Nar Shadda, 19:19 Local Time
The Twisted Transistor Bar
There was some part of Thweezo that deeply regretted leaving his safe, secure, blaster-free position as a government number-cruncher behind. He'd never shot somebody before, short of his floundering attempts to run the gauntlet of fieldwork examinations he spent the better part of his life attending. Sure he had a blaster now, and he could use it, but short of killing womp rats in his latest seedy, stain-covered motel room or scaring off muggers he'd never drawn the weapon on another sentient before. This thought was never far from his mind on the streets of Nar Shadda, the Smuggler's Moon, especially when he wandered into a packed bar well outside of the more tightly controlled Hutt territory. Well, technically the entire planet was Hutt territory, but Thweezo knew even before leaving Kubindi there was a difference between what people controlled on the map and what they controlled in the real world. Even on Nar Shadda there were gaps in the net, blind spots in the Hutt's watching eyes, although some of them were likely deliberate. Breathing room could be just as much a tool of control as armed goons and security cameras.
But Thweezo hadn't come to the Twisted Transistor just to escape Hutt control, he'd come to this grimy little spacer's bar to ensure that he didn't accidentally slice someone from the Five Syndicates or an affiliated gang. This was what Thweezo loved about his new, independent life, he could make credits on his own time and at his own pace, and far more than he ever made at his old cubicle. Mainly by slicing people's unprotected datapads, computers, and comlinks to steal money and data right out from under their noses. It was actually a very simple trick, most people logged into the open Holonet at ports, cafes, bars, cantinas, etc. without even knowing it, and even if they had their faces buried in their datapads the entire time unless they had some solid antiviral software that meant everything their device was connected to was up for grabs. It was almost like magic, pulling credits and secrets out of thin air like some kind of slicing sorcerer. Not that he expected to find a fortune on the datapads in this tiny corner cantina, but there was still money to be made here, cargo manifests to copy, and flight records to track. You could sell anything on Nar Shadda if you knew where to go to.
Thweezo kept his head down as he slid his small, scrawny body through the doors of the bar, getting buffeted with waves of stale beer, vomit, and other even less pleasant smells. Damn his sensitive proboscis. He made his way carefully and shakily over to an empty, high-backed booth by the door and carefully arranged his portable computer s that no one would be able to look over his shoulder as he fired up his slicing programs and entered the local Holonet system. The indicator came on, magic time.
