Confessions of a Nightshade

[Jak Bexel]

TRIELLUS TRADE ROUTE

Mission: Provide maintenance for notable locations within the Blue Star Pirates' shadow network.
Operative: Captain Jak Bexel of the Nightshade Clan

Gamorr

Day 1-7: Arrived on a crumbling solitary transport and spent the first leg of my time inside a tall sloping hill one hundred meters from a commerce cluster. Beautiful, green, too hilly to justify farming - so it gets to be left alone. Local resource drilling had caused a shift in the signal, and my first priority was to recalibrate and reinforce the underground structure. Within the commerce cluster or mall, our contact was a local holomovie vendor, Leelgert Grunq, nestled in the northwest quadrant of sector 253a. She specialized in the sales of secondhand contraband from the Zann Consortium and is providing my next ride off-world. The relay I was sent to install collected data from this hub, beaming it to an asteroid just alongside the trade route.

My next priority was to set up a sister relay from within the food pavilion of the mall, inside a fiberglass bantha display for BlaCap Farms' latest chain restaurant. This was a minor labor of love, considering BlaCap is secretly my intellectual property (with a requisite name change, of course). I am fortunate and grateful that the BSP was able to facilitate the rescue most of my bantha herd and scrub the events on Nakadia from the local blotters. Who knew that Gamorreans loved bantha milk? The security system of this sector now lies within the kitchen of BlaCap, which sits within a busy food court. You may not believe this, but Gamorreans love to eat. And here, a thousand food vendors do heavy continuous business with so much data bombardment both on and off-world that it's exhausting for any authority be suss out who's jamming who. With this comes the welcome collateral of criminality. Lower level thugs with their slicer pals will take advantage of the blindspot. We're an afterthought. Stashed deep into the surface goings on of this massive mall.

My last trip was to the residential district that sits diametrically opposite the mall portion of this endless urban sprawl. I was to dress as a courier and deliver a package via speeder to 3405 Muuthnog Court in the farming town of Knunflee. No signing, no nothing. Just personally deliver a package to a Gamorrean matriarch whose name I've no idea, but I bet it sounds like a belch. Either way she was polite. The contents of said package were neither of my interest nor my knowledge. I'm just a cog, and that's better than a hill. With that out of the way, I received coordinates to a clean GAT-12 that sent me straight to Llanic.

Llanic

Day 7-9: Entered the spaceport planet from the southern hemisphere towards Byron Square. Had to reach Historic Byron Hall in the center of the city. This would prove tricky due to the formidable security, but I was ready for tricky after hill time back in Gamorr. The administrative offices have a teal protocol droid that not only relays a signal, but also mines data re: Triellus and the Llanic Spice Run. I'm to enter the complex, retrieve the information from the droid, and reboot the algorithm that allows for its compliance. I could not lure the droid out with a remote command rifle. It needed to stay put. Of course, timing is everything, and I was able to accept freelance work catering an office function at Byron Hall. With access to the offices and kitchens, I had one chance on a meal break to wander the closed back office and reach our protocol droid. It was almost thwarted by a security guard, but I just pretended I was lost and my bladder was full and that's why I was hopping around the droid, not because I was searching for the soft reset circuit. Doesn't take much to look like an idiot. He paid me no mind, and I now possess all data from this fiscal quarter on all activity within the route and the run. I also made 16cc/hour for an eight hour shift I worked the entirety of so's to not arouse suspicion.

