Log:Out of the Box
Out of the Box
OOC Date: January 18, 2018
Location: Nar Shaddaa - Smuggler's Den
Participants: Mujiji, Tess Ul'Datha, Myra Bale
Tess and Myra stumble upon an intriguing business oppurtunity.
The Den is as it always is: grimy, dirty, full of 'unsavory types who linger in smokey shadows', and overall sketchy as all getup. While the general rabble is subdued, making deals over their drinks and shooting glares at anyone they think may be eavesdropping, there are two women, a Duros and a human, enjoying a heated conversation over an unassuming, small-to-medium-sized crate. They're seated in a corner near the bar, and just as the Duros is hissing that 'they'll never find the right buyer' and the human is rebuking that 'it's Nar Shaddaa, there is /always/ the right buyer', the box shakes violently. Was muffled swearing coming from inside? It's hard to tell.
Smuggler Tess is not, but she often does business down in this district. That is not even remotely true, of course. The First Order base on Nar Shaddaa is in this sector and, whether she'll admit it or not, Tess is scoping their shit out. At least she was until someone started wondering why the same Mandalorian kept circling around every couple minutes and she had to duck inside the first establishment that didn't immediately balk at the idea of an armored amory walking in like she intends some sort of hostile takeover. The black and red armored woman makes her way towards the bar and leans over towards the Bartender to get a corellian whiskey as she removes the helmet with a hiss of venting air and sets it down beside her very big sniper rifle.
"We don't even know what is /is/!" The Duros reminds her companion, prodding a long, blue finger at the crate. It responds with a fresh round of rattling and strangled shouts. They aren't getting many stares from the other patrons, as this is hardly something out of the ordinary. "We know it's sentient." The human replies, her smirk stretching a scar that runs down her left cheek, shiny and raw against pale skin. "So we start with the slavers. Hell, worst case scenario, we can just sell it to the First Order for target prac-" They both fall to a hush as a terrifyingly armored woman stalks past them to set up at the bar. "For target practice." The human finishes, her tone more hushed and subdued. They both shoot nervous glances Tess's way, but it's the Duros who speaks up and acknowledges the newcomer.
"Not sure how much longer you'll get your Corellian booze fix." She sneers, her voice a hiss on her 's's and 'x's. "I'm sure that's the first thing they'll blockade out now that they've got those destroyers all over the planet." The human looks at her incredulously, rolling her eyes. "This is serious, can you focus? I want to be rid of it as much as you do." Did that crate just tell them to 'fuck off?'
"Tell me about it.." Tess grumbles, turning the glass of whiskey on the table with a very deep frown. "Fucking First Order." She'll clearly drink to that. The whiskey is sent down in a single swallow and then she's relocating. Helmet in hand, Addell in the other, the Mandalorian makes her way over towards the pair of ladies and their talking box. "Your box is mouthy as hell."
"Fucking First Order." The duros agrees with a chuckle before she catches the scathing look from across the table. "I've got a soft spot for a woman with a big gun, what can I say?" The duros sighs, waving her companion off, and as Tess approaches she is awarded a wide, unnerving smile from the alien. 'I'll show you a big gun!' The box growls, barely audible. 'I'll shove it so far up your-' The human eyes this approaching stranger before taking the risk, speaking quickly and a little too loudly in order to drown out whatever they have in that crate: "yes, we're quite keen to be rid of it - you wouldn't believe the trouble we went through to acquire it, either... You wouldn't happen to know anyone in the market for some - ah..." She chews her words thoughtfully. "...Exotic company, perhaps?"
"Your box wants to get shot..." Tess says with a raised brow and cold eyes focused on it for a second. Whatever, she shakes her head, sets her helmet down, and slides into a seat at their table without waiting for an invitation. Then again, when someone offers to sell their exotic company, that's invitation enough for most. "Depends on what the hell it is... If it's a monkey lizard, hell no. Nobody has time for that shit."
"A monkey lizard?" The duros scoffs. "No, of course not. They are as common as shit in a field of nerfs in this sector, no, no." She leans forward, tapping the box thoughtfully. "What we have here issss.... Much less common." She eyes Tess before stretching out a sinewy, willowy arm for a handshake. "Fehmu Sim." She introduces with a purr. "My companion, Arajor." The human gives a dip of her head, still not quite ready to spill all her secrets to this stranger. The box, for its part, just rattles and there is muffled, tired ranting about some sort of slow, painful death. 'Gagged with your own innards' may or may not be audible. The human laughs, high and shrill, and carefully pulls the box from the table and sets it on the seat beside her. "That's enough out of that for now." She decides before returning her attention to Tess. "We are simple merchants." She simpers, eyeing the armored woman. "And what do you do?"
