Cap’hane took a deep breath as she entered the cantina. The floor was slightly depressed, adding a few crucial inches to the ceiling to make it feel a little bigger. Benches and tables crowded the outside of the main room, with several small booths beside the odd window. The center of the cantina was left open for dancers and any other performers, with the drinks bar located in the back.
Several heads turned her way for a moment, and then back to their drinks. An IG unit was slumped in the corner, long deactivated. Two Rodian whispered to each other in hushed tones, guns at the ready, and a trio of humanoids sat over in one corner, clearly drunk to the point of passing out. The right side of the cantina was bustling, a small crowd of Pikes muttering about who knew what. A tall white Wookie with startlingly pale fur nursed a massive tankard of something sludgy. All in all, a rather smelly group of people.
She headed straight for the drinks bar, well aware of how out-of-place she was here. The bartender was a Duros, an intimidating figure with a disproportionately bored expression. He was washing a relatively clean glass cup.
He looked up as Cap’hane approached, something like interest lighting his crimson eyes up. “You here for a drink?”
Or something else, the unasked question prodded. She recognized it immediately, but there were protocols to asking for information. She knew how this game went.
Taking a seat on one of the stools and ignoring the somewhat grimy texture, she replied, “I’ll take something light. I’ve got things to do.”
He raised an eyebrow as he brushed a finger over nozzles and faucets, mixing small amounts in a different cup. He was quick with his fingers, nimbly selecting the appropriate liquids and powders as he spoke. “In a rush, I get you. What sort of things are you getting up to?”
Cap’hane reached out for the drink as he set it in front of her, a multicolored glass of alcohol and who knew what else. She downed it one go and was startled to find that it actually tasted pretty good. Much better than she’d been expecting, that was for sure.
The question did not go unnoticed. “I’m heading up to the starship hub to try and get a droid repaired. Hopefully they can figure out what it is while I’m there.”
The Duros glanced meaningfully at the back of the tavern, clearly looking at the Rodians. “Good to know. Now I’m not one to point fingers, but if you want to talk droids, those two are the ones to talk with. They’ve been selling parts around here for quite a while.”
Cap’hane gave him a smile. “Thanks for the advice.”
With that, she paid for the drink and left a tip. People like him loved their drama. Anything he could do to garner interest or mystery would be done without second thought, and if that something happened to follow along with what Cap’hane wanted, who was she to discourage him?
Besides, it really had been a good drink.
The pair of Rodians noticed her coming and tensed, bumpy hands moving to their blasters, and she defensively raised her hands. “I heard you can help me with a droid. I don’t know what kind of unit it is, but it’s big, smart and dangerous.”
They glanced at each other, then to Cap’hane. “Take a seat,” one of them said, clearly interested.
She slid in, carefully observing both of them. They were both male and not heavily armed. Their light clothing was in good condition, without any patches or holes, and they wore high-quality shoes. Their blasters were greased and oiled, well cared for by their owners, and a sizeable bag sat in the back corner of the booth, securely fastened shut.
All in all, it formed a satisfying picture in her eyes. They were looking for work, but not desperate for it. They knew what their job was and they knew how to do it well enough to get paid for it. Hardly wealthy, but far from poor. In other words, a reliable enough pair of droid scavengers.
“So what are you talking to us for?” The left one asked, his tone loaded with suspicion.
“I want you to identify it and tell me if it’s going to be a problem for me,” Cap’hane flatly stated. “I’ve never seen a droid anything like it. At first I thought it was some sort of prototype ship.”
They glanced at each other, and the other one leaned forward with interest. “Just how big is this thing?”
She paused. “Hard to say for sure. Maybe a hundred and thirty glekks?”
The Rodians gave each other a meaningful look, and then turned back to Cap’hane. “If I’m right, that’s… what, fourty feet tall? That’s a very very large droid, if so.”
“Hence the need for help.”
“Wait,” the one on the right interjected, leaning forward. “How many legs does it have?”
“Four. It changes to a sort of X-Wing layout when it flies.”
Alarm flashed across both faces, and the left Rodian almost stood. “You’re saying it-”
An almighty WHAM shook the cantina as the door was struck with something big, and everyone present shot to their feet. A moment later, the door slid open with a pained wheeze. Zeh’tocu stood behind it, looking much less scared than the impact implied. Behind him, the giant elliptical head of the droid lowered into view, its slitted red eyes devoid of emotion.
“Mom, it’s been five minutes!”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The Vulture flatly stared at the Twi’lek woman as she backed out of the cantina, profusely apologizing to everyone inside. Zeh’tocu seemed nervous of the two Rodians accompanying his mother, which it found mildly amusing. It was almost impossible to personally perceive them as a threat.
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She turned to glare up at the Vulture. “I said no trouble!”
“Mom, it waited five minutes!” Zeh’tocu interjected, pleasantly quick to defend the Vulture. “You said you’d go in for five minutes. We got nervous!”
That was decidedly incorrect, and the Vulture lifted its left leg in disagreement. Both of the Rodians immediately went for their blasters. The Vulture was hardly concerned for its own safety, but its work force was suddenly in potential danger and it reacted accordingly.
Shifting the motion of its limb, it primed the blasters built into its tip and aimed it directly at the newcomers, balancing on three legs. Their weapons shot to attention, barrels lined up with the Vulture’s eyes.
The traffic around the odd group, which had been strained to say the least beforehand, instantly diverted away from them. There was a pleasant lack of screaming from the various races who had been tentatively observing the situation only seconds before. The Vulture had been fully prepared for screaming.
One of the Rodians scowled at the Twi’lek woman, eyes wide. “That’s a Vulture droid! Where in gfersh did you find one of these!?”
“I didn’t find it!” She complained. “It just showed up!”
