[Hutt Bounty] But I Walked Away with the Zoochberries

[Just Falcon]

Part 1

As of three and a half days ago, Lorena Delanova was a bounty hunter. As of three and a half minutes ago, she was bored. Her contact was late, and it was starting to get under her skin. Spent two days schlepping her ass out her to the Daedalus station; the least Ferrank could do was show up on time. Lorena poked at stale munch-fungus bread, swallowed, and immediately regretted her decision. She snapped at the waitress for another drink to wash it all down, making a mental note to never let the droids cook ever again.

Compared to her usual hangouts on the smelly, criminaly parts of Nar Shaddaa, this place was a pristine and sparkly Core world. She was in one of the smaller cantinas, off to the side and tucked in a corner of the fifth district. No resorts or casinos in sight, just a couple drunk Trandoshans and the prerequisite surly Rodian waitress. They served the good brands of Twi’Lek liquor though, that was a plus. Lorena started a riveting game of ‘Drink;’ her irritation mysteriously starting to slip away.

Technically speaking, this was her first job for the Hutts. Not much point in celebrating a milestone like that though. She was poor, they paid. That was it. Long as she kept her hands clean of the more . . . unsavory aspects of their enterprise that shriveled little conscience voice wouldn't have anything to bitch about. Jobs like this were fine. Teeny tiny bit morally questionable, maybe, but only if you peered in real close and thought of things like ‘the Future’ or ‘Consequences.’ Future Lorena problems, in other words.

The job itself was simple enough. Idiot A, Nigel Mokreet, forgot the rules of Criminaling 101 and left behind some evidence on Corulag. Reach of the Hutts wasn’t entrenched that far Coreward, so it took a bit of time for them to . . . finagle his escape. Enter Lorena. Find Nigel, save Nigel, hide Nigel. Simple. The finding wouldn’t be hard; Sector Police already had a location and she could slice it off them easily enough. The hiding out though, that’s where her contact came in. Ferrank was a forger in any and every meaning of the world. Paper and digital, he did it all, and even offered discounts for repeat customers. One more visit and she’d have enough points for a replacement gun charger. Good thing too, her droid kept chewing through the wires . . .

An hour and a half into her drinking game Ferrank finally decided to show up. He waddled over on leather sandals; unusual looking even for Daedalus standards. Wrinkly green skin, short, stubby legs and arms, and ears that jutted out a good six inches from his head. The half-drunk Trandoshans at the bar started muttering to themselves, talking, of course, about the resemblance. Everyone did, first time they met him, but she was three fifths of five eighths of the way sure the two hadn’t a frak in common.

“Lorena.” Ferrank clambered on top of a chair. “Really glad you agreed to meet here. Nar Shaddaa – too Hutty for me. Stink takes weeks to get off.”

“You also said you’d knock off ten percent if I did.” She narrowed her eyes. “This wouldn’t be the part of the night where you try and rip me off, would it? We usually do a bit of chit chat first, throw around a threat or two -”

“Seven percent. Not ten.” He plopped his briefcase down on the table. “I never give discounts in multiples of five. Three’s and seven’s, those are best. Customers can’t figure out the math.”

“Wonderful. Math tips. Those’re totally what I came here for, Ferrank, so thank you.”

Lorena flipped the latch with one hand as she slid his payment across the table. A datapad, some cards, and, as an added bonus, physical copies of Nigel Mokreet’s new and improved identity. There were some other specifics and missioney details inside, but it was something else that caught her eye.

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow and looked across the table. “He ain’t gonna like this.”

“You said you needed to hide someone. Trust me,” he tapped the datapad, “No one’s gonna be lookin’ for that.”

“That an actual guarantee?”

“Don’t do those either.” Ferrank leaned back in his chair and took a long, leisurely sip of the last of her liquor. “One tiny, itty bitty little thing. You should hurry. Idiot never even left the munking system. Actually went somewhere with more cops, if you believe it.”

“Joy.”

Lorena left him with the tab. On her way back to her ship she started poking around the datapad, eventually making her way to a folder marked ‘Expenses.’ One glance told her Ferrank had been right – Nigel Mokreet was all kinds of a moron. He was using an unsecured, government issue credit chip, for one. Tied right into his own personal banking account; all the Sector Police had to do was type in his name and bam! There’s Nigel, sittin’ pretty on Brentaal IV. And that right there, that was part two of his idiocy. Place was one of the biggest hyperlane hubs in the galaxy, chock full of cops and security and all manner of folks on the hunt for a score. About the only good thing about the move was that it put her a couple extra light years away from Coruscant and all those pesky Sith. Not Lorena’s favorite people, not by a long shot. The accident that cut her off from the Force seemed to have been keeping them off her scent but, as any idiot knows, better safe than sorry. Maybe Nigel would pick up on her example once she saved his sorry Rodian ass.

