Chapter Text
Nar Shaddaa, aptly nicknamed ‘the Smuggler’s Moon’, is as dark and smelly as you’d ever imagined. You spot no less than 17 violations that would have gotten any respectable port shut down as soon as you land, and that’s not to mention the obvious smuggler ship you landed beside.
Or to put it another way, it was exactly what General Lalonde had told you to expect.
Not that you’re complaining! Getting to fly all around the Galaxy is one of the main highlights of being a Jedi. Thrillseeking may not be part of the manual, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it.
Even so, chasing an elusive Jedi Master through Imperial checkpoint after Imperial checkpoint got old pretty fast. Especially since your best lead is pretty questionable intel from a 60 year old Ithorian. You do not speak Ithorian. He may have been telling you to jump into a black hole.
You relax in the co-pilot’s chair and listen to Vriska fiddle with the hyperdrive. It overheated during your last jump, she’d said, and if she didn’t fix it it would take you a month get back to the rebel base on Yavin 4.
Since you were a Jedi and known rebel and she was a wanted criminal, you agreed it better be fixed sooner rather than later. You’ll probably need to make a quick getaway.
Not that you knew where to even start. You’d already searched every desolate wasteland and abandoned temple you could think of, with no sign of who you’re looking for. That’s very strange, you think, since logic dictates those are the obvious places in which to look for a Jedi Master.
This one had been smarter, or at least a bit more sociable than most, and hid among actual people. Turns out that makes you much harder to find.
Vriska climbs out of the floorduct behind you, wiping her hands on her jacket and flipping the toolbox closed with her foot.
“There’s good news and bad news,” she says. “The good news is that the hyperdrive isn’t totally burned out. The bad news is that I have no fucking idea how to fix it. We’ll have to hire a mechanic, because this shit is beyond me.”
You groan. “Vriska, if we let one of these people in here they’ll steal the entire engine. And I’ll blame you.”
She raises her hands defensively. “Hey, it ain’t my fault. I said we should’ve taken the Mindfang instead of this floating piece of spacetrash, but you insisted!”
“Your ship is about as subtle as a codpiece on a protocol droid. We’re supposed to be keeping a low profile. How you made it as a smuggler with it is beyond me.”
“I’m good at my job! And don’t act like you’re not doing this because you get off on being undercover.”
“That’s also true,” you grin, and flip the switch that lowers the ship’s ramp. “Alright, let’s go find a mechanic. Preferably one that has a shorter criminal record than you.”
It’s a dark, smelly morning on Nar Shaddaa. If it can even be morning on a moon. You’ve lived here all your life, but you’re still not sure. Your grandpa would probably know, but he’s not exactly talking to you these days.
You roll out of bed with all the grace of a baby Hutt, and land face-first on the dull metal floor of your ratty apartment. You groan and roll over, getting a good view of the dull metal walls and the dull metal ceiling.
With a great exertion of will you untangle your feet from the blanket and get up.
Your apartment consist of a small bedroom, a kitchen/livingroom, and a positively miniature bathroom. There’s a plant in the single window behind the couch, and you covered up the government-issued propaganda poster of the Empress with a (tasteful) poster of a pretty Twi’lek pilot someone gave you instead of credits for an engine part once. That was awkward as hell.
Humming, you pour yourself a cup of yesterday’s caf and take a sip.
“I know, it’s almost time to go to work,” you say out loud. “But a girl needs her caffeine! Fixing other people’s stuff is a lot of work.”
Unsurprisingly, no one answers you.
Your empty cup rattles against the bottom of the sink. On your way to the door you grab your goggles off the nose of your grandpa’s old Bola carbine and put them on. Then you take the gun. Just because your grandpa can’t see you go outside unarmed it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t know. You don’t need another lecture.
You press the door control and head to work.
“Do you really think this guy’s still around after 20 years? Maybe he moved. Or died,” Vriska says once you’re off the freighter. A colourful crowd of aliens – pirates and smugglers, most of them – and about five other ships fill most of the port. It takes you a few seconds to respond as you take it all in.
“It’s the only lead we haven’t followed yet. What makes you think it’s a guy?”
“Wise mentor figure who’s just waiting to pass their obscure knowledge on to someone younger and hotter? Basically aways old white dudes. He probably has a beard, and a stupid robe.”
“That’s fair,” you agree. “Except for the robe hate. Robes are awesome.” You tug your hood on tighter with a deep sense of satisfaction. You can’t wait to drop this baby to the ground at an appropriately dramatic moment.
Vriska rolls her eyes. “You look like a dork, Pyrope. Take it off.”
You shoot her a grin. “I’m flattered! But I prefer a bit of romancing before I go that far.”
If Zabraks could blush, you’re sure she would have. Instead she just glares at you.
