The walk to Jaruk's cantina was just as awkward as my stroll through town in the new gear. People moved aside, giving me wary glances. None of them would guess I was just as cautious of them as they were of me. After my little Zabrak… altercation, I was ready to leave this dustball behind and look for greener pastures. I had the credits—just needed a ride. Luke and Obi-Wan managed to find one after a single visit in Mos Eisley. Who's to say I can't be just as lucky here in Mos Espa? Then again, there was the Greedo incident. Force, I hope I don't have my own Greedo incident.
I was thankful now for the implanted gun skills—they'd saved my hide back there, feeling as natural as breathing in the moment.
When I finally looked up, there it was: the sign for Jaruk's Cantina. A simple thing, really—like something out of Skyrim. A hanging placard with a retro rocket blasting through stars and just "Jaruk's" beneath it. I nodded once and stepped inside.
The place was semi-busy. A few at the bar, most of the booths occupied. Droid bartenders worked the counter, and the hum of low conversations filled the air. My entrance earned a glance or two, but nothing more. Fine by me.
Trying to look like I belonged, I made my way to the one living worker I spotted: a Besalisk behind the bar at the far end, polishing a glass with what had to be the dirtiest rag in Mos Espa. Part of me recoiled, the other part just accepted it as Tatooine charm.
I took a stool, removed my helmet, and waited.
"Whaddya want?" the Besalisk asked gruffly, not even glancing up.
"I'm looking to get off-world," I said. "Hoping you could point me toward someone reliable."
"I dunno. Not paid to point at things—no matter how many arms I got."
That earned a small smile. I slid a chit across the bar. It vanished fast.
"Yeah, that helps. Where you lookin' to go? And you gonna buy something, or just sit there?" His eyes fixed hard on me.
I sighed, added another chit to the counter, and before I could order, a green drink was shoved in front of me. Opaque, faintly fruity, definitely alcoholic. I took a sip—surprisingly good. I nodded thanks.
"I'm looking coreward. Coruscant, if possible."
He snorted. "Ain't nobody runnin' straight there, kid. Not from here. Best you'll get is in that direction—north to Lantilles, then west along the Perlemian Trade Route."
I leaned forward slightly. "Anyone reliable? I'd like to be able to sleep without worrying about spice runs or slavers."
"No slavers in Lantilles. Spice maybe, but I can steer you clear. There's a guy named Creeol, lookin' to head that way soon. Probably stop in here later. Won't turn down extra credits."
That was promising. I smiled. "Mind if I wait here? I'm hungry too, if you serve food."
"Bah. Long as you're payin', I don't care if you move in. Grab a booth—I'll get ya somethin'." With that, he lumbered into the back.
I exhaled and found myself a booth, trying not to get my hopes up. Maybe this would be as simple as he made it sound. Creeol, Lantilles, then who knows—maybe even my own ship. Coruscant could wait if opportunity was elsewhere.
Then I noticed it. Sitting right on the table, like it had been waiting for me: a bronze card.
I smiled despite myself, glancing around quickly before sliding it into my palm. Of course. Another card, another piece of the puzzle.
'Han shot first.'
'Get info and start your adventure.'
790. Cosmetic Calibration (1.6 Rarity, 0.83% odds)
-Common Ability-
Allows you to change anything about yourself that is purely cosmetic, like the colour of your eyes, the colour of your hair, the shape of your pupils, the colour of your skin, etc.
I smiled. This one was going to be useful—perfect for slipping into places where I didn't belong. Undercover work, sneaking around… maybe even a little personal editing. I couldn't help but picture finding a mirror, doing a few ahem touch-ups. Clear up the skin, deepen the black in my hair, sharpen the blue in my eyes. What? I'm a little vain. Sue me.
With the card absorbed, I leaned back in the booth and turned my attention to my helmet. The thing was sitting on the table, daring me to finally give it the attention it deserved. Up close, I realised it had a filtration system—something the game never made a big deal of, but here it mattered. Now that I thought about it, I hadn't been smelling much of anything all day. Not the worst tech to have on Tatooine, honestly. The armour wasn't exactly rated for a spacewalk, but for what it was? Pretty damn cool. I lost myself in fiddling with clasps, vents, and seals until my food arrived.
