"Hnnunggg…"
It was with this word, no, more of a sound, really, poetic and simple, elegant and refined, that Luke Skywalker celebrated his return to the land of the waking.
"Eloquent."
"Mornin', Harry…" It took some time for the young Jedi to appreciate, just who was sitting at his bedside. When the ball finally dropped, two eyes flew open. "Why are you watching me sleep?"
"Oh, this and that," the wizard meandered, enjoying being on the other end of one of these 'just waking up' talks, just for once. "You've lost quite a bit of blood because that bullet hit your femoral artery, so we took turns watching over you. Not Hermione, though, she's done enough for you."
"Uhm… thanks, I guess," Luke mumbled, before letting his barely raised head fall back onto the cushion of his childhood bedroom.
"No problem," Harry commented nonchalantly. "You drool while you sleep by the way. And the snoring…"
"Shut up, Harry."
"You're welcome," the captain snarked, waiting a moment to hit Luke with a little stinging charm to the back of his right calf.
"OW! What did you do that for?"
"Just checking sensibility. I'll be telling Hermione there's no hypoesthesia left now. I think that's what she called it, anyway." With that, he fled from the room, though really, what was Luke going to do for revenge? Way too nice for anything that could actually make him regret his actions, if it even managed to get to him.
Even after having spent the night there, or rather in an enchanted tent right next to it, the Lars homestead was strange to Harry; it made sense, the way the whole thing was constructed, but it was still unlike anything he had ever encountered. Two pits, one larger, one smaller, connected by a tunnel, both of them having rooms arrayed around them. If nothing else, then the apparently rather usual style of the dwelling said something about the planet's climate: no rain, and only ever cold at night, where the lower temperatures were appreciated by those trying to get in a decent night's sleep. All in all, it was a fascinatingly sensible piece of architecture, while also minimizing upkeep and original building expenses for the often poor farmers living in it. And if you wanted to add some space, you simply had to dig another pit and add what you needed around it. Though at this point, it seemed like he was possibly oversimplifying things.
"How is our patient," Hermione questioned when she saw him stepping from said patient's room. "Did you check everything I told you to?"
"Uh… there was more to check than the feeling in his leg? I fired a stinging hex at him, and he said ow, that has to count, right?" He ventured; admittedly, he had somewhat zoned out during her explanation of what to do once Luke was up and about, but in his defence, getting into combat always got Leia somewhat fired up. Maybe it was the whole adrenaline rush thing, the idea of celebrating you were still alive and unhurt.
"Oh, Harry…" his friend bemoaned his apparent ignorance, though as always, with a fond undertone. "If you want to check someone's sensitivity you always compare both sides. And yes, you were also supposed to test his motor skills and his circulation, both of those compared to the other side, too. Come with me, I'll show you."
Feeling like a scolded school-boy, eliciting that response in him a skill Hermione had apparently never lost, Harry followed behind her, back through the door he had only just come out of. Obviously, enough time had passed for the young Jedi to get up and disrobe at least partially, leaving his leanly muscled torso open to see. And the two that were now coming inside seemed to have little problem with that, too, not after living in a rather cramped tent for almost a year; in that time, the three of them had seen more of each other than they ever would have expected, so just a bared torso really was nothing special. Their surprised patient, though, was something of a different matter.
"Wha…" Turning around to see both of them in the door (or maybe it was more about Hermione, since, in his embarrassment, he was studiously avoiding looking at her), he almost fell as he made a mad dash for his shirt from the prior evening, still stained with blood.
"Oh, relax, would you?" the witch chided, making use of the very same tone Harry had been on the receiving end of earlier. Even Luke's reaction was rather similar to what he thought his own reaction would be, as seen from the outside, even if he would rather think it was not. "Nothing I haven't seen before, and I'll see more before we're done here. Now, pants off, too; my assistant did not do a thorough job in checking you over, I'm afraid."
Despite the clear order, the young Jedi still seemed unclear about whether to actually do what she was saying, so the captain decided to help him out. "Just do what she says, she's determined now. If it helps, she really doesn't care about you being half-naked here; basically spent a year living in a tent with two guys, that'll desensitize you quickly I'm being told."