"Huh." Tess up nods, chin puffed a little as she eyes the box with its stream of profanities. "Well, it certainly does have an inspired vocabulary." Enough of that indeed. The Mando'a leans her sniper rifle up agains tthe table and kicks back so one leg is stretched beneath the table. "Same, really. Merchant. Mercenary, bodyguard, heavy... whatever turns a credit and lets me vaporize people."
Stepping out of the 'Off-limits' area comes a little woman wiping her face studious with a pink handkerchief, cleaning off an unfortunate spill of a red sauce or something. Platinum blonde hair hangs down to her ears, and it doesn't take her long to notice the strange convocation occurring in the booth over there, and she approaches with a bright, cheerful smile, large green eyes turning from one side of the booth to the other and then to the strange box between them. "Ms. Ul'Datha, how wonderful to see you today, really it is," she chirps, looking then towards the two 'merchants' and their box. "And you as well, are you friends of Ms. Ul'Datha? Any friend of hers is a friend of mine. I just love making new friends, really I do. It's such a joy to meet you both. Please, what are your names? You must have a frightfully interesting story behind this box here. How did you teach it to talk? Is it a new sort of novelty droid? Droids have always been fascinating to me."
"So I can see." The duros muses, eyeing Tess over the lip of her drink - the human, Arajor, is more focused and savvy on the business side of things. "You know, maybe you could... Make use of our profane little friend here." She pats the box. "Something smart and small - you could use it as a scout, have it... Slip explosives in places you yourself could not reach. Perhaps there are common thieves who use it as a pickpocket but you seem more..." The duros steps in. "Sophisticated." Fehmu offers. "I'm sure with the right incentive that it could be much more... Agreeable."
'We can all agree that as soon as I get out of here that I'm going to pump you so full of blaster fire they'll fill ya with water and use ya t'water the plants!' the box adds. "Is there anyway to keep that quiet?" Fehmu demands, glaring at her human companion. Arajor sighs. "Maybe we should cut its tongue out before trying to make a proper sale. We are... Sorry about its current behavior." She asides to Tess. "We can do that right n-oh, uh..." The duros and human are both stupefied by the simpering, cheery personality to approach them, and clear their throats quickly. "It - well we, ah, we were just getting to that!" Arajor flushes. "Not a droid, my dear, I can assure you. Please, sit, join us!"
'I've passed turds rougher than you lot, just let me out of here and see how good y'really fare in a fight, eh?' The box declares. "Really, cover it with your jacket or /something/." Fehmu sighs.
Tess raises a brow at the Duros, grinning off one side of her mouth as Arajor goes about trying to sell her whatever's in that box. It really isn't until the thing starts mouthing off again that the mando'a resumes staring at it. "Alright, your box is about to slot a cred stick its ass can't cash..." Pointing two fingers with a smirk. "I've been kicked out of every bar on Nar Shaddaa for shooting people at point blank range with a sniper rifle for shit less than this thing is talking..."
Enter Myra.
Tess waves lazily at the cheery woman, "Well, I'll be damned. Myra... It's been months. You working in this slop house?"
"Something like that," Myra replies sweetly, with a wide smile, and plops her petite posterior down in the seat next to Tess at the merchants' invitation, scooting closer than is strictly necessary. "The box seems mildly upset with being so confined, wouldn't you say, Ms. Ul'Datha? I can't say that I would feel horribly different, were I shoved in a box and sold for parts, really, but then I've never experienced that either. Humans are too large to crate up conveniently, I would think, just terribly tricky to find one large enough in the first place, unless we're talking about coffins, but that's so old fashioned, really it is," she rambles in her droll Coruscanti accent, patting Tess on the arm and turning towards the merchants again. "What sort of price are you asking for whatever's in there, if you don't mind my asking? I'm ever so curious to know what the going rate is on swear-boxes these days. It's a wonderful morning for profane slavery, don't you agree?"