And then… well, I had no clue what I was looking at.
On the plate was a slab of meat—steak-shaped, unfamiliar in origin. Hopefully Bantha. Next to it, a mound of mashed vegetables, purple and slightly sad-looking. That was it. No garnish, no flair. Not glamorous, but hey—this was Mos Espa, not fine dining on Naboo. I dug in. The meat was tough, the mash dry, but my stomach welcomed it like a long-lost friend.
When I'd finished, the Besalisk returned to clear the plate. Maybe he was Jaruk, though I wasn't about to test the theory by saying his name aloud. I paid for the meal and asked if he had juice, or at least something non-alcoholic.
That got me a laugh—deep and raspy—and another one of those green drinks slid across the table instead. I sighed, handed over more credits, and accepted my fate.
Before lumbering off, the Besalisk paused.
"I'll send Creeol over to your table when he gets here. The rest is up ta you."
I nodded thanks and settled in. Helmet at my side, drink in hand, I let the minutes tick by. Waiting, watching, sipping.
The wait was… bearable. I suppose. Not much to do except people-watch, which wasn't the worst way to pass the time. High turnover in a place like this—spacers coming and going, wolfing down a meal that wasn't ration paste, washing it down with something strong. Most looked shady, the kind of shady that screamed smuggler, slaver, or "don't ask." Luckily, in my new getup, none of that mattered. I was avoided like the plague. My table stayed blessedly clear.
By the third hour, my patience finally paid off. Creeol arrived.
He was human, though I had to double-check. Gangly as a scarecrow, all elbows and bones, though he carried himself with a thin layer of confidence like he'd been born wearing it. Yellow leather jacket, blue trousers—someone had clearly told him once that colour coordination was optional. He slid into the seat across from me, gave me a wary once-over, and spoke before I could get a word out.
"Jaruk says you're looking for travel to Lantilles? I'm heading that way myself. You, on the other hand, look like you're not going anywhere."
I blinked. "Not sure what you mean by that, but yeah. I want to go coreward, and Lantilles sounds like my best bet. I told Jaruk I was looking for someone reliable. Someone who doesn't dabble in… unsavoury things on the side."
He tilted his head. "Hmm. That's a point in your favour, if what you mean by 'unsavoury' is what I think it is. So tell me—why should I let a man like you aboard my ship? You look like you wouldn't mind taking it off my hands."
"Firstly, you don't need to worry about that," I said evenly. "One, I don't know how to fly. Two, I'm not some heartless killer, no matter what I look like. You do me no harm, and we won't have a problem. So long as you're not moving slaves, I've got no quarrel with you."
That made him pause. His eyes narrowed as he studied me more closely. Then, unexpectedly, his expression softened.
"You mean that, don't you… huh. Nice to see a bounty hunter with a problem with slavery. And morals, no less. Though what kind of bounty hunter doesn't know how to fly?"
I gave him a wry smile. "A not-very-good one, yet. But where are my manners? Name's Jax. You must be Creeol?"
He chuckled, nodded. "Creeol, yeah. Alright, I think I've got your measure. Price is four thousand credits."
I winced. "Any chance you take local currency? I've got the funds, just not in credits."
Creeol sighed. "Normally, I'd take Hutt money, but I'm not planning on coming back to this sector anytime soon. So no."
"Dammit. Do you know anyone who'd exchange it?" I grumbled.
"Yeah, I do. The problem is, he's in Mos Eisley. Works out of the starport there. And I was hoping to be off this rock faster than a Loth-cat. So that's a problem."
"Great." I rubbed my forehead. "What about flying me there, quick stopover? I'll pay an extra two hundred."
Creeol shook his head. "Look, Jax. You seem decent. But landing fees in Mos Eisley aren't cheap. I'm not about to make a round trip just so you can swap some cash. No pay, no transport."
"There has to be someone here in Mos Espa," I muttered, half to him, half to myself. "Maybe Jaruk will know."
Creeol pushed back his chair, rising. "I'm in docking bay Aurek-6. You know the price. If you manage to get the credits, find me there. I'm lifting off tomorrow at 1600. Miss me, and that's on you. Honestly, I wouldn't mind having you aboard—but the rest? That's your problem. Good luck, Jax."