"It does," Hermione concurred, nodding at him "So does growing up with two doctors as your parents, even when they're dentists. I'm sure they do something to them during university that takes away their feeling of shame."
Visibly more at ease, Luke moved to comply, stripping down to his underpants. Eventually, he ended up just standing there, unsure of what to do, now that he had followed his 'doctor's' orders.
"Alright, now stand up on your toes…"
With that, Hermione went into an extensive exam of her patient's motor skills, circulation and sensory input, with Harry just trying to stay on top of what she was doing. He did not manage. When finally, a few minutes later, she was done, he followed her back outside, leaving a mostly restored man behind to get fully dressed, at last; his relief was almost palpable.
"Aren't there diagnostic charms for that?" the wizard eventually questioned his friend, when they were sitting down in the open kitchen together, the last wisps of the night's cold already fleeing before the rising twin suns.
"Oh, there are," Hermione replied easily, before pulling up the datapad she had been given, and which now contained detailed notes of her tests. Turning it around to show him the lines of text, she added, "Can you think of a diagnostic charm that you can cast that will give you readings as detailed as these?"
When he stayed silent, the witch commented, "Didn't think so, and neither can I. My parents always say…. Said that, with all the amazing tools they have, the most important ones to a doctor are still their own hands, ears and eyes, no matter, whether they're a dentist, a neurologist, a cardiologist. I've learned a thing or two to prepare while I was planning on searching for you."
Knowing Hermione the way he did, Harry was still surprised, sometimes, by the lengths she would go to. Had part of her just thrown itself into work as a way of coping with the profound loss the death of not only one, but two parents would represent? Likely. But still, that part had not resorted to the various destructive ways such emotions could be channelled, at least not overtly destructive. Instead, she had dedicated her time to finding her lost friend which, in essence, was essentially what he himself would like to think he might have done.
"I'm… I'm still so sorry about your parents," he finally admitted, looking her up and down, feeling like he was looking for a piece that might be missing. "That I wasn't there for you, to help you through that."
"Not your fault Harry," Hermione replied earnestly, looking at him with eyes pleading to believe her. He did, to a degree.
"I know, part of me does at least. But can't I still be sad you had to go through that one friend down?"
"You may feel sad about that," the witch allowed, graciously nodding her head. "Two friends down, actually, though. Ron and I didn't work out all that long. We were just… too different."
They fell silent for a few moments, before she began talking again. "No, that's not it. Opposites can work, at least as long as the important parts fit. We just didn't."
Before Harry could reply, the twosome was turned into a crowd when, the aftershocks of a wide yawn still visible on her face, Leia stepped into the small, partly repaired kitchen of the Lars farm. It was plainly visible that, just like Harry, she had not had all that much sleep, though unlike her boyfriend, she was less shy about letting it be seen. It was a far cry from the girl who turned beet-red just waking up in bed with him.
"Good morning, Leia," Hermione greeted the queen, as refreshingly unperturbed by his girlfriend being royalty as she was with Harry's fame, after the first moment of shock had worn off. "You look like you… slept well."
"I certainly slept little," Leia countered with a slight smirk, patting him on the back. "I really didn't mind, for some reason, though."
With a wink into her boyfriend's direction, she started stacking up some of the pancakes (or whatever it was that had been served for breakfast and looked a lot like pancakes). Always one to seek closeness to him after nights like the last, she sat down mere centimetres away, their thighs touching lightly, and began tucking in.
"What's the plan, now?" Hermione questioned eventually, over the almost inaudible sounds of Leia chewing, an outcome of her etiquette training.
"We're letting Luke recuperate for a bit, while Arden is looking for that fence. She's been gone a few hours now, should reach Mos Eisley soon."
OOOOOOOO
Under the blazing rays of Tatooine's suns, a lone speeder bike was making its way along a wide, empty canyon. There sat a figure atop it, its beige cloak flapping in the wind.
