The Big, Wide Galaxy: A Star Wars Underworld Quest

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The human assistant to your cousin calls himself Redvers Buller, and describes himself as a 'hunter and second'. A barked order from Buller has one of the other thieves call a driver, and the station lobby suddenly seems far colder and more dangerous with just you, the station staff, and the burly human who seems to be your cousin's second in command.

One look around the lobby finds that the staff and the rest of the thieves have decided to look busy or leave. The human named Buller is dangerous, possibly homicidal, and probably a psychopath of some form. You're not making friends, but you might as well fish for some advice.

You might have a churning tense wariness in your gut around this man, but there's no call to be impolite. Your duffel-bag clanks with your helmet and weapons in it, and you drop it on the floor as you settle in to wait for the car – and a cough from you gets the human's attention. "So...hello?"

"Hello." He grunts out the one word, and lights up a tabac stick without saying another one. There are curling tattoos on his arms, peeking out from under a professional-seeming shirt. The same curling black tattoos almost like flames trapped in ink on skin were on your cousin's biceps the last time you saw him. When you asked cousin Rhaj about them, he tended to laugh and tell you that they were prizes. Somehow you don't think he was telling the whole story.

You decide again why the hell not, and poke the taciturn human again. "Any advice for Coruscant? I mean, it's good to meet you and all, but I didn't expect the shooting to start so fast."

There's a rasping sound that you take a moment to process as laughter, and the big human turns his head to you to reply. One of his eyes is an artificial replacement and the other is scarred, and both of them are amused yet somehow menacing. You're reminded of being in front of a hungry rancor, and you stand your ground. Buller sizes you up for a moment before he grunts out, "Try not to talk too much."
Lovely.

The driver comes by fifteen awkward minutes later, the big human beside you seemingly amused by the discomfort he causes. The driver herself is a slim Twi'lek who introduces himself as Jin, the wheelman, and a few barked orders from Buller load up the bags that came with you from Concordia as well as other parcels that the lobby staff carefully don't look at.

One of the other two helmeted gangers that backed up Buller lets out a selpuchral chuckle, and the staff flinch a little as he does. Buller just whacks the shorter man over the helmet before leaving, nary a backward glance in your direction as you weigh whether or not to put on your helmet in the vehicle.

Finally you decide to do it anyways, given that the other two of Buller's henchmen are helmeted as well. You might as well be companionable.
Saying this when Jin gives you a questioning looks gets another rasping chuckle out of Redvers Buller.

Settling into the base itself is a process that takes more than a little time, your sleeping place being a bunk-bed with a pungent Weequay on top who informs you that he snores a little. Wonderful.

There are, however, a few hours before your cousin comes in to brief you on what he says is a short enforcement job. You might as well kill some time before the operation kicks off.

Pick one action taken in the intervening time:
[]Socialize: There are a few people probably assigned to the industrial zone job just like you. You might as well get to know them, even if one of them is that same Weequay who does not know of how to deal with body odor. Best to know your squad before the shooting starts.

[]Check your gear: Recheck your weapons, see if you can scrounge up some grenades and some high-grade blaster ammunition, see if your cousin's base can fix up the battered sensing rig on the helmet. If you're sniping or shooting, you might as well have the gear for it. Even if you look like an asshole, sitting there with your gear.

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Industrial Zone 3-C, Four Hours Later

The warehouse itself is dark, and the sniper's nest that you've rigged up is a makeshift one. There's a grumbling below from a Nemoidian overseer, the droids doing the unloading from a cargo speeder evidently moving too slowly for his taste. You're all too aware of the itching sensation of sweat trickling down your neck, and you're thirsty. You've been in this position for three and a half hours, by your count. It's accurate. Your helmet HUD is always, always ticking away with mechanical precision.

There's a clattering noise as one of the droids drops a crate. A B1 security droid turns towards the noise before seeming to relax as much as a spindly form of metal and plastics can do so. Its blaster points once again to the doors. The work goes on.

You've been watching the Nemoidian unload from four different speeders by now. Time has passed in idle speculation about the cargoes. The sniper's hide that you're in is an old overseer's office that dates back half a century to when this was a factory floor. Time has hidden it away, behind warning signs and danger zone alerts talking about poor footing and collapse.
It hasn't done that yet. There's still a bit of a creak now and then as aging, cheap metal plating groans under your weight. The Nemoidian doesn't move at all when that happens. It seems to be something usual.

Suddenly there's a whisper in your ear. There's a loud crash outside. The B1 turns to the door, blaster at the ready. The Nemoidian pulls an odd-looking gun out of his robes. Redvers Buller's rough voice buzzes through your helmet commlink, "Execute."

Your finger kisses the firing stud of your blaster rifle ever so slightly, and a single bolt cores the Nemoidian's head and leaves a hissing mess of fluids and flesh. The B1 spins back to the dead overseer before shooting wildly in your direction. You fire again. The B1 does not.

And with a great crashing noise, the doors are blown open. Redvers Buller storms inside with an automatic grenade launcher on his back and bloodstains on his front, the crew served weapon seeming to be almost man-sized compared to his bulk. Thieves in masks or helmets and patchwork armor fan out, even as Buller checks one of the cases the Nemoidian unloaded for traps. Finding none, he nods in your direction to come down before opening it with a vibroblade.
Almost involuntarily, someone gasps. Buller just grunts. A whisper from behind you says, "This shouldn't be here."

What is it?
[]Blasters: Gleaming with the sheen of new-made death, they're neatly stacked and marked with Corellian emblems. This should not be here. Corellia should not be muscling into Coruscant. Corellian arms haven't been here in a generation. The dead Nemoidian can't tell anyone anything anymore, but everyone wishes he could – a hornet's nest has been kicked off. Who's selling Corellian arms?

[]Low-Denomination Unmarked Credits: That much money can purchase a great many things. It can buy a penthouse on a top-level plate of the ecumenopolis. It can buy safety, armed men with good reputations to protect oneself. It can buy death, silent and swift and sure. And it can buy a Senator. Something is afoot, and your cousin doesn't give you much time in base before your next assignment.

[]Droid Parts: They're round, some of them, almost like skulls made long. Some of them are short and stubby, blasters made to kill from short range. And some of them are the mad geometries of shield emitters, made to guard a killer's steel puppet. What are droidekas with Trade Federation stamps on their metal doing here?

The first vote is story related, and in some sense sets squad dynamics as well as your skills/gear. There is not much time at base before the above is followed up on. A hornet's nest has been kicked.
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