Pidge stepped off the crowded train that had taken her to the hospitality sector on level 1287. Truthfully, to be off the train was relief. There had been no empty seats and every surface was covered in a layer of grime, not to mention the heavy scent of death stick smoke that permeated every car like a thick fog. She had hopped off as soon as the doors screeched open. She knew she had gotten off a stop earlier than she should have, but she would much rather walk than be suffocated by the people she was crammed in the train with.
Almost immediately, Pidge regretted her decision. She had walked directly into a puddle of black, oily sludge. Shuddering, she thought she could feel it soaking through her boots. She dodged a falling spark from the wires hung between the two hostels she was passing. An Ithorian and a hooded human stood outside Lucky Lekku and watched a holo of a dancing Twi’lek girl. Occasionally one would pop a credit in the holo projector. Pidge caught a faint whiff of cryogen from the Jekk’Jekk Tarr across the sidewalk. To think this used to be Coruscant’s glistening surface. Now level 1287 was it’s stinking underbelly. The hospitality sector seemed to be, in fact, rather inhospitable. There were too many leering faces in alleyways waiting to jump or con the next unsuspecting visitor. No tourist in his right mind would stay here, so Pidge guessed it was more for the very desperate, the vulnerable. Suddenly her idea to ask a local where the market sector was seemed a bit less appealing, as she was more likely to be mugged than helped.
Thankfully, a speeder rental rack nearby had a map. Putting a few credits in the lock grounding the speeder, Pidge revved up the ancient, coughing engine and sputtered away with it towards the market. I’m glad Rat isn’t here, although I do miss him. She had decided to leave her beloved droid safety at her apartment. Pidge had clearly let her thoughts stray too much, because she almost hit a man repairing a flickering sign that read ‘Open Rooms and Complementary Bar’. “Sorry,” she quickly called. She did have a lot to think about, though. Pidge was about to set up a location for her modified tech business. She had been working and selling remotely, but the wanted a kiosk of her own.
Unfortunately, she did not have a license for her work and therefore could not legitimately buy her own place. But in the underworld, there was little respect for the law and she doubted anyone would check for a permit. The issue was that the market sector had no un-rented kiosks in the tech block, so she would have to commandeer one. This would likely not go down well with the owner, which was why she was meeting with a contact who went by the name Freebeer. She had advertised a potential need for muscle, or atleast a companion, and he had contacted her almost immediately. She had briefed him on the basics: getting into the kiosk, setting up shop, and fighting anyone who would try to stop them. Besides their brief conversation on the job, Pidge knew very little about him. Now she was to meet him outside a seedy restaurant called “The Wamp Rat”.
She pulled her speeder bike up and parked it, then went to sit on an open bench in front of the establishment. The smell of fried meat made her stomach grumble. Perhaps when Freebeer arrived, they could get to know each other a bit over monkey-lizard drumsticks.
@Flying Blind
