You could literally die of boredom on Bpfassh.
This arid, dual-planet orbits a shared center of gravity, with a temperate climate and lifeless wastelands stretching endlessly in every direction. Not just for a kilometer or two, but across the entire world. Every piece of land here is as barren as the next.
It's surprising to think that the Jedi Praxeum once stood here, especially considering the hostile attitude of the locals towards the Order. Negative, bordering on outright aggression.
Fodeum scratched the stubble on his chin as he observed the New Republic fighters returning to their base. Fires were still burning in some areas, and medical aircars buzzed around, but it was clear that the stronghold of the galaxy's rulers hadn't taken any major hits. The Imperials had flown in, circled the planet, fired a few warning shots at the base, destroyed some enemy vehicles, lost a couple of their own—evidenced by the smoking wreckage of TIE fighters north of the outpost—and that was the extent of it. The raid was over. The dive attack on the ground target had failed.
And that was that.
"This is ridiculous," he mused aloud, sipping his caf. Since when had the Empire become so merciful? In the past, they would have leveled everything in their path, showing no concern for casualties, even among populations loyal to the New Republic. But now? Something strange was happening.
Or perhaps, as his mentor often told him, he was simply not seeing the bigger picture. No, it really was absurd. Why should he even care?
He was young, just over thirty. Well-built, with a ruggedly handsome face. His ship sat safely at the spaceport, and during the raid, Fodeum had worried the Imperials might destroy everything. But his concerns faded as soon as it became clear that their target was solely the New Republic base. Everything else seemed irrelevant to them. Well, fine then.
"Drinking again?" A young Twi'lek woman plopped down across from him, grabbing a cheap soft drink for herself. She uncorked the bottle and sniffed at it. "Juice?"
"Did you expect Corellian whiskey out here?" Fodeum smirked, taking another sip of his caf.
"You have such a habit," Zlyuchka grimaced. Her real name was different, but it didn't change the fact that she always had something to complain about. A difficult personality. Recently, she had even taken to telling him when he could or couldn't drink. "Usually by lunchtime, you're passed out."
Fodeum glanced at his wrist chronometer.
"I've still got about fifteen minutes," he grinned. Zlyuchka clicked her tongue disapprovingly, clearly ready to voice her next complaint. But Fodeum wasn't interested.
"Is the 'Graceful Lady' in good shape?" he asked, scanning the quiet, open-air cantina on the outskirts of the spaceport. The few patrons were, like them, just people seeking easy money. But now, there wasn't a soul around; after the raid, the locals preferred to stay home. The streets would remain quiet for at least an hour and a half, until New Republic patrols swept through. And what exactly were they even looking for?
"Yeah," Zlyuchka snorted. "Me too, by the way."
"I noticed," Fodeum smiled. He wasn't a cruel man, but he wasn't overly kind either. He just liked teasing his assistant—and girlfriend.
"You could at least ask if I'm okay," Zlyuchka pouted, sticking out her tongue. Women, he thought. She was around his age but often acted like a young girl.
"Why should I ask?" he laughed. "I can see you're fine. Your arms and legs are intact, your clothes are still on, your lekku are in good order, and your eyes…"
"It'd be better if we had pockets full of credit chips instead of those 'bottomless eyes'!" Zlyuchka interrupted. "In case you forgot, we've already delivered our cargo. The transport contract is complete, and we need a new job. If we want to fix the anti-gravity devices, that is, and avoid more issues with the authorities about our landing methods."
"And what's wrong with how we land?" Fodeum muttered tiredly. "So what if it makes enough noise to wake the dead—like a pack of mating rancors?"
** Fodeum Sabre De'Luz and Zlyuchka **
(The term "злючка" (zlyuchka) is an informal and somewhat endearing word. It's often used to describe a mischievous or naughty person, especially in a playful context)
"Got any ideas?" he asked. The girl shook her head, signaling no.
"And you?" she asked a bit more quietly.
"Nothing here either," he admitted with a sigh. "There's nothing…"
They had been working together long enough to communicate without much need for words.
While Zlyuchka was finalizing the deal with their client, Fodeum took off to check out the coordinates he had bought from an information dealer for a hefty sum. But his hopes of making a profit off the ruins of the Jedi Praxeum were dashed. There was nothing of value, nothing he could sell. Even the Force had fallen silent.
"I warned you that the locals had already cleared the place out," she wagged a finger at him. "It's been years! But you, Fodeum Sabre De'Luz, are the stubborn one! Everything must go your way, right?"
"An attempt's not a crime," he shrugged. "It could've been a jackpot."
"Instead, it was another useless waste of money!" she shot back, crossing her arms in annoyance.
"You didn't seem to mind when we spent some of that money on your treats," Fodeum chuckled. "And those cost nearly a thousand credits—three times more than I spent on the map."
