Monowi Station - the Galactic Fringe

Fury was nursing a drink at the local cantina. He'd lost a lot since the Empire had fallen apart - again - but the cantinas and the shops and the fleet of too-heavily-armed-freighters were still in his name. So he wasn't hurting for credits, just places he could sit without worrying about getting shot or arrested.

Or both.

So, sure, his waystation, his cantina, his own stash of smoke whiskey. But no Vast Empire, no Corps, no Capital F Fleet, no planets where they knew his name and it wasn't flagging wanted listings upon facial recognition. Well, the last part wasn't true. There were plenty of backwater worlds without ice he could hang out on. But those weren't any fun.

The next week or so should be fun though.

Every so often a message would appear. Usually someone would try to reform the Empire, either his faction or someone else's. He'd go, if just to find out which REMF admiral has delusions of grandeur, or at least help supply or take part in some raid on a New Republic depot or help take down some actually dangerously deranged local tinpot and replace it with a bunch of disgruntled ex-troopers who didn't know how to lead anything bigger than a platoon.

Sometimes, though, someone just wanted to get the gang back together and drink and tell old stories that would scare the poodoo out of anything being rude enough to eavesdrop.

This, hopefully, was one of those events.

People took him too seriously as a cutthroat businessman who pulled out a blaster about as often as a credstick. It would be nice to see folks who were only used to him barking orders or griping about a crease in their uniform.

OOC:

Alright. As per usual, gravitate to the bar, and get comfy. I'll do my best to screw stuff up soon enough. There will be possibly relevant wiki material soon as well. I will link when necessary.

"Unknown lighter, slow your approach, identify, and state your needs." He waited a moment. "Also, detach whatever that is you are hauling and tag a marker buoy to it. No way am I letting you drag that hunk of salvage to the station. Over."

Airman Dev Jannek, Imperial Center Defense Fleet maneuvered his TIE Defender off the starboard side of a very rusty HT-2200. How a starfaring freighter had managed to oxidize when it should have been in vacuum was probably a story worth hearing. Meanwhile, the real story was the hunk of mangled metal that his IFF kept insisting was a Silvuit Vibre-class assault cruiser.

In any case, the freighter was slowing, its towing tractor beam almost visibly straining the slow the mass of the cruiser that was a good four times the size of the freighter itself.

"Ahoy, defense." Ahoy? Who spoke like that anymore? "We are the freighter Kilclare, salvagers mostly. We found this crate way out in the middle of the dark and are hoping to see it to a salvage yard. Unfortunately, we've got some engine trouble and could use some resupply as well. Since you're the only game in this part of space, we'd like to impose on you for some assistance. Credit, we've got. Sort of. But we've rather split a piece of our prize to be honest. Over."

This part of space was dirty with scavengers picking over dead colonies and miners with a stake but no credits left to their name. Bartering was nothing new.

"You're in luck. The station chief is usually looking to put another finger in another pie and you've certainly got one with a story to tell. I'll alert the dockmaster and they'll guide you in. We'll keep your prize in our patrol formation. You'll notice my partner coming up on your port side as we speak. Welcome to Monowi."

The rest of the shift went pretty calmly. Only a scout craft coming in from who knew where, trying to map new hyperspace lanes in this very cluttered part of space.