'I'd like to see you try! I am a /business owner/ y'uncultured, unbathed, lumps'a -' The box replies to Tess's threats, but further insults are cut off as Arajor drapes her jacket over it, muffling it more effectively. "You can see how it has been difficult to explain its vast use, when it has a mouth like this." Arajor sighs. "Fehmu here nearly pawned it off on a lonely Hutt, but then it... Well. Started talking." The duros leans in, waving the talk away hurriedly. "But we digress. I am Fehmu Sim, this is Arajor. If our wares insult you too deeply, we do have some interesting items for sale." The box vibrates more violently at this. "An interesting pistol and some explosives-" even muffled by the jacket, the box can be heard shouting '-WON IT FAIR N' SQUARE OFF THAT FAT TWI'LEK WITH TH'HOT WIFE-' Fehmu offers her own jacket to drape over top the other. But... What is this? Myra is interested? "Oh I /do/ agree." Arajor leans forward with a wide grin. "And really it is /quite/ cute once its calmed down a little. We're asking fifteen-k for it but... Well, for one such as yourself... We'll go as low as ten." Across the table, Fehmu raises a non-existent eyebrow. If this bitch flirts away another sale like that time on Naboo...
Tess smirks at Myra's rambling, following it a lot easier than she did a few months prior. She reaches for whatever serves as barfood in a rathole of a joint like this and tosses one into her mouth, "Well, I'll be honest, it's a little early in the morning for slavery for my tastes." She teases and pushes her chair back with one foot. "And I just ducked in her to get away from buckethead patrols." One hand grabs her helmet and hooks it onto her belt, Addell soon slipped over her shoulder onto her back. "Now that I know where to find you, probably stop in more often." Said to Myra with a wink. To the pair of saleswomen, the sniper laughs quietly and shakes her head. "Up hill, both ways, selling whatever that thing is.." To the box, "I'll drop your small ass in a lava pit and eat you. I'm half tempted to buy the damn box so I can toss you whatever's left after gobbling your tiny little ass up for supper out a damn airlock."
"I have a better idea," Myra replies with a wide, toothy grin, giving the flirty saleswoman a cheeky wink, and then abruptly and with stunning alacrity from out of her plain coat a pair of twin Czerka holdouts has appeared, leveled across the table in half an instant. "You show me your slaver licensing from the Hutt Cartel, darlings, or I won't have a good reason not to drop a new heatsink in both of your beautiful foreheads. It'd be really dreadful to mess up your faces like that, really it would, but I'm afraid that's part of the job, dears, so come on then, pip pip. Out with them."
The box, certainly, has many, many things to say to Tess - but Arajor bodily throws herself over it to keep the sound from escaping. She's eyeing Tess's gun, nervously - she doesn't want to see her make real on any threats, at least not until they've earned some credits for wrangling this fuzzy terror. "Er, right - right. Well, if you change your mind, it had grenades on it too."
But they have bigger issues.
Arajor and Fehmu stare down the twin blasters with mouths agape before, with unsurprising speed, the duros throws her companion beneath the bus. "We aren't slavers at all! We're... She saw the thing in Ko and we kidnapped it, we didn't think it was even... You know - sentient! I told her that we should just let it go but -" "Oh so it was all /my/ idea!" Arajor bristles, pounding a fist on the jacket-covered box. "/You/ were the one that said we should just try and sell it to the damn Hutts!"
Tess whistles low when the pair of pistols come out of hiding from god only knows where Myra was keeping them proper hid, "Well shit, Myra... You know, before in the Blue Light, I was just screwing around about us going out sometime..." Motioning nonchalant as if the two guns were flowers held out for a crippled Gungan kid, "But that was hot as hell..." The pair of ladies rambling back and forth isn't funny out of hand, but Tess is a psychopath and there's the possibility of someone getting shot, so she figures: fuck it, might as well laugh anyways! "Oh shit, this is better than whatever I was about to do..." Armored arms crossed, grin as big as a Bothan eating fish.
"I'm a patient woman, really I am," Myra begins in a sympathetic tone, the suddenly sharklike smile plastered across her face softening slightly into a friendly simper. "But even I have limits, would you believe that? My mother always said, everyone has a limit, Myra, you just have to find it, and of the many things she said, I've always thought that one was especially true, don't you?" The blasters in her delicate hands seamlessly trace the paths the two would-be kidnappers' heads follow while she rants. "And don't think I haven't considered using the same move on Mr. Nez, darling," she comments aside to Tess, "because gods know I have. As I was saying, if you have no slavers licence, which really would be tragic, it would, my heart *bleeds* for you," the tiny woman relates, with a sad look that doesn't last, dissolving back into a predatory smile, "then there are really only two options here. I can ventilate your brains, which in all honesty might do them some good, really, this was a patently horrible plan, really it was, or you can surrender your goods to the Cartel and fling yourselves upon the mercy of the Hutts, of whom I am acting as representative. It's remarkably simple, at least I certainly think so." All delivered in a prim, proper package.