She had parked in the cheap, unsecured, free hangars, so it was a bit of a walk. When Lorena finally caught sight of her ship she had already gone through the datapad twice and folded up half the papers into origami frogs. She closed the briefcase and tossed it into a pile of laundry the moment she stepped onboard the Serenity Now. The old YT-1930 was, admittedly, more than a little broken down. Lorena banged on the ramp’s movement controls for a couple minutes, muttering about lazy droids and shoddy centuries old craftsmanship. With an indignant and haughty huff, the ramp finally eased its way up.

Daedalus to Brentaal was about a day’s journey down the Hydian Way. Lorena went about her usual routine before takeoff, because otherwise, of course, the ship would crash and burn and fall. Plug in her gun, pace the ship twice, and knock on the door five times. No more, no less. She turned both her droids back on, sending Miss Daisy to the front and Mister Peppy to the lush and bountiful stock rooms.

The LOM series protocol droid waddle-jerked on shaky limbs towards the back of the ship. He paused in the doorway, and his head swiveled on its socket a full one eighty degrees. Creepy.

“Would Mistress care to play a game on the way to our destination? I happen to be programmed with over six trillion hyperlane games, including the always popular - ”

“No. Go away. Fix something.”

“Oh, alas, that’s not possible.” Mister Peppy raised his spindly droid arms. He tried to bring the clamps together, but all they could do was screech and spark. “Mistress was too cheap to pay for the hands that would have let me - ”

“Fine. Whatever.” Lorena walked towards the front of the ship, tripping over old clothes and the remnants of his terrible breakfast. “Go do droidey things somewhere. Just be quiet.”

She could hear him muttering as he left. Probably get lost on his way to the stock rooms, just to piss her off. People told her droids couldn't be passive aggressive, but that’s a load of crap. There were only five rooms in the whole ship not boarded up and packed with junk, and he couldn't find one of them? That’s laziness, that’s what that was. Purposeful laziness.

Miss Daisy, her somewhat hard working R9 astromech, was already plugged in and going through the motions of takeoff in the cockpit. Her being the pilot was for the best. Lorena . . . she wasn't so good at the whole ‘not crashing’ aspect of that whole ordeal. The Serenity Now trembled, landing gear slipping away, and Lorena reached up and unlatched an overhead compartment. She dragged a hammock out of storage and strung it across the cabin’s entrance. Thrust pushed her into the newly made seat, and she took a moment to get comfortable. Long ride ahead, and she didn't need to be awake for all of it. She shut her eyes, let sleep creep in, and at that blissful free-falling into dream state felt cold metal claws drum and assault her skull. Down loomed Mister Peppy’s creepy crawley bug eyes, dull and unblinking.

“I’m going to Aunt Palpatine’s Picnic,” he said. “And I’m bringing . . .”

 

[Just Falcon]

Part 2

The trip took longer than expected, and Lorena was in a foul mood when she touched down on Brentaal IV. Making matters worse was the Votrad Starport itself. No free parking; it was all fees and meters and obscenely high prices. Lorena checked the lockbox where she kept all her credits. Six hundred to start, one hundred to Ferrank, and the remaining five to one lucky cadet on this rock. Well. Four hundred and seventy eight credits, now, thanks to that surly parking attendant and his day-of fees.

Night was just starting to fall, not that anyone could tell. Core always tried to drown out the dark with street lamps and white light; it made Lorena nervous. Grungy shadows and flickering neon, that was her forte. Docking pass in hand she headed off towards the nearest Sector Police station. According to Ferrank’s intel, cops had already tracked him down and were preparing to move soon.

There was one other thing on her new datapad besides the ‘Expenses’ tab – a name. Brentaal police force was massive, being a hub and all. Most amateur mercs have a tendency to think of this as a bad thing, but Lorena knew better. The more cops, the more corrupt slags needing a pay off. The trick was to find the right one. Four hundred thirty eight credits weren’t enough for some old, grizzled veteran, but it was just the right amount for an idiot first-year who realized six months in ‘Hey! I hate this!’ Ferrank had found her just such an idiot: Griog Moldona, a Twi’Lek traffic cop in deep with some local spice dealers.

He was waiting for her in a bar. Even if he weren’t the only Twi’lek in sight, Griog would stick out. Kid had the fluttery twitch of someone out of their element, rearranging his cup and scratching his chin more and more. Lorena set herself up across the street and watched him for thirty minutes or so, just to be sure. Ferrank vetted him, yeah, but you never know with cops . . .

Finally, when it looked like Griog was just about ready to give up and head for home, Lorena crossed the street. He caught her eyes, and she pointed to a corner booth.

