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[fancybox4="http://img4.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20061004184911/starwars/images/thumb/a/a4/L-Wing_1.jpg/500px-L-Wing_1.jpg"]Arbra.
Arbra city was fairly small, in the sense of galactic capitals. A still developing civilization, the government of Arbra was only just beginning to open itself to negotiations and exchanges, formally, with other governments. A few weeks prior, Naboo Diplomat Michael Trenton had been to the forest-covered planet on official duties: meeting with government officials, business exchanges, the sort of somewhat dreary pomp and circumstance with opening up formal communications with a new government for the first time.
As the famed Naboo diplomat touched down on Arbra once more, he came in on something significantly less charming. The rusty Lethisk-class armed freighter Horance's Luck lacked the shine and presence of his usual diplomatic spacecraft, but was much more suited to safely buzz the diplomat around when he was off-duty. Technically, Mic was indeed off duty at this moment, but his journey to Arbra could hardly be described as a pleasure visit.
"Registration and docking fee," the ugly alien demanded as Michael sauntered off the ramp of his ship, and the man smiled widely at the repulsive creature. Arbra lacked most, if not all, of the culture and sophistication of Naboo. Handing the alien his registration and the credits, Michael turned back to look at his ship. He fired off an easy two-finger salute to the young man hanging on to one of the coils of the ramp, his co-pilot for this adventure, Atlas Calloway. The kid was an amazing pilot, more than enough for what Mic needed for the mission. The two had brushed elbows when Mic had tied up some loose ends with some old ruffian friends, and Atlas had impressed him. A bit misguided an impressionable, he was still a kid, and when he had gotten the green for his little adventure today he had rang the kid up. Quiet, discreet, and not a part of Mic's official life, he was perfect for the job.
"Eriadu, huh? We don't get many from your paaaaaarts," the alien commented, handing the registration back to Michael. "What's your point for be'in 'ere, Mr. David Smith?" the alien asked. His oogly eyes balked out at the man. "Pleasure," Mic responded back with a wink to the oozing alien. The being made some sort of huffing noise and then turned around and sauntered back to his chair, where he grumpily deposited himself to await the next unfortunate soul to cross his path.
"Keep those engines loose, Atlas," Mic said into his comlink as he walked briskly out of the ceiling-less hanger. The diplomat scurried through town, thankful he took the time to properly plan out this mission, allowing him to move quickly and quietly and without drawing the same sort of attention his previous, official visit had. As he neared his destination, a small warehouse/shop on a heavy foot-traffic road, something struck him as off. The people, their movement, their conversation, it was different than what he expected.
As the diplomat continued down the street, his suspicions were suddenly confirmed. A loud shout from in front of the warehouse he was heading towards it rang out, and the people in the street, suddenly worried, split to the sides. A biker gang, with three well-armored and armed gangsters, stood in the road starring directly at Mic. About 20 feet from them, Mic seemed to remember he left his wallet at home. Spinning around, three more gruff gangsters were suddenly there, and the front man pushed and then prodded Michael back towards the other awaiting three.
"Michael Trenton," one of the gangsters announce loudly, with jubilation, "the faaaaaamed Naboo diplomat. Here? On an Arbran street without protection and unannounced?" The gangster were playing into some odd sense of theater, but the on-lookers - giving the scene somewhat of a wide berth - were nonetheless captivated by the unfolding holonovel. Michael shrugged his shoulders and displayed his arms outwards, as if a school boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar. One of the ruffians from behind kicked his knee, putting the diplomat on his knees, and revealed him of his blaster.
"What a surprise," the ruffian continued, making quite a show that it was no surprise at all.
"You know," Michael said, grinning up at the gangster as he walked up to Michael, "Something about your resemblance to the dock manager - something about being a fat, ugly, smelly alien who hasn't brushed his teeth since his mother stopped making him - tells me that this isn't a surprise at all."
The gangster snarled at Michael and took out his blaster pistol, his rifle hanging on his chest from a sling. He pointed the weapon at the diplomat's forehead, the barrel pressing into the diplomat's skin. "Something tells me you won't be laughing soon, Koochoo."
[/fancybox4]
Arbra city was fairly small, in the sense of galactic capitals. A still developing civilization, the government of Arbra was only just beginning to open itself to negotiations and exchanges, formally, with other governments. A few weeks prior, Naboo Diplomat Michael Trenton had been to the forest-covered planet on official duties: meeting with government officials, business exchanges, the sort of somewhat dreary pomp and circumstance with opening up formal communications with a new government for the first time.
As the famed Naboo diplomat touched down on Arbra once more, he came in on something significantly less charming. The rusty Lethisk-class armed freighter Horance's Luck lacked the shine and presence of his usual diplomatic spacecraft, but was much more suited to safely buzz the diplomat around when he was off-duty. Technically, Mic was indeed off duty at this moment, but his journey to Arbra could hardly be described as a pleasure visit.
"Registration and docking fee," the ugly alien demanded as Michael sauntered off the ramp of his ship, and the man smiled widely at the repulsive creature. Arbra lacked most, if not all, of the culture and sophistication of Naboo. Handing the alien his registration and the credits, Michael turned back to look at his ship. He fired off an easy two-finger salute to the young man hanging on to one of the coils of the ramp, his co-pilot for this adventure, Atlas Calloway. The kid was an amazing pilot, more than enough for what Mic needed for the mission. The two had brushed elbows when Mic had tied up some loose ends with some old ruffian friends, and Atlas had impressed him. A bit misguided an impressionable, he was still a kid, and when he had gotten the green for his little adventure today he had rang the kid up. Quiet, discreet, and not a part of Mic's official life, he was perfect for the job.
"Eriadu, huh? We don't get many from your paaaaaarts," the alien commented, handing the registration back to Michael. "What's your point for be'in 'ere, Mr. David Smith?" the alien asked. His oogly eyes balked out at the man. "Pleasure," Mic responded back with a wink to the oozing alien. The being made some sort of huffing noise and then turned around and sauntered back to his chair, where he grumpily deposited himself to await the next unfortunate soul to cross his path.
"Keep those engines loose, Atlas," Mic said into his comlink as he walked briskly out of the ceiling-less hanger. The diplomat scurried through town, thankful he took the time to properly plan out this mission, allowing him to move quickly and quietly and without drawing the same sort of attention his previous, official visit had. As he neared his destination, a small warehouse/shop on a heavy foot-traffic road, something struck him as off. The people, their movement, their conversation, it was different than what he expected.
"Michael Trenton," one of the gangsters announce loudly, with jubilation, "the faaaaaamed Naboo diplomat. Here? On an Arbran street without protection and unannounced?" The gangster were playing into some odd sense of theater, but the on-lookers - giving the scene somewhat of a wide berth - were nonetheless captivated by the unfolding holonovel. Michael shrugged his shoulders and displayed his arms outwards, as if a school boy caught with his hands in the cookie jar. One of the ruffians from behind kicked his knee, putting the diplomat on his knees, and revealed him of his blaster.
"What a surprise," the ruffian continued, making quite a show that it was no surprise at all.
"You know," Michael said, grinning up at the gangster as he walked up to Michael, "Something about your resemblance to the dock manager - something about being a fat, ugly, smelly alien who hasn't brushed his teeth since his mother stopped making him - tells me that this isn't a surprise at all."
The gangster snarled at Michael and took out his blaster pistol, his rifle hanging on his chest from a sling. He pointed the weapon at the diplomat's forehead, the barrel pressing into the diplomat's skin. "Something tells me you won't be laughing soon, Koochoo."
[/fancybox4]
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