Rimma City

Devlin downed another shot of whiskey, twirling his 434 blaster around his index finger. The moment he slammed the shot glass down he holstered his blaster. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve Devlin looked around. The whole bar was quiet, at least for now. Most everyone was at the factories. Devlin smirked to himself.

"Hey, barkeep. Another round on me. Literally, if I don't get drunk enough to start spilling the sauce on me you'll be next."

The bartender grunted and shook his head at the customer. After another couple of shots Devlin was still sitting straight. The bartender could not believe the man was still straight faced and not drooling on the curb. It was at that moment of utter confusion that several men that looked like mercenaries walked in.

-Mercenary-
"Commander, we have another family that doesn't want to budge. Could use your help."

Devlin slammed down on another shot and smiled.

"Damn, I love my job."

Devlin stood up, a tad bit wobbly at first, before he steadied himself and walked out of the cantina and into the city, following the mercs.

"Let's party boys. After we shake these squatters down, let's get some drinks."

The Mercenaries looked at one another in shock. They had seen the amount of empty glasses at the bar in front of Devlin, and even they could not believe he still wanted more.

As Mirian piloted the Serene Moondancer into the main port of Rimma City, she gave herself a quick tour of the sights of the place. Being a native Corellian, she prefered cities and a concrete jungle, even though she held an appreciation for nature, and enjoyed visits to planets like Alderaan or Dantooine, but nothing could beat central air-conditioning. At the primary trade port, she found to her delight, that she was assigned to Docking Bay 13. Her favourite number.

"Don't know why people can be so superstitious." She said to herself out loud, "But I think thirteen is a lucky number."

When she landed and powered down her cruiser, the rear auxilary support crank burst loudly and fell apart, cracking a nearby reflective glass.

Having heard the explosion, Mirian unstrapped herself quickly and dashed for the engine room. "Oh come on! I just fixed that!" She ducked under a step ladder as she went by, and was soon in the engine room, staring at a support crank...well, what was once a support crank. Now it was just bits of metal, wire, and utter junk. She slapped her palms over her face. "Blast it! Now I need to get another spare!"

The sound of a soft, patient chime, reminded her that there would be people coming over, eager to receive her haul of food and medical supplies. So, with a frustrated sigh, she left the room to attend to the officials and port loader droids. Opening her cargo holds, she went over the list of things that she had to offload, and was getting paid for. Ten tons of spiced Gizka jerkies, fifty tons of mixed consumables (Multispecies Friendly), twenty tons of Alderaanian butter, and the list went on, consisting mostly of food. She received a fairly good sum for the delivery, and then she examined the two small crates left in her cargo hold. The Shento cigars.

It wasa special request delivery. She picked up one of the boxes and looked at the name written on it: Devlin Lyons.

"Dandy..." she looked about, for a data terminal.

Having located one such open terminal, after securing her ship and paying for a parking fee, Mirian began the task of tracking down one man in a planet with a population of forty million, of which ninety percent of them were human. Having gotten a rough lead on the whereabouts of one Devlin Lyons, she then pulled out her 9000 Z001 landspeeder, loaded it up with the crates, and began a slow trek across the city.




The journey brought her to some places she generally did not frequent. If she had to stay in the city, she would pick the brightly lit places and cleanest looking hotels. Not necessarily the most expenssive, but at least maintained a level of hygiene that had shiny clean walls. And gardens. She liked gardens. The cantina was a place she prefered to avoid. Young lady, alone, and a place frequented by mostly men, hands tended to get a little too free for her liking, assuming she'd be okay with it. Unfortunately, it seemed like her buying customer frequented such places, and she'd already gone through three of them, before being guided to the latest one where Devlin (hopefully) was.