“You’re not exactly what I was expecting,” he said. “Most of you lot aren’t really the -”

“Yes. Let’s discuss racial stereotypes, lekku boy.” Lorena called over a waiter and ordered herself a stimcaff, preparation for the night ahead. “Access card. Hear you’ve got one.”

“And I hear you’ve got some credits.” Talking about money made him a lot less jittery. “I’ll admit, this is my first shady deal, so if we need to -”

She pushed the envelope across the table, and his grubby little fingers snatched it up and squirreled the lot away.

“Four hundred,” said Lorena. “I don't think that's what we agreed on, but -”

“Green guy told me three hundred." Griog tucked his payday away. “I'm not complaining.”

“Mmm.” Wow, Ferrank. Be a little cheaper, next time. “And the uniform?”

“There’s a locker across the street.” Griog gave her two things, the Network Access card and a smaller, public issue datalock. Simple, cheap, and massproduced. “Number one seven two nine. Uniforms in there.”

“Fantastic.” Lorena tucked her new instruments of crime away in a safe place. “I’m assuming I don’t have to do the whole song and dance of ‘if you tell anyone-‘”

“Hey, I want this as much as you,” said Griog. “That’s Uliza’s access card. Grade. A. Bitch. Always steals my lunch, every schutta-grott day. I put the label on it too. 'Griog’s – not for you.' Right there! Right on the front! And every day - ”

“You’re a credit to your force.” Lorena finished the last of her beverage, double checking her pockets and preparing to leave.

“Thanks. Tell your friends, I didn’t get into law enforcement for the warm fuzzies. Assuming they don’t nab ya, I mean. You’ll have to get into the Station to use that card, and if anyone gets too good a look – “

“Won’t be a problem. Walk fast, look irritated, and carry some folders. No one’ll bother you. Access Hub itself, that’s where now?"

“It’s on the fifth floor. Kind of lucked out on that end, it’s next to parole hearings and the drunk tank.”

“Perfect.” Lorena got up, checking her pockets one final time. “You just got paid. Take care of the bill, Griog.”

Lorena retrieved the uniform, changed, and headed for a nearby air taxi terminal. She had the driver drop her off a couple blocks from the station itself, trekking out the last leg on foot. Getting in was, of course, incredibly easy. The problem with a mass produced, generic grey uniform? No matter who's wearing it, you blend in. The Access Card tricked the censors, and Lorena was, for all intents and purposes, another nameless cop. She was only stopped once, to sign a card for someone named 'Captain Netta." Hopefully it was his birthday, otherwise ‘Have a stellar day!’ would come out a little inappropriate.

She strolled up to the second floor, past a couple surly Gamorrean parole officers and a bachelorette party of drunk Barabels. Two young cadets guarded the way to Network Access, but they let her in with a nod. Either her borrowed identity was someone pretty high up, or these people had never heard of security.

Lorena slid the datapad out of her pocket and tapped into the system. She was an average slicer, but the cops had a sub-average, out of date system. Her worm made it’s way to the file on Nigel Mokreet; any and everything the cops had on the botanist popped up in an instant. He was still here on Brentaal, pretty close, in fact. At a . . . stadium now, it looked like, watching a ballet. Arresting officers were set to head out within the hour; sooner if not for the planetwide holiday weekend. It didn’t take her long to rearrange their course, from Vorstad stadium to four separate day cares. Kids there were gonna have an interesting afternoon. Lorena finished out her slice by wiping Mr. Mokreet from the system, giving him a complete digital death. Well, semi complete, technically. For the next twenty four hours, Nigel Mokreet was dead and gone. Lorena had that long to get him back to the safety of Hutt Space. She gathered herself up and swept back out the door, giving the two guards a curt, annoyed nod. Seemed like the sort of thing her fake identity would do.

Last stop for the night was Mr. Mokreet himself. Vorstad Stadium was a couple districts over, and the ballet was just starting when Lorena got out of the cab. The one good thing about his unsecured credit chip was that it made Nigel ridiculously easy to find, right down to his skybox seat. Keeping the cop uniform paid off too; Mr. Mokreet’s Twi’Lek companion eeped and skittered away the moment she saw Lorena.

Nigel was out, getting a drink or in the restrooms somewhere, and she settled into a seat to watch the ballet. Not what she had been expecting, honestly. A joint production between the Mrlssi and Noghri, the performance had a wildly jarring tone that jostled between obtuse humor and cinematic savagery. It was . . . unsettling.

The curtains behind her rustled, and Lorena didn’t need to turn around to know is was Nigel.

“Do I know you, girl?” said the Rodian. He was wearing new, obviously fancy and quite expensive clothes and trying to keep his tray of snacks from spilling.

“Nope.” Lorena reached out and stole a handful of warra nuts. “Who’d you kill, by the way?”

“What?”