And with that, he walked away, leaving me sitting there with a drink I didn't even want.
I looked toward the bar. Sure enough, Jaruk was back at it—'cleaning' another glass with the same filthy rag.
I looked down at my hands, and there was a bronze card pack. I wasn't quite sure what I had done to earn a card, but I suppose I would find out. I tore it open to read what it was.
'Never tell me the odds!'
'Find a way off world. Times a' ticking'
242.Shadow Cloak (1.3 Rarity, 1.26% odds)
-Common Ability-
Cloak yourself in shadows to make yourself harder to perceive and muffle the sounds you make to enhance your stealth capabilities.
Another gift. Another trick in my bag. Explorer material, right there. Except, with this and my little "feature-changing" talent, I was starting to look less like an explorer and more like a walking stealth kit. I shook my head. Another experiment for later. Right now, I needed Jaruk's help. Currency exchange. Easy, right?
…apparently not.
According to Jaruk, nobody stuck around Mos Espa long enough to care. Most spacers just dropped their goods, pocketed their coin, and bolted before Hutt space chewed them up. On top of that, I wasn't alone—half the Outer Rim seemed to be sitting on stacks of Hutt money, all wanting Republic credits. Too much supply, not enough demand. Great. It was a miracle that the exchange rate was what it was, at two credits to one Wupiupi.
So I improvised. Which is how I ended up here: parked at a table in full view of the cantina door, with a flimsy plastic sign propped up in front of me that read:
"Hutt cash for credits. Good rates."
Classy.
The first half dozen people through the door laughed at me outright. I felt like some beggar at a traffic light holding a cardboard plea for credits. It was humiliating… though, annoyingly, somewhat effective. Small swaps trickled in—just enough for a meal here, a quick tumble at a brothel there. I didn't ask questions. Business was business.
And then came the Gamorrean.
He was huge, green, and, unfortunately, really into haggling. Probably just learned how and thought he was a genius. Spoiler: he wasn't.
"No," I said flatly. "I will not give you all my wupiupi for fifteen credits. The exchange rate is one-to-one, which is already a gift. Half price. If you don't like it, please leave."
The Gamorrean's face scrunched, and he growled. His hand went for his blaster.
Mine was already out.
See, I've got a couple of months of dedicated training under my belt, thanks to the Gatcha. Enough to beat most folk who only draw their weapons once in a blue moon. Sure, there are deadlier fish out there—but against this guy? I was faster.
The Gamorrean froze as my blaster levelled on him. I leaned forward, plucked his weapon out of his suddenly very cooperative grip, and set it gently on the table between us.
"Please. Leave."
He did. With haste.
I holstered my blaster, exhaling. Another close one without anyone catching a bolt. Jaruk had been very clear: I could play moneychanger under his roof so long as I cut him in. But if a firefight broke out? I was out the door faster than yesterday's garbage.
This wasn't working. At all. But what else could I do? Sit here and pray that the galaxy coughed up a miracle?
I slumped back to the bar, where Jaruk was polishing the same glass he'd been "cleaning" since I'd met him. I was starting to think the rag itself was a local landmark.
"Any other ideas, Jaruk? This isn't working out. And I think I'm starting to make enemies…"
He snorted. "Look, kid, ya just gotta wait fer one big fish. Someone wantin' a fat chunk o' Wupi. Then you're sorted. Best bet you got."
I grumbled but nodded, dragging myself back to my table. Jaruk looked like he was actually enjoying this circus. My suffering was probably his new favourite entertainment.
So far, I'd only made about two hundred credits at my steep, self-inflicted discount rate. Which was abysmal. At this pace, I'd burn through seventy thousand Wupiupi and walk away with thirty-five thousand credits—a massive loss. Still a fortune, sure, but if I wanted on Creeol's ship before he blasted off tomorrow? I'd have to stop at the four thousand.
With another sigh and a silent prayer to the Jawa god of the Gatcha, I sat back down, plastic sign in place, and resumed my vigil.
It was three hours later when someone different walked in.
You could feel it in the room before you even saw her. The air went stiff, talk cut short, the kind of silence that wasn't respectful—it was cautious. In places like this, people knew how to spot danger. They didn't need to see a blaster drawn. All it took was the walk. That stride that said, clear as day: I'm the meanest thing in the room, and if you disagree, I'll prove it.
