, an escape plan began with an exit strategy. Getting the incapacitator off was one thing, but he'd need a getaway vehicle soon after. He'd chosen a freighter with a spacious interior and, most importantly, a good combination of sub-light speed and hyperdrive power. The ship where Binto lived and slept when he was off-duty was going to take him far away from here... someday. She wasn't quite ready yet. But it would be. Soon....

        He was rudely awakened from his daydreaming by an all-too-familiar voice shouting his name. "Binto!"

        "Yes, Mister Aavri," the boy groggily answered.

        Aavri had his hands on his hips and looked down sternly on the boy, "I hope you haven't been sleeping this entire time."

        "I wasn't asleep!" the boy pleaded in defense, "I promise!"

        "I'll bet." Aavri grabbed a rag and polished the boy's drool off the counter; proof he'd been nodding off. The rag was orange with rust stains that smeared filth around the table. He looked contemptuously at the rag, then back to Binto, who met his stern eyes with pure, honest ones. Binto knew what was coming; a backhanded strike across the face, or worse, a paralyzing pulse from his incapacitator.

        "Well, at least you cleaned yourself off," Aavri grunted.

        Binto sighed with relief. Boss is in a good mood. Must have scored a good deal with that angel-girl.

        "You said you'd found that part for Geedo, right?"

        "Yessir."

        "You know where it is?"

        "Sure. It's in a go-fast, 'bout two levels down, and...."

        Aavri raised a palm, "So you know where it is?"

        "Yessir," Binto nodded.

        Aavri gazed into space for a moment, out into the rusty, dilapidated emptiness that was his cantina.

        "That's enough for today, I guess, Binto," Aavri finally said with a sigh.

        Binto was stunned. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, picked dirt and dust from his ears. "I'm done?" Binto said, surprised.

        "For now."

        "But what about Geedo?"

        "I'll deal with that sleemo," Aavri said, "It's high time he didn't have something handed to him on a silver tray. If he wants it bad enough, he can come and get it himself."

        Binto was shocked at his boss's sudden change of attitude, but rejoiced nonetheless. He let out a youthful "Woohoo!!" and began to make his way back downlevel by way of the secret pull-up maintenance panel behind the counter. He was just about to disappear into the dark, corroded durasteel when he hesitated. His thoughts still dwelled on her, that fantastic creature of beauty.

        "Boss?" he began shyly, "If ya don't mind me asking... How'd things go with the angel-girl? I-I mean..." Binto shook his brain, "y'know? The angel? I-I mean the girl."

        Aavri looked around nervously. He recognized every face. Regulars. And they're all preoccupied. He knelt low and met Binto's eyes, capping his knees with his hands, like a father, such as it was. If he spoke it at all, only Binto heard it.

        "I already told you. You're the angel. Not me." He saw the wonder in Binto's eyes before reaching behind his back and covering his face with a mask. Her mask. Somehow, Binto knew. He looked like his boss, but the smell, the feeling, was hers. He was suddenly very confused, more than he had ever been in his whole life. He was scared. He wanted to be scared. He knew he should be scared, he knew he should have been running for his life. But somehow, he wasn't. He was just frozen, dumbly, obediently. It was that feeling. The angel's aura. It left him at a loss for words, and with breath barely in his lungs.

        "Then what are you?" Binto finally asked.

        "A demon."

        Xan had assumed Aavri Slak's skin, his voice, and most importantly, his memories. He knew what the Zabrak had been too arrogant or too foolish to tell him. He knew who he worked for. He knew freighter pilots and serial numbers. He knew where Dizzy was.




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