The last few hours had been monotonous for Arden, the only real change being the height of the sun, the changing temperature it caused, as well as the different kinds and shades of sand. That sand could ever look so diverse was not something she had expected, yet still something she grew tired off rather quickly. Unfortunately, that was when she got to letting her mind wander, and it invariably turned to her friend and captain; what it was that had her angry at him all the time, these days, she was not sure, though it was not the fact that he had amputated his own hand. In fact, she respected him only more for the guts that must have taken, even knowing there would be a way to replace the lost limb. Yet, ever since their run-in with the technobeasts, she had been jumping down his throat all the time; a true mystery if there ever was one.
Fortunately, her brief moment of uncomfortable introspection, uncomfortable because she was not used to it and for no other reason, was ended when the first outlying buildings of Mos Eisley started appearing around her; a den of scum and villainy, she had been told this was, and she could only hope that was right. For some reason, she felt like fighting someone.
Despite the early hour, the streets of the town, if one could even call these somewhat open spaces of dusty ground streets, were already packed, and Arden could only assume that was for the same reason she had begun her trip hours before the sun had even started to rise: no one wanted to be outside at noon, during the few hours that the planet's two suns would be highest in the sky. By then, she herself was hoping she would be out of the worst heat, maybe in some cantina, gathering intel. Maybe gathering some Ryncol too, and a nice, hearty lunch, if time permitted; and if it didn't, she would have to make it permit. Obviously, there was also the small, cloaked spy droid she was supposed to leave behind in the spaceport. Enchanted by Harry to only be found by something stumbling into it, the little machine would be keeping an eye on things around here, if anyone particularly high on the bounty listings showed up that would make the trip back to this damn dustbowl worth their time.
The deeper Arden manoeuvred her bike into the winding, haphazard town, the slower-going things got. By the time she had reached the area where she was hoping to find the fence the captured pirates used, she might as well have been going by foot, with the progress she was making. All of the last five minutes she had been stuck behind a large dewback pulling a cart of hardy, local root vegetables. Respected as these animals were on this planet, well-adjusted to the desert climate too, they were not all that quick. So, it was a somewhat cranky witch who finally reached the entrance to what the locals were calling the 'Lower Market'. In actual fat, it was just a number of merchants who had decided to lower their shops into the ground to escape the heat without having to resort to spending mass amounts of energy on climate control. Her target, she knew, was one of these merchants, disguising her illegal activity behind as legitimate a business as this wretched place could probably get: a pawnshop.
Setting down the bike, deactivating the repulsor coils, and knocking over the head of an overly inquisitive Rodian took but a few seconds for Arden. Securing her ride took a bit longer: deactivate everything, knock the green alien over the head a second time, as he had been developing a greedy look once again… it really never ended. After a few surreptitious glances around that assured her that everyone was busily watching anything other than the Dathomirian in their midst, the small surveillance droid was activated and started floating around. At least, she thought that was what it was doing, since she had let go and nothing had made 'clonk'; not even she could see through the cloak Harry had made for this little thing.
Satisfied that at least part of her mission could not go wrong anymore, Arden went down the first step into the underground 'pawnshop' ironically named Underground Pawnshop, and immediately felt the difference: the further down she went, the cooler it got, and after hours in the dry heat, that was like the blessed feeling of sleep after a long day of training in Dathomir's mountains, every last bit of stamina drained by the thin air and taxing exercises the older women would have them perform.
With a low 'whoosh' and a high-pitched screech, the thick, rusty metal sliding door opened up to reveal… well, mostly it was just lots of clutter: droid parts, weapons, both of the disabled and the functional kind. There even was what looked to be part of a hyperdrive, though why exactly anyone would want this, the witch failed to see. Nothing of this was likely to truly matter, anyway, since all of the juiciest deals would be going down in the back room, as the involuntarily cooperative pirate whose throat Harry had poured the veritaserum down had revealed. Still, a few of the guns did look kind of interesting, if the whole rustic thing was your style. Maybe one of those clubs the Tusken liked to use would look good on her? Then again, those things were about as elegant as a rancor dump, and equally as wieldy.
"What can I help you with?" A slightly hissy voice came from the shadows behind the counter, the 'th' sounding with a slight lisp. "Perhaps a trinket? Or maybe a loan, due on your next pay-day, at very reasonable interest rates. Only 2.5% per week."