“Turn it off!”
“You think I wouldn’t have done that if I knew how to!?”
“HEY!”
All eyes turned to Zeh’tocu, who seemed infinitely less worried about the number of primed blasters around him than everyone else. Instead of focusing on the bared weapons, he turned his attention to one of the Rodians. “It’s called a Vulture?”
His target froze, his eyes flicking from the boy to the giant droid. “Yeah, they were used by-”
“Cool, thanks!” Looking up at the Vulture, Zeh’tocu beamed. “I’m gonna call you Vulty!”
“We’re not calling it Vulty.” The Twi’lek woman firmly stated. “Come over here, we need to have a quick talk, alright?”
Zeh’tocu shrugged. “Okay.”
Both Twi’leks walked a short distance away, and the Twi’lek woman knelt as she began whispering to him. The Rodians slowly lowered their blasters, and the Vulture imitated them in turn. They were no longer a threat to the work force.
Crisis averted, they began walking around the Vulture, interest tinting their expressions.
“This one’s in bad shape.”
“Yeah, but look at the base of the head. That’s not standard issue wiring. It could be a refurbished model.”
“True, but there’s a lot of rust. How old do you think it is?”
The other Rodian made a noncommittal noise, raising his eyes to the Vulture. “Can you communicate?”
They were presumably unaware of the Twi’leks’ unusual method of confirmation or denial, and so in lieu of raising either leg, the Vulture bobbed its head in acknowledgement. They both seemed to like that quite a bit, moving to one side to converse with each other in hushed tones.
Naturally, the Vulture ignored them. It didn’t care in the slightest what they chose to do with their free time, provided they were willing to come back and assist with the base construction efforts. And if they weren’t willing, well, they would come around eventually.
Instead, it raised its primary chassis, peering above the roofs of the buildings surrounding it. The starship port piqued its interest. Ordinarily, if it required repairs it would simply return to the factory and wait for production to get to it, but it lacked both a factory and the appropriate manpower to create one. A port of that size, albeit small, would most likely have the tools needed to fix it up.
Which wasn’t to say it was in bad condition. The Vulture considered its own design to be on par with perfection, especially after the modifications it’d been given during reconstruction. Besides, the plans of its creators were certainly the masterpieces of artisans, works of-
The Vulture paused.
Something had seemed… off, somehow, about its thoughts only a moment ago. As if a memory had slotted into place and then departed. Unfortunately, the greatest trouble with forgetting was that you could never remember what it was that you’d forgotten, only that you had forgotten something.
It was frankly infuriating.
Zeh’tocu and his mother returned from their conversation. It hadn’t gone very well, based on Zeh’tocu’s downtrodden expression.
Negative emotion was bad for morale, and bad morale was bad for production, hygiene, and overall mental and physical health. Perhaps that logic was a bit flawed in some places, but it was functional enough for the Vulture.
Before it could come up with an adequate solution to resolve the issue, the Rodians came back. They looked rather excited. “Alright, miss. We’ll take it. How does four thousand sound?”
Cap’hane blinked. “Credits?”
“Of course!” The other enthused. “It’s an antique droid in reasonably good condition, and best of all it isn’t rampaging about murdering everything that moves! The only real problem is the Separatist programming. They knew what they were doing in terms of mass production, but… their code doesn’t hold up well, to say the least.”
Its own sale notwithstanding, the Vulture was seriously considering taking offense at the borderline blasphemy spewing from this idiot’s mouth, but it was forestalled by Zeh’tocu’s protest.
“Mom, we can’t sell it!”
She gave the Rodian’s a stale smile before looking down to her son. “Zeh’tocu, it’s a lot of-”
“No, you don’t get it!”
Zeh’tocu seemed to have realized something which put him in a better mood, if the smile lighting his face up was anything to go by. The Vulture found itself immensely relieved it wouldn’t have to do anything to alleviate the low point - it hadn’t been certain it could have done anything, if it was being honest with itself.
He kept going, the grin widening. “We don’t own Vulty!”
The Rodians stared sharply at the Twi’lek woman. “What?”
She backed away defensively. “It’s been doing everything we asked it to! I assumed it… I don’t know, imprinted or something.”
Their hands began inching for their blasters again, stances radiating anxiety. Zeh’tocu still looked incredibly pleased with himself, and the Twi’lek woman was getting antsy. The Vulture found it incredibly difficult to care about any of this except for the insults.
“HEY!”
All eyes, organic and otherwise, turned to the source of the voice. A fourth party had entered the mix, a Nautolan with a fascinating cocktail of pain and anger in her eyes. “Which idiot owns the giant droid?”
The Vulture decided (with shocking speed, all things considered) to seize control of the situation, and raised one leg. The Nautolan blinked. “Okay, didn’t see that coming. You got a wallet, droid?”
One of the Rodians took a step forward. “I’m sorry, do-”
“Shut up,” the newcomer off-handedly told him, and returned her attention to the Vulture. “Yes or no?”
The Vulture lifted its other leg in denial. The Twi’lek woman began to talk, but didn’t even get a word out before the Nautolan cut in. “If you can’t talk, there’s damage. I’ll fix you right up.”
“Now wait just a-” The other Rodian began.
The Nautolan stared at him. “Do you have a pulse?” She asked blandly.
That threw him off. “Y-yes?”
“Okay,” She thoughtfully replied, and then added, “I don’t care. Droid, follow me.”
With that, she turned around and headed for the starship port. Zeh’tocu folded his arms. “We’re not going anywhere.”
The Vulture was alright with that. The Twi’leks and the Rodians could stay and argue all they wanted without it. It wanted repairs.
So, completely disregarding Zeh’tocu’s statement, it followed the crazy Nautolan.