The box is practically flung back onto the table. "Take it." Fehmu and Arajor plead simultaneously, dumping a tiny holster (and the pistol the culprit allegedly 'won off a fat Twi'lek'), backpack, and minuscule set of fiber armor onto the table beside it. "That's all it had on it! And - and take the thing, it's more trouble than it's worth. We won't fuck with slaving anymore, it was just a silly misunderstanding, you see. Completely a slip-up, we weren't even aware, you see, we aren't from here -" Arajor keeps babbling over the cacophony pouring out of the box. At least now people are finally starting to stare. With the jackets removed, the little crate has struck up its caterwauling anew, bouncing side to side. "I AIN'T NO SLAVE!" It screeches, as whatever is inside throws itself against a wall with such force that the box tumbles over. "Y'BACKWOODS PILES'A TRASH Y'LET ME OUTTA HERE RIGHT NOW - I GOT RIGHTS! I GOT DANGEROUS MATES!"
Tess laughs all over again and shakes her head, "Myra, you minx. Stop trying to make me fall in love with you." She keeps on laughing long after she's clipped her helmet back into place on her armor and started for the door. "Man, this is all the makings of a holonet video... why don't I ever record this stuff?" Then back out into the streets of Nar Shaddaa and a whole different kind of people watching.
"Wonderful, a pleasure doing business with you, really it was," Myra replies sweetly as the two women dump the box onto the table and scramble to get away from her. "They always think it's a show on their behalf," she notes of Tess with a wistful sigh, nodding towards the door then. "Go on, out with you. You're not welcome here anymore, I'm afraid, not my rules, you understand," she adds quickly, tucking back a lock of hair with the extended fingers of a hand holding a blaster pistol. Not really waiting to see if they'll actually go, the little woman sets one down on the table next to the bar and starts puzzling out the box. "I've always hated these things, half the time you cut yourself or break what's inside," is the muttered observation as she tugs it towards herself, leaning forward on the edge of the seat to reach better.
Don't worry, Fehmu and Arajor are gone - long gone. The box, however, won't sit still for Myra. "Y'CAN'T BREAK ME, SWEETHEART, I'D LIKE T'SEE YA DAMN WELL TRY!" The crate is simple enough - a latch on each edge of the lid and no locks - but it doesn't sound as if its occupant will come out peacefully. "WHERE'D THOSE WITCHES GO? I'LL STRING 'EM UP BY THEIR ANKLES AN' LET 'EM BLEED OUT, SLOWLY FILL 'EM WITH SAND FROM TH'OTHER SIDE AND PUT 'EM ON DISPLAY IN THAT GALLERY FOR TH'HORNY RED LADY T'PLAY WITH!" It gives another violent shudder as the occupant throws themselves against the sides. "LET -" *thud* "-ME-" *thud* "-GO!" *thud, thud, thud*. "'KORBA!" It sounds like it's tiring, whatever it is, and its threats and cries are turning more to... Pleas? "Where's that sad excuse fer a rubber bath mat anyway? Huh?! Tha' Dug is here somewhere an' this ain't funny; get me /out of here/!"
Tess laughs all over again and shakes her head, "Myra, you minx. Stop trying to make me fall in love with you." She keeps on laughing long after she's clipped her helmet back into place on her armor and started for the door. "Man, this is all the makings of a holonet video... why don't I ever record this stuff?" Then back out into the streets of Nar Shaddaa and a whole different kind of people watching.
"Wonderful, a pleasure doing business with you, really it was," Myra replies sweetly as the two women dump the box onto the table and scramble to get away from her. "They always think it's a show on their behalf," she notes of Tess with a wistful sigh, nodding towards the door then. "Go on, out with you. You're not welcome here anymore, I'm afraid, not my rules, you understand," she adds quickly, tucking back a lock of hair with the extended fingers of a hand holding a blaster pistol. Not really waiting to see if they'll actually go, the little woman sets one down on the table next to the bar and starts puzzling out the box. "I've always hated these things, half the time you cut yourself or break what's inside," is the muttered observation as she tugs it towards herself, leaning forward on the edge of the seat to reach better.