Locking her speeder up, with the cargo, she adjusted her coat and vest, making sure that her blaster was set and ready to be drawn in haste if necessary, and her lightsaber ready, but well out of sight until absolutely needed. She stepped into the cantina. A few patrons glanced over at her as she walked in. Despite the scar on her left cheek, and the rugged looks of her attire, her young features and clean,long hair still made her stand out. She was dressed rather modestly, with a suggestion of mild readiness for anything, considering that her front was covered in a light duraplate armor, and half-plates covered her thighs, knees and possibly shins, under the long boots. She crossed the path, idly swatting a hand that made an attempt to grope her behind, and leaned over to the bartender, asking if he knows a Devlin Lyons.

She ordered a drink, something non-alcoholic, and turned to quietly scan the bar. She reached reluctantly into the Force, and began to Feel her way around the minds of the people. She was hoping someone would be thinking about Shento cigars, maybe she'd find this Devlin on her own then, if the bartender doesn't know who the man is. But bartenders usually knew people, especially frequent customers, and she thought she detected a hint of recognition when she told the portly man of the name. He'd given her an appraising look, and seemed more agreeable to help once she ordered a drink to go. However, when the steaming, sizzling drink came back to her, glowing in a bright purple colour, Mirian flicked gently at the glass with a finger, letting some liquid spill on the bar counter, and her eyes widened as it steamed up more. He expected her to drink that?

Heck no! She wanted to live until she was a hundred years old, at least.

Mirian's eye twitched nervously at the bubbling drink. She gently tapped it again with her finger, and she had completely stopped using the Force, not trusting in it at all, so there was no point using it anymore, and then she wasn't sure what in the universe could possibly withstand this drink. Was the bartender trying to kill her? Then she noticed the portly man doing a ganuflect and seemingly praying. Huh, she never took him for the religious type, but really, who knew anymore these days, right? Wait...why was he praying??? Hmm, perhaps someone scary came in? She hoped it wasn't who she was supposed to find.



Boink

Ironic.

She turned to look over at the man. Oh great. She was pretty sure he was Devlin Lyons. And she didn't even need the Force to tell her that. Because for some odd reason, she just had the feeling he should be having a lit cigar in his mouth at all times, which at this point in time, he lacked.

Figures.

She turned away from him to look down at her drink once more, and wrinkled her nose. It looked like turbine fuel or something, and smelled almost like it too. She heard the man chuckling, but didn't respond just yet.



Really now?

Pass.

Mirian gently and subtly pushed the drink over to a Gamorrean sitting next to her. Already inebriated, the alien was unlikely to know the difference of yet another drink in his path. Though she wondered if even someone as strong as a Gamorrean could withstand that drink. She paid for the drink too. The Gamorrean and bartender should be happy. In the span of time she'd taken to do that, she turned to look at the man she suspected to be Devlin Lyons, and watched as he drank Corellian ale after Corellian ale in rapid succession, her eyes getting wider the more he drank. By jove, the bartender was barely keeping up. And he was building a pyramid of mugs.



Blink, blink.

Yup, had to be him. She wondered if he was Corellian too. Not that it'd matter. She had a disguised Coruscanti accent that she frequently practiced for infiltration missions back in her Jedi days, so most Corellians assumed she was Coruscanti from the way she spoke. But there were times when she'd fall back to typical Corellian slang and accents. She swallowed, and shuffled around towards the man, and said in a soft, gentle voice, "Devlin Lyons?"

Why did she feel like she was gambling with death? And why was the hair on the back of her neck rising up? Oh...she'd used the Force just now. Bad things happen when she uses the Force. Well, here's hoping for the best of the worst.

Grife he's fast!

One second he's building...something, out of his pyramid of cups, and the next, there's an honest-to-goodness blaster squared right between her eyes faster than she can squeak, and she's a pretty quick squeaker.

Try saying that real fast.

Her royal blue eyes came together to try and stare down the barrel of the blaster aimed at her head, and her hands, which she wasn't aware had gone up so quickly in an act of surrender, slowly lowered after he finally concluded a random ramble, and apologized, thinking she was a local.