I left my work shift with the other staff and smoked a blue cigarillo on the banks of Historic Byron Square. Everything was prepared to the letter of instruction; I was to have my work tunic unfastened, a smudge of white on the tip of my black right boot, and the blue cigarillo. The white was the hardest part to comprehend, but of course the cake they served at the office function had white icing. I was to stand between Docking Bay 7 and 8 and face the water. From across the bank a streetlight was deactivated. This was my cue to move on. I entered a bodega nearby, exiting the back of the cruddy establishment through a hinged shelf that emptied into a rural alleyway. It teemed with overgrowth. Must have been a landmark, like the rest of this city. Puffing on the cigarillo, I stood between the four skeleton trees on a sewer grate. Under the canopy of plantlike, no one was able to see the sewer grate lower me down to a near-empty bar with wall to wall blue curtain. A voluptuous Pa'lowick , backed by a three piece jazz band, sang to a seven-foot Muun sitting in a small black chair. The floor was tiled in black and white and from the folds of blue emerged a dapper Ugnaught, his entire body grooving to the jazz. He held out an open hand, and I handed him the datastick. In return, he handed me a mini recorder. I activated it, and he spoke in a language that I did not understand. As he walked backwards into the curtains, continuing to dance, it occurred to me that the message was also backwards. I'd decoded this at the ship later, because the next thing I remember is waking up in the GAT-12. There's no recollection on my part re: leaving the Blue room. I came to in my bunk, the ship on autopilot enroute to Tattooine. According to the little blue man, I was needed for recon in the outskirts of Mos Espa. Ah, Tattooine. All routes led to that damn rock. Will follow up my transmissions then. I miss my ship and crew, but looking forward to the next adventure. Hopefully some familiar faces will come along.

Bexel out.

[Jak Bexel]

OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

Mission: Provide maintenance for notable locations within the Blue Star Pirates' shadow network.
Operative: Captain Jak Bexel of the Nightshade Clan

Tattooine

07:00 -- Touched down in Mos Espa more or less as a formality. The Docking Bay I landed the GAT-12 in was dilapidated and riddled with what I thought were scavengers, until they relayed the message I was sent by the Ugnaught From Another Place. They proceeded to raid the Blastboat and guided me unto the neighboring bay. Must have been carrying some important goods - or I was being raided by Jawas. Much to my surprise, The Nice Jacket and my crew were situated there. Ellem, my balldroid, greeted me first - because she is a droid that understands the complicated algorithms of love and companionship. Stretch waved me over to his work hovel he'd set up outside the ship. He looked amused. According to the little fella, those scavengers have given him pieces to a droid husk. Nothing inside, but all uniform pieces. When I asked him what we were doing with them, he told me the plan; they weren't doing anything with it. I was doing something with it.

08:50 -- Took some doing, but I am sending this communique through the head of a white CZ droid as I wander the outskirts of Mos Espa. I am following a set of coordinates aided by modifications inside the skull of this droid. This thing is so damn cramped. The saving grace being the protruding mask and abdomen, but even then I am sweating buckets inside this thing. Pretty sure the body glove I'm wearing is already leaking sweat through the foot holes. Dry heat my ass. I have twice been propositioned for labor by craggy-faced lowlives. Not sure if a restraining bolt would kill me or stun me, much less work, so we'll see if I can defend myself in the event of trouble with these flat scans.


13:47 -- Still unsure about restraining bolts, but ion blasters still worked on me. I can still feel the fillings of my teeth buzz. The set coordinates led me down an alley - always an alley - to the entrance of a junkyard. That's where they stopped, and so too did my consciousness for at least three hours. I was sitting inside a Sandcrawler - a good bit cooler than the outside world - amidst the wreckage of unconditional service. Trapped inside the cannibalized remains of a rare series of droids whose face resembles a dead Sith Lord. Then my target's coordinates reset. The next stage was inside the belly of this repurposed steel beast. I followed the signal down a corridor - turns out restraining bolts don't work on humans - and at the end of said corridor, happened upon a... card game? All manner of shady characters dealing in. Naturally it would have been impossible for me to remain hidden, being an escaped droid onboard a transport known for enslaving said droids. I was backing away from the door when I felt a hand grip me; a fellow with a blue star tattoo in his eye. He used me for the next round. The room lit up with recognition of my "value".

13:50 Well now I belong to the Hutts. Bexel out.