She was a Duros. Female. Not common, not unheard of, but the way she carried herself made her seem rarer still. Her long coat hung loose over a lean frame, boots clicking steadily as she moved right through the crowd, unhurried, not giving a damn who got out of her way and who didn't. And gods help me, she didn't just walk over—she moseyed. Like she'd crawled straight out of an old western and decided to ruin my day.
The cantina watched her cut a line to my table, but nobody moved to stop her. She slid into the chair across from me, tipped it back on two legs, and leaned, arms crossed, head tilted. One corner of her mouth curled in a smirk like she already knew how this conversation ended.
Yeah. Dangerous.
I put on my best "don't-shoot-me" smile. "Looking for Hutt money? I'm trading."
Her eyes flicked to the flimsy sign propped up on my table, then back to me. One brow climbed slow, unimpressed. She didn't even answer—just let the silence hang while she stared at me like Really? You?
My grin wilted. I cleared my throat and tried again. "I mean, I hope you're here to exchange."
That earned me a noise I wasn't expecting—an honest-to-god giggle. She covered her mouth as if even she hadn't seen that coming. "Cute," she said finally, her voice smooth but sharp, like a vibroblade wrapped in silk. "Word spread about some silly bounty hunter trying to play banker. But look at you—" her eyes swept me up and down, a little too long on the armour— "you're no bounty hunter. Just some wannabe in shiny kit."
Ouch. Direct hit.
She leaned in now, elbows on the table, that smirk sharpening. "Yeah, I'm here to change. But your rates? Not good enough."
That stung more than it should've. "My rates are damn good and you know it." The words shot out before I could reel them back in.
Her eyes narrowed. Then she sat back again, lazy as a rancor after feeding, and smiled.
"No. You're desperate. You've been here too long. You want offworld fast." She tapped a finger on the table, slow, deliberate. "That gives me the upper hand. Here's my deal: two wupi for one credit."
I almost fell out of my chair. "That's robbery!"
"Bah." She waved the thought away like it was smoke. "Like you've got a choice. I'm the only one offering a deal worth your time. I want forty thousand wupi. That'll net you ten thousand credits. Easy math." She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "I've looked around. You're the most desperate one around. Which means you're the best mark."
The cantina seemed to hold its breath, watching.
She spread her hands, palms up, mock-friendly. "So. You in? Or should I just find the next fool?"
My jaw ached from how hard I was clenching it. She had me boxed. She knew she had me boxed.
"…Fine," I muttered through gritted teeth. "But if you want my time, you'll make it worth mine. I'll take your rate…" I swallowed hard. "But you're buying sixty thousand."
That finally earned me a pause. Her eyebrow arched. "Big money." A chuckle rolled out of her chest. "I like it. More profit for me."
She dropped a heavy little bag on the table, the clink of cred chips unmistakable. She popped it open with one finger—rows of high-denomination chips gleaming under the dim light and removed a couple of chits. My heart stuttered. That was my ticket off world.
I inhaled through my nose, slow and steady, trying not to let my hands shake. Then I pulled out my own sack. From the top, I plucked four five-hundred wupi chips—keeping the bag's value balanced at exactly sixty thousand—and set it down between us.
Her hand darted for mine at the same time I reached for hers. Smooth swap. We counted quick, fast hands moving over stacks of chips. Every number lined up. Against all odds, it was clean.
She tied the bag to her belt, smirk growing wider, smug as a Hutt in a spice den. "Pleasure doing business."
She stood, her chair scraping back, and walked off without another word. The two shadows that had slipped in after her rose with her, bodyguards, I realised too late, and fell into step behind.
I sagged back into my chair, the tension bleeding out of my shoulders. Slowly, I let myself breathe.
With shaking fingers, I pulled a few cred chips out and made my way over to Jaruk. He was waiting behind the bar, arms folded, grinning like a Devaronian at a cheating table.
"What'd I say, huh?" he chuckled. "One big deal and yer set."
I dropped his cut in front of him, gave a tired nod, and turned for the door. Sticking to it was a silver card pack. I snatched it and left. I would open it later.
Outside, the heat hit me like a wall, but I forced myself to stay sharp. One look over my shoulder. Then another. Then a third. No tails. Nobody following me for my newfound fortune.