She cast a quick glance around her, and from the fact that no one tried to do anything for or against told her a lot of things. For one, he's a big timer. Most likely, if he decided to shoot her, no one would have done anything. More likely, the whole patronship would have gone into hiding. Just her luck. Fussing with the hem of her tunic, she fixed Devlin with those intense blue eyes and jerked her thumb at herself, somehow managing not to look like she needed to change her pants.

"Mirian Santiro, private legal courier and transporter." She said, "I believe you requested for a shipment of Shento cigars? I have them in my vehicle outside. Would you like me to bring them to you?"

Her pseudo-Coruscanti accent came out strongly, during times of panic.

Mirian politely accepted the offered hand. She picked up the distinct sound of a servomotor. So he had a mechanical prosthetic. A man with scars and losses. Her touch was light, soft, and quick. She withdrew her hand as soon as the minimal requirement of a handshake was concluded. She was still afraid of him, and wary. When he spoke, she replied with, "Of course, Mister Lyons." Her accent still strongly reflective of a Coruscanti.

Mirian smiled at Devlin's gentlemanly behavior, and resisted grimacing when the bartender audibly scoffed at the man's gesture. Yup, Devlin was staring murder at the poor bartender. Right around that time the Gamorrean finally lifted the glowing purple drink to his lips and downed it in one pull. He stumbled out of his chair immediately, emitting a high-pitched gurgling squeal as the drink quite possibly melted right through his internal organs. After a brief drunken dance, the Gamorrean straightened up, and fell stiffly backwards into the table of two other patrons, sending their drinks and food flying everywhere.

"You see?" One of them yelled in annoyance, "I told ya them drinks are too strong 'round 'ere!"

"Yeah, good point." The other agreed. "Guess I'll quit drinking and start smoking Shento cigars...wait...why Shento cigars??? What are those anyway? How'd I know about them?"

Panicked, Mirian all but bodily launched herself out of the bar after the scene played itself out, having concluded that she'd done more than enough damage for one day.

"H-huh?" Mirian said. "Oh...I'm...kinda new. I haven't really been doing this for very long yet, so I don't know."

She thought about the question a bit more, and then answered honestly, in a more Corellian accent, "I suppose if it would save lives to do what might be deemed as 'illegal', then yeah, I'd totally do it."

They reached Mirian's landspeeder, and she unlocked it by pressing a small button in the palm of her hand. The vehicle chirped twice, lights flashing in timing to the chirps, and it unlocked. Mirian took out the two small crates and offered it to Devlin.

"Here you go, Mister Lyons." She said. "That'll be two hundred credits for each crate, a hundred-and-fifty for the delivery, one hundred for hazard payments, oh, and a hundred credits for new clothes."

Gravel ground beneath his boots as the man stepped out of his unmarked speeder, his golden eyes sweeping the scene before him. It was cordoned off by thick red crime scene tape, and a dozen officers were manning the barricades further out to keep the civilians in check. Sometimes he wondered what they were hoping to see. The only thing here was a dead body, and he couldn't figure out why anyone would want to see that. He inhaled deeply, taking a long drag on the deathstick between his lips, then began crunching his way across the gravel to where the body lay, both hands in his pockets and hidden from sight though the cybernetics on his face were still plainly evident.

The rookie investigator on the scene rounded on him, face set and ready to chew out whoever it was that wasn't doing their job, but when his eyes fell on the golden orbs of the approaching man he swallowed whatever he was going to say, rapidly amending it before finally speaking.

"Uh... Hi. Err, hello Sir. I wasn't expecting to see you down here."

The man all but ignored him and instead stooped to regard the body.

"The office was getting boring."