By now, the speaker had stepped into the light: she was a humanoid reptile, pale, dirty-blue scales covering every square centimetre of her short, lithe body . The hair had been shaved off completely, revealing even more scaly hide beneath, and two slit-like eyes were fixating her with their unnerving gaze. A Gossam, if the witch was not completely mistaken; they were a species with a reputation of producing shrewd and greedy merchants, whose only true goal in life was turning a profit. Not someone she was going to trust lightly… if she thought there was something to be gained by betraying the pirates, though, she would gladly turn on what called itself allies in the cutthroat world of buying and selling stolen goods.
"I don't need a loan, especially not at your rates, thank you very much," Arden replied sharply, though failing to even make her opponent flinch. "I'm more interested in some of your special merchandise."
The woman, for it was indeed a female Gossam that had greeted her, seemed to bristle at a perfect stranger's mention of her more… unique products. Nevertheless, besides a few subtle clues, nothing slipped past her tight control of her appearance. "Special merchandise? You must have me confused with someone else. I merely run a pawnshop, sometimes I buy a piece or an item I like instead of taking it as a security, but nothing a young woman like you might consider special."
"Cut the crap," the witch replied forcefully, looking down at the short-statured fence even as said fence was already standing on a stool to appear taller than she actually was. "By the two suns' buttcracks, you're talking rubbish."
Immediately, the vendor's entire demeanour changed; before she had been, not welcoming and inviting, then at least somewhat servile, despite how little her emotions showed on her face. Now, though, the façade had dropped, and been replaced by the seasoned fence Arden had always known her to be.
"Another one of Fared's referrals, then?" she grumbled, obviously having recognized the code words used by her newest customer; every single contact of hers, as far as Harry had been able to suss out of the captive pirate, had one of these, and could tell friends and acquaintances they trusted. That way, the fence knew the people that were actually looking to engage in her main trade, rather than the overpriced loans the Gossam was offering as a cover. "Fust Ran. Anything particular you're interested in, or are you just… browsing?"
"Browsing, for now, at least until I've seen some of what you offer, what the quality is," Arden answered deliberately evenly, almost as if she was mockingly mirroring her opponent's style of speech.
"Gotta rescind Fared's referral privileges, then," Ran commented under her breath, though still very much audible to the witch's sharp ears. "Too many of his people end up wasting my time. And time, as even you must know, is money."
"I was aware, thank you." The fence's superior attitude and sour disposition were already rankling the witch's otherwise good mood.
"Follow me then, and don't waste my time. I like to factor how long you take to decide in the final offer you'll get. Am I clear?"
Now growling more than she was speaking, Arden replied, "Crystal."
No more words were exchanged between the two as the shopkeeper went to a large shelf of clutter, none of which looked like anyone was ever going to buy it; then again, maybe that was the point. It did seem fortuitous that an entire piece of furniture was stacked with what could be favourably described as scrap, when it was exactly this piece of furniture behind which the actual draw of the shop was hidden. For behind a low arch the Dathomirian found things far more fascinating than old pieces of bent metal: actual, rare weapons, stacked in high piles; packets that could only contain spice, considering the appearance and where she had found them; there were even some more books, real ones, and a few scrolls, all of them old and seemingly valuable. How much all of this would be worth, it was hard to tell, but just the riches on display in this single room were probably enough to buy at least a few light freighters well able to get a single Gossam offworld, as well as the crews to man them. And really, who stayed on this boring, dusty, dry rock if they could leave?
"Take a look around," Ran invited her, though ironically, she sounded anything but inviting. This all spoke highly of her abilities to buy and sell the rare and illegal, if she had this amount of stuff down here while her interpersonal skills were so severely lacking. Still, it was an invitation Arden followed.
Her first destination were the piles of weapons, the small containers of which each held one stacked high, with more proudly displayed on the boards mounted to the wall behind. The amount of firepower in this one, single room… though many of these weapons bore no resemblance to what Arden knew was the standard in the galaxy; different power cell housings, other Tibanna gas casings. Then it hit her, what these really were.