“Are we going to keep standing here like a couple of idiots or do you have a destination in mind? Everyone’s staring.”
They weren’t, people had much better things to do, but part of you is almost too glad you can make her self-conscious. Her unwavering self-confidence is impressive, but also extremely annoying.
“We need a mechanic, since for some reason the self-proclaimed best pilot in the Galaxy can’t fix her own ship.”
“Stop getting on my case. I’ll have you know am the absolute fucking queen of fixing things, but that junkpile is older than my grandma. I only fly the best.”
You ignore her boasting. “And as four our mystery bearded old man, we should ask around whichever cantina on this planet smells the most crooked. You’ve been here before, right?”
Vriska nods. “There’s a few good mechanics by the hangars over there,” she points, “and we can ask around the Felt’s Mansion. Classiest scum den this side of the Outer Rim.”
“I knew I could count on you,” you smile at her.
She glares back. “Let’s just go.”
Even though the port is even more crowded than usual, you spot the Chiss in the robe immediately.
The crowd discreetly parts around her as she makes her way between the parked ships, apparently looking for something. She has a certain air about her that just exudes trouble. It’s probably the fact that she’s wearing a hood. Even droids know that people like this are best to be avoided.
Robes are terrible disguises. You thought everyone knew that. A robe was basically a sign that said ‘Look at me, I’m a criminal and/or rebel with a flair for the dramatic, and someone is about to get shot’.
The tall, heavily armed Zabrak next to her is no reassurance either. They do say that trouble always comes in twos. For a second you stop to wonder who ‘they’ are. The proverbial they? Whatever, you don’t have the time for another existential debate right now, they’re heading in your direction.
Part of you (the part with common sense) tells you that the wise thing to do is look away before they make eye contact. Maybe even leave the hangar for a while. The other part is bored, and very curious to see the inevitable drama unfold.
The Zabrak catches your eye and tugs on her friend’s sleeve. Crap. Can’t get out of it now.
You briefly consider dropping the unstable fuel cell you’re holding to the ground and running for it (it would definitely explode, but that might distract them enough not to chase you), but before you can reach a decision they’re already standing at the entrance of the small unused hangar you work from.
“Are you a mechanic?” asks the robed one. An easy way out. Take it, Jade.
You look at the fuel cell and screwdriver you’re holding. “Nope. I’m watching these for a friend,” you say.
“Oh.” Her face scrunches up, as if she’s considering your words. Your hands, working on muscle memory alone, tighten the cell’s inhibitor without you even looking down. Dammit.
“Seriously, Terezi? She’s lying,” her Zabrak friend says.
Wait a second. You squint at her through your goggles. “Don’t I know you?” you ask.
She seems surprised. “Uh, maybe? I haven’t been here in a while but…”
It hits you. “Oh! You’re the smuggler who couldn’t pay for a new power converter and gave me a naked girl poster for it! That was so weird.”
She looks scandalized. Terezi looks like she’s suddenly having the best day of her life.
“Vriska, you didn’t tell me you were smuggling illegal pornography! And here I thought you were a real criminal,” she cackles. “The flashy silver ship makes way more sense now, though.”
“I remember wondering about that actually,” you add agreeably. “That does make more sense than explosives, which is what she said she was carrying. Like ten times.”
“Shut up, I am not a porn smuggler!” Vriska shouts, just in time for an uncharacteristic lull in the conversation around you. For a few moments, everyone stares at her.
“What are you looking at? Do you have nothing better to do?” Vriska shouts at them, and with murmurs and snickers the crowd slowly goes back to what they were doing.
“Look,” she says, turning back towards you. “I was smuggling explosives, but the Empire was scanning ships on my way here so I had to dump them and I didn’t get paid. That poster was on my cabin wall before I gave it to you.”
“Pfft, that’s the oldest lie in the book,” Terezi laughs.
“It’s true!” the smuggler insists, crossing her arms defensively. “Don’t you have an important job to do? Please get it over with so I can go back to being anywhere else but with you.”
Terezi looks like she still wants to make fun of her, but she turns towards you instead. Crap. You were kind of hoping they’d forget about you and you could sneak away.
“We need a mechanic to fix our hyperdrive, since neither of us knows how. I promise we can pay. With credits.”
Common sense once again tells you to say no and go hide somewhere quiet for the day. But then you remember all those adventures your grandpa used to tell you about. Did he live an interesting, exciting life because he had common sense? Fuck no. It’s time to follow in his footsteps, steal a set of Stormtrooper armor, and paint it blue!
Or maybe you’ll pace yourself and just follow these rebels to their ship.
“Alright, I can take a look,” you decide. “I’m Jade Harley, by the way. Best damn mechanic in the entire sector!”