The victim was twi'lek, male, and in his early thirties by the look of him. Three blaster wounds to the chest, the first two seemingly random, neither hitting any vital marks. It was the third that drew his attention though, burning a hole through the victim's ribcage and dead center in his heart. Whoever did this was either a professional trying to cover their tracks with two sloppy shots after the fact, or very lucky. The size of the burns meant a heavy pistol or light rifle, and that narrowed it down to just about everyone that owned a gun on the entire planet. Murder weapon wasn't going to be much help unless they could get a particle signature match, and for that they'd need access to the weapon itself. Dead end.

He pulled his left hand free of his pocket and lifted gently on the victim's shoulder to check his back. No exit burns. That meant a heavy pistol. The rookie watched as he moved, eyeing the metal hand with a small hint of awe. He'd never seen anyone get a prosthetic and then not cover it with synthflesh, but he'd heard the commander had lost all four limbs in an op that went terribly wrong, then had them replaced with what amounted to an arsenal of concealed weapons. When the commander pulled his other hand free of his pocket to pick something up, the second flat black appendage made him begin to wonder if the rumors weren't true.

"Get this processed into evidence."

The rookie shook himself out of his wonderings and pulled an evidence bag from his pocket, then took the small piece of flimsi with a gloved hand, trying not to hesitate at getting so close to touching those black metal fingers. He couldn't say why, but the idea of something so dead being grafted onto something living then left bare like that just creeped him out. That and the fact that there was probably half a dozen ways to die in that one hand alone. The least a guy could do is make it look normal.

"Where are the other two?"

The rookie paused, shooting a questioning glance at the commander.

"Other two, Sir?"

The commander let out an annoyed sigh.

"Yes, other two. There were two survivors, though I think it's pretty clear from your face that you never found them." The commander stood, then pointed a finger down the alley, away from the crowd. "Two sets of tracks heading away from the scene, running from the looks of them. Too small for a man, so its either women or kids. I'd guess women from the length of the strides." Thank the force that this section of the outskirts hadn't had its alleys paved yet. "There's a third set too, but a man's and moving slower." Like a predator stalking its prey. "This wasn't just a murder. Check in with Ryloth's database of citizens when you get back to the station, find out if this man had any relatives. That ID I just gave you should help. This just became a missing persons case. We're looking for two humanoid females or children, most likely twi'lek, gone missing in the last..." He looked down at the body again, as if reading something no one else could see. "...five hours."

The rookie looked first at the piece of flimsi, which was indeed an ID of some kind, then at the commander, then back at the piece of flimsi, then back at the commander. How the hell had he put all that together? He'd only been at the scene for fifty seconds. No wonder he was the boss. When he didn't start moving immediately, the commander all but glared at him with those unsettling golden eyes.

"Get moving, Rookie. You're on the clock. If you don't find them in seven hours, you never will." Things moved fast in the slave trade. Especially young, pretty things.

Monroe always knew he hated the government office buildings, but he never seemed to realize just how deep that hatred ran until he was leaving them and this intense feeling of palpable relief washed over him. thank the force Officer Rookie had such good timing.

When he pulled into the warehouse district twenty minutes later, there was no sign of any law enforcement presence in the vicinity, which meant Rookie had decided to keep this quiet for the time being. There may be hope for the kid after all. The address he'd been given was located deeper inside the warehouse district than he'd ever had reason to go before, but he had a good head for directions and found it easily enough. The building itself looked just as nondescript as any of the others, but there were three unmarked cruisers and a larger transport parked out front. Monroe pulled up and slowed to a stop, then stepped out to be greeted by Officer Rookie.

"You were right, sir! He was traveling with his two younger sisters, trying to escape the slavers on Ryloth. Apparently the women had been indentured to a hutt, but he broke them free before they could be shipped off and then ran here. I guess their old owner wanted them back pretty badly."

"Good work. How'd you get here from the alley?"

"Oh, I just took the one-fifteen over to park street, then..."

"Not your route, Rookie, the investigation." Annoyance was plain in the commander's voice.