“On Corulag.” She took another handful. “Who’d you poison?”

Nigel set down his tray. At least he knew when to shut up. No protests, no ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ none of that crap. He shut his lips, reached into his coat and started backing away.

“I’m your ride, Nigel.” Lorena sighed. “Put away the toy and sit down. It’s insulting.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t sit, but his hand slipped away from the concealed blaster. “Didn’t know I was looking for a ride. You popping up, out of the blue . . . makes a body suspicious.”

“Right it should. But yep, I’m your ride. Best believe you need one, too.” Two bottles on the tray, one brown and one pink. Lorena grabbed the pink one, figuring it was for the missing Twi’Lek. “Wanna know your mistake, Nigel? One of them, at least. I’ve got a list back on the ship we’ll be going over.”

“I’m not interested.”

“More of a one sided conversation. Your problem,” she swiveled around to face him, “You got sticky fingers after the deed. You’re in some guys house, just poisoned him dead - ”

“It was the flower, technically." Nigel looked proud of himself. "Not me. Mutated so a specific enzyme with a protein string viral load activates upon contact with -”

“Ooh plant stuff. I don’t care. Point is, you kill someone, and then, what, think ‘Hey! I could go for a snack! Let’s poke and prod and leave our prints all over the fridge?”

“He had fresh zoochberries!” Nigel protested. “ Do you know how rare those are? There’s some Sith somewhere gobbling up all the shipments - ”

“You risked your neck for fruit, Nigel.” Lorena said. “Just let that sink in.”

“Hmm.” He was at least sitting down now, and no longer had bolt-face going on. “Okay. So. You’re a taxi. Sent by . . .”

“The Hutts.”

“See, that’s what I’d think too. At first. But then,” his hand slipped closer and closer to the blaster in his coat, “Then, I get to thinkin. I don’t know you, girl. And I’ve got problems working with an unknown.”

“I bet you’re just a real treat on the dating scene.”

“I’d say we’re probably on about the same level.” Nigel finished his slow march towards gunhood, bringing out the barrel and leveling it on Lorena. “If you really do work for the Hutts, which I doubt, run back and ask the them to send someone important. Someone I trust. I doubt that’s what’ll happen, though. Let’s be honest, rule one of the honeypot is hire a Zeltron.”

“Charming. And racist.” Lorena crossed her arms. “You’re right though. That won’t happen. See, the Hutts, they’re in the process of spending some hard earned money paying off all the big nasty bad guys out to lock you up. I go back, I tell them you’re not willing to make it easier on them . . .”

It was hard to tell fear on a Rodian. Usually. Nigel, however, he was making it easy.

“Yeah. I think you’re getting the picture. Or, we could risk it.” Lorena shrugged. “I mean, Hutts are pretty generous with their money, I doubt they’d think you refusing their help is any sort of an insult whatsoever -”
“Okay. Okay.” Nigel Mokreet jerked the cap off his ale. “Your ship. Is it at least comfortable?”

“I’ve got a box you can sleep on.”

“Wonderful.” He slunk down in his chair. “These seats cost a fortune, you know. Can we at least stay and finish the - ”

“No.”

"I dislike you."

Part 3

Two weeks had passed since Lorena’s lovely hyperlane trip with Nigel Mokreet. She had set him up in a nice, middle class apartment on Nar Shaddaa, and still he bitched. Much better than her bedroom, and if he weren’t an asset of the Cartel she might be tempted to force a switch.

He was working at the moment, and that meant a shuttle to the Nar Shaddaa Learning Annex. Lorena strolled through the halls, down into the third basement sublevel. She knocked on a particularly shabby door with 'Ivan Konovor' stenciled on the front, and a familiar Rodian stepped out.

“You!”

“Hello, Nigel.” Lorena didn’t bother keeping her smile in check. “Just came by - ”

“You said two days!” He jabbed the fingers in her face. “Two days until I could head back to my life, two days for the Hutts - ”

“Whine, whine, whine. Think of this as a learning tool. I bet next time, you won’t leave any evidence lying around.”

“No!” He shook his head. Funny, the little stalks jiggle when that happens. “Not fun. You stick me with these lackadaisical bantha -”

“Prrrfessr mmmkrrrrt?” Someone knocked on the door, and a Verpine head peeped out. “Hlllpp?

“Looks like you’re busy molding minds, Nigel.” Lorena smiled and propped herself up from the wall. “Anywhoo, toodles, just thought I’d let you know the Hutts are still working on your get out of jail free card-”

“I hate you.”

"That's nice."

Nigel Mokreet turned and slammed the door to his class. Well, not Nigel Mokreet, not anymore. Ivan Konovor, now. Ivan Konovor, Basic as a Second Language instructor at the Nar Shaddaa Learning Annex.