When it came to practicing his trade, Gatz Derrevar preferred to stay as far away from Republic space as possible. The Core Worlds had too many rules, too much traffic, advanced security systems, and so many peacekeepers you'd have to take a census to count them. All in all, those were obstacles to conducting efficient illegal business. All it took was one scan going awry for him to get busted, chained up, and thrown into prison. And trying to smuggle to Coruscant of all places? Only a fool would try it.
Gatz Derrevar was a special kind of fool.
As he brought The Long March in for a landing at the nearest port, the young smuggler could feel a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. In spite of everything that should have gone wrong, somehow he was a mere hundred feet away from his landing zone, where he could finally deliver the cargo on board his ship. Though his bay was full, most of what was in there was a red-herring of sorts: the crates of bacta he was delivering would earn him some credits, but his true payday lay in the single small box of spice hidden in a ventilation duct. That was meant to be delivered to a seedy cantina, on the lower levels of Coruscant.
At long last, his light freighter touched down in the hanger, a shabby metal thing far below the shiny grandeur of Upper Coruscant. Gatz stood from his chair, and left the cockpit, walking down the hallway that separated the sleeping quarters from the galley. He came to another door at the end of the hallway, which opened up to his cargo bay. He maneuvered past the large crates he was delivering, making his way to the loading ramp, which was already lowering itself. Before stopping there, however, he made one detour to the ventilation duct that held his most important delivery. He tucked the sealed box under his arm, and hoped most people would take it for nothing more than a simple package.
A round droid chirped at him from its post near the ramp. It was an old R4 unit, once a pristine white and green, now yellowing. Gatz gave him a small pat on his head, or dome, as he passed by.
"Keep an eye on the ship, R4. Don't let anyone on that isn't me."
Gatz's feet hit the metal deck of the hangar, and he turned to look up at his ISFT-21 Light Freighter. What was once probably a beautiful ship now showed the signs of its age: the grey hull had darkened, rusted in a few places, and was missing non-critical panels in others. The inner workings of his prized possession were exposed in those areas, which would only exacerbate the wear and tear on the ship over time. Maybe after he'd concluded his business here, he should head for Tatooine, and get his ship sorted out. Mos Eisley had some talented mechanics, and there was no shortage of scrap there. Plus, he wouldn't have to pay them an arm and a leg like he would here in the Core.
The money he was about to make would more than cover some retro-fitting.
Gatz Derrevar was a special kind of fool.
As he brought The Long March in for a landing at the nearest port, the young smuggler could feel a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. In spite of everything that should have gone wrong, somehow he was a mere hundred feet away from his landing zone, where he could finally deliver the cargo on board his ship. Though his bay was full, most of what was in there was a red-herring of sorts: the crates of bacta he was delivering would earn him some credits, but his true payday lay in the single small box of spice hidden in a ventilation duct. That was meant to be delivered to a seedy cantina, on the lower levels of Coruscant.
At long last, his light freighter touched down in the hanger, a shabby metal thing far below the shiny grandeur of Upper Coruscant. Gatz stood from his chair, and left the cockpit, walking down the hallway that separated the sleeping quarters from the galley. He came to another door at the end of the hallway, which opened up to his cargo bay. He maneuvered past the large crates he was delivering, making his way to the loading ramp, which was already lowering itself. Before stopping there, however, he made one detour to the ventilation duct that held his most important delivery. He tucked the sealed box under his arm, and hoped most people would take it for nothing more than a simple package.
A round droid chirped at him from its post near the ramp. It was an old R4 unit, once a pristine white and green, now yellowing. Gatz gave him a small pat on his head, or dome, as he passed by.
"Keep an eye on the ship, R4. Don't let anyone on that isn't me."
Gatz's feet hit the metal deck of the hangar, and he turned to look up at his ISFT-21 Light Freighter. What was once probably a beautiful ship now showed the signs of its age: the grey hull had darkened, rusted in a few places, and was missing non-critical panels in others. The inner workings of his prized possession were exposed in those areas, which would only exacerbate the wear and tear on the ship over time. Maybe after he'd concluded his business here, he should head for Tatooine, and get his ship sorted out. Mos Eisley had some talented mechanics, and there was no shortage of scrap there. Plus, he wouldn't have to pay them an arm and a leg like he would here in the Core.
The money he was about to make would more than cover some retro-fitting.