"Oh... Right. Sorry Sir." The investigator's cheeks turned bright red with embarrassment. "We followed the tracks until the perp caught up with the vic's, then looked over surveillance of the area to find any vehicles that were coming or going around the time you said he was shot. There's not much traffic in that part of town, so we only found one. It was stolen, but we managed to patch together a route with other surveillance around the city, which took us to the warehouse district before we lost it."

"And this particular warehouse?"

"Good old-fashioned legwork. We had an idea of the area, so I had officers start canvassing. One of them spotted our vehicle driving out. We pulled it over, but the only occupant was a droid pilot with a wiped memory core."

"Good work, Detective. Have you been inside yet?"

"Yes Sir." His eyes turned down, as if he was ashamed of something. "It's empty. There's still outlines of dust from recently moved crates, and fresh scorching from starship engines on the hangar side. He looked back up, jaw set and eyes burning. "We just missed them, Commander. Twenty minutes earlier and we'd have had them. I can't find any more leads, they've wiped the place too clean, but I was hoping you might see something I didn't."

Monroe recognized the determined desperation in the young man's face, that desire to right a wrong that you knew was beyond your power to fix. He wanted desperately to find some lead that would let them track the slavers off-planet, find the ship and save the girls, but Monroe knew it was a futile effort. Even so, he put a cold metal hand on the detective's shoulder and nodded. "I'll see what I can come up with."

---------------------------------------------

He exited the warehouse twenty minutes later and shook his head at the detective's hopeful look before stepping back into his speeder and sighing heavily. There had been nothing left to find, even for his observational skills. Except... He pulled his right hand free of his pocket, holding a small brown object between two of his fingers as he held it up to look at it. The butt of a shento cigar. On its own, it wasn't enough evidence to even make an arrest, much less get a conviction, but there was only one man Monroe knew who favored that type of cigar, and he'd been suspect number one in half the cases that had crossed his desk lately. An enforcer by the name of Devlin Lyons. Maybe it was time to pay him a visit. Off the books, of course. Couldn't have any of this becoming common knowledge yet. Not until he had a case against the man.

"Oh, of course, Miste...uh...Devlin..." Mirian said, and smiled easily at him, the lightsaber scar on her left cheek causing one half of her smile to look weird.


Mirian gave Devlin a knowing smile as he protested over the pricing of her service and delivery. "Hey, don't even act like I'm overcharging you." She said, "I know for a fact that I'm charging you the bare minimum of transportation and the stock prices, and even shaving off taxation and service fees. And the new clothes was the only extra I added because of your stunt back inside there - pulling a gun unprovoked on me - which resulted in me requiring a wardrobe change as soon as possible."

She took out a credit converter and storeshop, accepted the offered credit chit from Devlin and pulled the handle over it, making a loud 'Click-clatch!' as it contained the funds safely away for Mirian.



Mirian arched an eyebrow at how fast the man was already smoking one of the prized cigars. Man loves his stuff. She thought wryly to herself, and then looked up from her calculating cost-effectiveness and how much losses she was actually suffering for her generosity to Devlin when he proposed a steady business stream with him, and over dinner.

Ever get those bad feelings like just about every sentient featured in epic events? Mirian wasn't sure whether she was getting such a feeling, or if she was just that clueless. She scratched idly on the scar on her cheek with a twitchy left hand, before lowering both her hands and looking at Devlin as steadily as possible, giving a neutral smile.

"I assume you're going to want me to bring in more cigars?" She asked. "'cause the way you're already working on the cigar, I'd wager you're going to be out before the second week. Sooner if you work more than ten a week."

She smiled warmly, "It's a yes to dinner, though, could use a meal that's not burnt black by these hands." She raised up her hands and waved them about.