"Antiques…"
"Indeed," the fence replied, and for the first time, just the tiniest hint of pride entered her voice. "Most of them aren't that old; everything from a few decades to a century. But the ones on the wall…"
Pointing to a familiar design, the Gossam continue, "A DC-15A, Clone Army standard-issue; not particularly rare, but this beauty packs one hell of a punch. Add a good scope and you've got yourself a powerful sniper rifle that can even pierce light vehicles. Of course, some sentimental fools still pining for the Republic just want to hang it on their wall. Still, as long as they pay, I don't care what they do with it."
Moving further along, the next thing she pointed out was a pair of blaster pistols, solid in design, though still looking incredibly outdated from a technological standpoint. "Over 3600 years old, those. GR-9 plasma blasters, made during the Great Galactic War. Oh, what a cretin."
She had added the last part when Arden had simply looked on, not understanding what the shopkeeper was talking about. Most of her learning had, after all, been focussed either on surviving Dathomir or on simply finding her place in this larger galaxy. History, beyond what directly impacted her, had never really come up.
"I'll skip the rest then, not that you'd be able to really appreciate it…" Grumbling, the Gossam skipped a few shelves of deadly-looking weapons and ancient-looking armour, then went past the writings. The two came to an abrupt stop, however, when the Dathomirian noticed something, she recognized, something that made her blood boil in anger.
"What are you doing with a codex of Dathomirian magicks?"
If the sudden halt had not clued Ran in something was off, the witch's tone of voice certainly must have. Where before, everything had been coldly-cordial, now it was a hiss of venom.
"So I was correct in my assumption," the fence commented easily, like she did not have an angry Dathomirian witch standing in her small shop that was easily able to overpower and even kill a short lizard-lady like her. "A Dathomirian… rare to see one like you out and about the galaxy. Doesn't our beloved Empire have your planet blockaded so that none of you savages can escape? Ah-ah-aaahh, wouldn't do that if I were you."
She must have noticed Arden tensing, preparing to strike, for the Gossam pulled out of her pocket a small device, not larger than the palm of her blue hand. Still, it was a kind of device the witch recognized, that had brough immense death before. "I see you know what this is. Hit me, kill me, try to threaten me… this dead-man switch goes off and the entire shop goes the way of the Separatist Alliance. Blown to pieces by Republic proton torpedoes."
Even as she continued to look furiously, defiantly at the fence, the Dathomirian lowered the weapon she had not even noticed she had pulled out, and simply stared at the newest person on top of her list of people who needed to be taught a lesson.
"There, we can be civilized," Ran told her patronizingly, somehow managing to pull the entire thing off despite the massive size difference between the two of them. "Now, why did you come into my shop in the first place?"
"Information," Arden mumbled, receiving only annoyed tutting in response.
"Why speak up dear, I can't hear you like this…"
"Information," the witch repeated, this time a lot more firmly. "My crew and I, we're putting the Maelstrom Marauders out of business."
Now, it was on the Gossam to look on in consternation, even annoyance. "Why ever would you want to do that?" she questioned, looking genuinely confused. "They're such good business partners; reliable, really, especially for a pirate gang. And their loot is always top-notch, you just have to clean off the blood and urine. Those Consortium weapons are always in demand… Zann isn't cheap when it comes to equipping his lackeys. What could you give me worth giving up such a great source of merchandise?"
"How about your continued survival?" Arden hissed, her hands and magic only stayed by the connected ideas of keeping intact the Dathomirian tome as well as herself.
"I already have that…" Ran mused, seemingly without a care in the world as she began idly pacing in front of her… customer. "After all, if you wanted to kill me, you already would have. No, if you take out my main source of merchandise, you'll have to help get me a handle on a better one."
"And who would that be?"
"Why the Zann Consortium of course," the Gossam chuckled darkly, eyes gleaming acquisitively, darkly, with greed. "You're here for them after all, or am I mistaken? You'll get me an in with the Consortium, a favourable deal, and I'll tell you everything you want to know and, as a bonus, you can keep that old book you seem to be so interested in."