"Well, I was happy for a whole week," Zlyuchka replied with a grin. "And you didn't roll your eyes once and say, 'Woman, stop gnawing at my brain!'"
"That's why you're still single," Fodeum grinned. "Your appetites are too much."
"No, it's just…" She started to retort but stopped short. Sabre De'Luz tensed, noticing her eyes fixed on something behind him. "Don't turn around," she whispered.
"Or the rancor will eat me?" Fodeum chuckled, but then he sensed the Force nudging him—danger. His hand instinctively moved toward his blaster. He was ready to dive from his chair and fire behind him, but a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder. The cold barrel of a blaster dug into his back. "Great…"
"Hands on the table, pal," a voice commanded from behind. It was a man, judging by the accent. "And you too, 'exotic'!"
"I'm a Twi'lek!" Zlyuchka snapped, her smooth palms pressing onto the table. "Not some kind of monster…"
"I don't care," the barrel pushed harder into Fodeum's back as if the man was trying to drill through him. "Is your ship ready to fly?"
"There are… a few minor technical issues," Fodeum stalled, simultaneously calling upon the Force, hoping for an opening.
"I'll put a hole the size of my fist in your chest," the man threatened. But Fodeum had already pieced together what was happening—and why New Republic troops were patrolling the streets with such urgency. "And then one in your exotic friend too!"
"Then a patrol will show up and fill you full of holes, Imperial," Fodeum calmly added. "You didn't come all this way just to die in a meaningless fight, did you?"
"You're not wrong," sneered the downed Imperial pilot.
"What do you want from us?" Zlyuchka gritted her teeth, glaring at the stranger.
"Our new friend here wants to get off the planet," Fodeum replied before the Imperial could answer. "I take it the raid didn't go as planned, and your crew left you behind?"
"You talk too much," the man growled, pressing the blaster harder, nearly piercing Fodeum's vest. "Give me the access codes to your ship!"
"That won't help you, kid," Fodeum shook his head. "The ignition has biometric scanners. Only me and my partner can start it," he added, hoping Zlyuchka would play along. "I spent a hundred thousand credits installing them, and no one's bypassed it yet. You'll need us alive—or you'll be dragging our dead bodies, but you won't be able to access the voice-locked gangway either."
Zlyuchka, unexpectedly, jumped in. "But we can help each other." Fodeum shot her a surprised look. The Imperial, judging by the slight easing of the pressure on his back, was equally taken aback. "You want off this planet, right, Imperial?"
"Yes," he answered tersely. Fodeum allowed himself to cautiously turn and look. The man was tall and muscular, with red hair and a short beard. Though dressed in rags he must have stolen, Fodeum was willing to bet he still wore his black Imperial pilot uniform underneath. The standard-issue boots on his feet were a dead giveaway.
"And we've got a ship. We also wouldn't mind earning a little extra," Zlyuchka continued. "Wouldn't your superiors be grateful if we took you back to base?"
"Yes," the Imperial replied again, though this time he hesitated slightly. Maybe he was lying, but when Fodeum reached out with the Force, he was surprised to sense no deceit.
"Well, then stop pretending to be a brave hero standing up to 'exotics' and let's get to the ship while the patrols are still busy in other districts," Fodeum suggested, giving Zlyuchka a discreet wink. Smart girl—she got it! "Your disguise isn't fooling anyone, and frankly, your face screams 'thug.'"
The Imperial pilot swatted the back of Fodeum's head lightly.
"Move to the ship," he ordered. "If you try anything, I'll kill you on the spot."
"No one's handing you over," Zlyuchka said with a sigh. "The New Republic doesn't give bounties for regular soldiers. If you were a spy, that might be different."
Fodeum glanced at her, intrigued. Since when did she know this stuff?
"Now put the blaster away and try to look less conspicuous," Zlyuchka teased. "The authorities will notice you in a heartbeat with that look on your face."
"Talk less, exotic," the Imperial snapped, yanking the blaster to indicate it was time to move. Fodeum stood up obediently. "Do more."
"As you wish," Zlyuchka shrugged, rising from the table herself. "Do you even have a name, Imperial?"
"Captain Tomax Bren," he muttered.
"Fodeum Sabre De'Luz," Fodeum introduced himself. "And this charming chatterbox is Zlyuchka."
"That's not my name!" she huffed, clearly offended.
"I don't care," Captain Tomax Bren grumbled, jabbing Fodeum with the blaster again. "Now move, both of you!"
** Captain Tomax Bren **
With a tired sigh, Fodeum Sabre De'Luz, the would-be hero of the Jensaarai, along with his partner and co-pilot in misfortune, trudged through the narrow streets of the spaceport toward their ship, the Graceful Lady.