Only then—only then—did I let the grin crawl onto my face.
Aurek Bay 6 was waiting.
Creeol was on his ship, his business done. He met me at the ramp after I buzzed at him through the intercom connected to the ship. I nodded silently, saying that I had the credits, and he smiled.
"You look down, let me guess, you got fleeced." He said in faux sympathy.
I sighed and nodded. "I've got the money, I'll pay a deposit when we get on board, I don't want to flash it out here."
He nodded and waved me in. As we walked through the ship, he pointed out doors and told me what was open to me and not. Obviously, the cockpit and engine room were off limits, and what it amounted to was me having access to the mess, my bunk room and the hold. Everywhere else was a no-go.
When we reached the Hold, he held out his hand and I nodded. I pulled my money pouch from my back and counted out 2,000 credits. He took them happily, and I remarked that he would get the other 2,000 when we arrived. He nodded. This was a common practice.
He then showed me to my bunk and said that since I arrived early and his business actually finished ahead of schedule, he had nothing else to wait for. We would make our way in the morning. It was getting late now, and I had already had another of the bantha steaks with purple mash at Jaruk's, meaning I was ready to hit the hay. I was left in peace and decided that now would be the best time to roll the gatcha, thus I tore open the card.
'You will pay me now, or you will pay me later. But you will pay me.'
'Make a deal worth 50,000 Wupiupi, or get massively scammed. You did both, enjoy two cards'
640.Bloodlust (2.8 Rarity, 0.27% odds)
-Uncommon Ability-
Cloak yourself in the aura of a killer, and your instincts are boosted, giving you a sixth sense, allowing you to know where to strike better, find out weak spots in your enemy, and anticipate their movements. In essence, this gives you the sense of a very experienced killer.
I tried to focus on the sixth sense, but with no one around, it was just… flat. No tingles in the back of my head, no whispers of "duck now!" or "stab here!" Just me, staring at empty air like an idiot.
Still, I was starting to piece it together. This thing wasn't going to give me a constant radar of every living thing in a ten-meter radius—that'd be way too easy. No, what it felt like was more… opportunistic. A mental nudge at the exact moment someone would be vulnerable. Like a silent voice in my skull shouting "NOW!" right when their guard dropped, or when a step landed wrong, or when that little gap in their defence opened.
And honestly? That sounded terrifyingly useful.
With this paired up with stealth, I wouldn't just be sneaky—I'd be surgical. No wasted swings, no clumsy lunges, just perfectly timed strikes. I wouldn't even need to be stronger or faster than someone. All I'd need was patience, and the sense would handle the rest, whispering when the stars aligned for me to make the kill.
A perfect opportune killer.
…Which, okay, makes me sound like a sociopath when I say it out loud. But you try living on Tatooine without thinking practical murder thoughts once in a while.
The card shimmered, its surface rippling like heat haze before settling into something new. I leaned in, eyes scanning the fresh text. My grin spread slow and wide. Two silver cards in one day? Clearly, the benevolent Jawa god of goodness had decided to bless his humble servant. Praise be unto the little hooded scavenger deity—may his batteries never corrode.
93. Adept Driving (3 Rarity, 0.83% odds)
-Rare Skill-
You are as skilled as a veteran driver, being able to handle any vehicle with familiarity and ease. If you participate in a race, chances are you will embarrass the competition.
The knowledge unravelled in my head like a spool of wire snapping loose, pouring into place until it fit. This card wasn't just good—it was stupidly overpowered. It spoke of "driving," but this was the Star Wars universe. Here, "driving" meant everything from swoops to skiffs to starfighters. Piloting—actual piloting—was bundled right in, neat as you please.
Which, funny enough, made me a liar. Just hours ago, I'd sworn to Creeol that I couldn't fly a ship. And now? Now I could slide into a cockpit and make it dance like I'd been born in one. I'd been plotting to save up for a flight simulator, grind some hours until I wasn't a danger to myself and everyone else within a ten-kilometre radius. But that was pointless now. The Gatcha had skipped the tutorial and dropped the full upgrade straight into my skull.
I smirked in the dark, muttered a quiet thanks to the ever-generous Jawa god, and rolled over, smug and content.