Don't worry, Fehmu and Arajor are gone - long gone. The box, however, won't sit still for Myra. "Y'CAN'T BREAK ME, SWEETHEART, I'D LIKE T'SEE YA DAMN WELL TRY!" The crate is simple enough - a latch on each edge of the lid and no locks - but it doesn't sound as if its occupant will come out peacefully. "WHERE'D THOSE WITCHES GO? I'LL STRING 'EM UP BY THEIR ANKLES AN' LET 'EM BLEED OUT, SLOWLY FILL 'EM WITH SAND FROM TH'OTHER SIDE AND PUT 'EM ON DISPLAY IN THAT GALLERY FOR TH'HORNY RED LADY T'PLAY WITH!" It gives another violent shudder as the occupant throws themselves against the sides. "LET -" *thud* "-ME-" *thud* "-GO!" *thud, thud, thud*. "'KORBA!" It sounds like it's tiring, whatever it is, and its threats and cries are turning more to... Pleas? "Where's that sad excuse fer a rubber bath mat anyway? Huh?! Tha' Dug is here somewhere an' this ain't funny; get me /out of here/!"
"Ah, just like a jewelry box," Myra decides pleasantly, unperturbed by the cries from within the box, lighting up a little as she makes her discovery that there are no locks. Cagily, she runs her hands around it as best she can with it jumping around like that, looking for any sort of booby traps, but those idiots were probably not that insightful anyway, so she turns the opening away from her, reaches around with some difficulty, and undoes the latches, lifting the lid to use it as a shield and let the occupant out the other side.
The thudding continues, but stops abruptly when it becomes clear that the scraping sounds are - could it be? YES! The lid! The lid! The occupant goes quiet and still until a visible crack of light starts to form, and then throws herself free. The captive doesn't wait for the lid to open all the way, and instead half batters itself against the top and goes tumbling out of it to slide across the tabletop, a bruised and humiliated disgrace. What they had in the box is, to those discerning enough to recognize them, a Kushiban - an ornery one at that. It's a female, moodfur jet black and eyes red.
Mujiji stands shakily, already reaching for her holster and weapon before her feet are fully beneath her. She's foggy and hazy from pummeling herself against the insides of a box for who knows /how/ long, but it hasn't softened her demeanor any. That fur stays black, those eyes stay red, and she keeps a paw on her blaster as she turns to glare at Myra. "Who're you? Where'd they go? Waddya want? I ain't no slave, y'try t'put a ruddy collar on me an' I'll turn y'pretty fingers inside out then make y'trim y'own nails!"
Myra stares, and then her eyes go wide, blinking owlishly at the Kushiban as she discreetly tucks her own weapons away again, vanishing into her coat. "Aren't you *precious!* My goodness, I've never seen anything quite so adorable and homicidal at the same time," she coos, sitting back in her seat and pressing her hands against it to keep her posture tall, trying to stay on eye level with her. She's short, and Mujiji has the table. "If you ask me, it enhances the cuteness, if anything, but I know you didn't ask me, of course not, you've only just been freed from a pair of bungling lunatics," the little woman observes, sliding over Tess's glass of water. "I'm sure you'd do many frightful, awful things to me, yes," she continues, nodding in an energetic fashion that sends her short pale hair tumbling out from behind her ears. "But before that, have some water. I'm Myra, Myra Bale, I just sat down here and asked them to show their licenses and they left, really that's all," she remarks with a sly grin that suggests that's probably definitely not all. "I like your spunk. What's your name?"
She swings wildly, twice, at thin air before bumbling her own blaster into her paws - it takes Moo a solid moment to lower it once she does. Her fur slowly, slowly, starts to whiten again, her eyes go pale and grey - the transition is slow and halting, but it does happen. "M'not 'precious', sweetheart." She growls, though it's not with the same malice as before. She's mostly white-furred now. She eyes the water. "I'm a professional whats been illegally manhandled by..." She pauses and eyes Myra as if seeing her for the first time. "...A pair of bungling lunatics, yes, yes." Hesitantly, she drops to three paws (the fourth still clutches her pistol) and dips her muzzle over the water, lapping at it thirstily and not bothering to hold it in her paws like a civilized beast. She wants to keep her hold on that blaster like a baby carries a blanket. It takes her a long moment to reply further: "Mujiji. Run a shop down in Ko Hentota."
The former slave has a 'thing' about slavers, and after what she heard in the box and what she's seeing now, it's not difficult to discern that this Myra is working for the very slaving assholes that would have her prancing about as an aesthetic home addition - but this woman saved her, it would seem. She owes her that. "I - ah... Thanks? I'dda got loose of 'em eventually, but y'saved me a load of trouble in it. So... ah." She loops her holster back about her, she folds the plates of her armor back into her little bag - and she pulls a datachit out of it. "I do - ah - miscellaneous mercenary work as well. There's my contact, y'get one free favor." She isn't keen on sticking around, especially with all these people staring - she's made enough of a spectacle of herself. The Kushiban leaps over the back of the booth and stumbles out into the Hutt district, uneven and wobbly on uncertain, tired paws.