While she maintained a friendly front, Mirian wondered about the whole offer, and Devlin's precise choice of words. She slowly worked through it all. Was it possible he had motives beyond just discussing business? After all, he could just as easily talk about it right now, while she was here. And a quiet dinner? Well, yes, she would be more than happy to enjoy a meal she didn't wreck in the galley, which was more often than not. But didn't men generally take out a girl they liked to quiet dinners? Did Devlin fancy her? What in the universe did he find fascinating about her? She was just a transporter? Now she's overthinking it, and staring like a loon at him.

Awkward.

More thoughts poured into her head, beyond the dinner invitation now. Now she was thinking about the man, and everything she'd seen thus far. She couldn't find much information beyond his name and rough whereabouts, while searching for him. People were keeping information about him under lock and key. Which meant some bigwigs were paying top dollar for him, and if his mechanical limb(s) were anything to go by, she reckoned he wasn't hired for his way with words. And the speed in which he pulled out that blaster and levelled it at her head, he was very experienced with such actions and situations obviously. Furthermore, there was his weapon type itself. From what she'd know about such weapons, they were favored by mercenaries, bounty hunters, gunfighters, those kinds of people. Couple all this facts with his scarred features that she could see, and she could surmise he was some sort of fighter, possibly for hire. Guys like him get around.

Still, something else nagged at her, from back inside the bar. When he came in, he'd said he'd had a wonderful day at work, and now wanted to get wasted. Sarcasm? Genuine eccentricity? Who knew?

And then when he drew on her, he'd commented about it's not his fault if her presumed family hadn't signed something, and that he was only doing his job. Was he some sort of enforcer? Despite his relative pleasant nature, perhaps there was more on his mind than this, and perhaps there was still a great deal she wasn't quite seeing.

She was tempted to use the Force once more, to try delving into the surface thoughts at least. But considering what happened the last time she did that, and the negative effects she always had from using her powers, she decided against it. The last thing she wanted was to give Devlin a case of bad luck because of her. Not that she's supposed to believe in luck, but when everything starts working against you and everyone else in the nearby vicinity, what else do you call it?

"Hey..." she started distractedly, "Just now, inside the bar...when you uh, drew your gun on me, what you said..." she studied him innocently with her royal blue eyes, "...having trouble with the locals? I mean, are you...okay? Like, well I know it's none of my business, but is life hard out here? Sorry, I'm just curious, because I am thinking of setting up a steady business stream here, and it'd be great to know more about Vandelhelm and all that."



Meanwhile, back at the Rimma City Capital Spaceport, the shattered and broken support crank in the Serene Moondancer was removed by the service droids per Mirian's request, and the debris was stored in a container on a automated hauler vehicle. Around the time that Mirian used the Force to search for Devlin, the hauler vehicle met with a traffic accident and it toppled over, with the container hurling its contents for over a hundred yards. Much of the remains of the support crank fell into the house of a small family, where the head of the house, a certain human named Yarro Oster was struggling to restore the power generator, which provided power and energy to the entire residence he and his family stay in. People depended on the power supply to maintain their homes.

"This would be so much easier if I just had the right parts!" He said to his sons, who watched helplessly as he struggled. "Blast it! I can't fix this without some essentials! If only..."

The sound of metal and various junk crashing right down the stairway into their home drew the attention of Yarro to it, and he gingerly picked up the support crank and its parts.

"By the Force..." he whispered, "This looks just right!"

He rushed over to power generator. Using his tools, he began to fuse the parts to the generator, giving it structural strength, and he called his wife over. "I really don't know where it came from, but it's...it's a miracle. It fits perfectly! Come on kids, let's see if it turns on."

He flicked the switch of the generator on, and at first, nothing happened. Everyone lowered their heads, and then with a sputter, a chug, and a short burst, the generator hummed to life. Yarro smiled, his wife happily hugging him from behind, and the boys threw their fists into the air, cheering loudly. "It's working! It's working!"

Soon, lights began to turn on again across several homes. Meanwhile, the hauler was righted with the help of city maintenance and clearance droids, and went on its way to the junkyard, unaware of some of its lost cargo, which was a big help to several families.