FORESIGHT and SCOPE: BOOK TWO

C H A P T E R F I F T Y-S I X

"Nope." I snickered. "I'll be M.I.A. for a few rotations—just a heads-up." I paused, waiting for Crosshair's response. Static glitched in the empty space. "Hello?"

"Ca–an you h-h-h—" The connection was severed.

"Great..." I rolled my eyes. This wasn't the first time our signal has been lost, and there was no use in attempting a callback. I hoisted myself to my feet and scooped up my pre-packed satchel, throwing the strap over my shoulder. Taking a gander in the small, personal mirror, I tugged on the hem of my bomber jacket. The tan fabric complimented my skin-tight, forest-green, sleeveless top with a swooping neckline. My voluminous, raven waves framed my face nicely; my curtain bangs even curled at their ends. I had noticed my hair had grown a tad longer, just hovering an inch above my shoulders. After double-checking my blaster and vibro-knife on my belt, I finished my prep with the knotting my black, combat boots.

Requesting transport to Ord Mantell was not difficult, especially when one claims a title they don't actually know whether or not it was still valid. It didn't hurt having my reputation, either. At last, I was watching the ecumenopolitic planet shrink into a glowing dot in the black abyss just before the shuttle zipped into hyperspace. Courtesy of the Empire, I was granted passage to my destination. If I was to return to Coruscant, it would be on my credit and autonomously.

Long live the Empire.

Upon arriving, since I had been there before, I walked a direct route to Ciddarin Scaleback's parlor from the spaceport. The bazaar that I cut through was bustling with activity. Vendors shouted deals of a lifetime and consumers shuffled shoulder to shoulder to reach them. I moved my bag to my front, keeping an observant eye on my surroundings; I lived my life as a bounty hunter—I know the preying grounds of pick-pockets anywhere.

Eventually, I reached the more quiet, disreputable corners of the town. Slender buildings blocked the sunlight in the narrow alleyways. Suspicious characters lurked in the shadows. "What is a pretty thing like you doing in—"A Quarren snatched my arm, and I allowed no entertainment in his sleaziness.

Tick.

Within a second, my knife sliced off two of his four wriggling tentacles that protruded from his jaw. He howled and crumbled to his knees, clutching his face. With a click of my tongue, I continued on my way without a second glance, though in my peripheral vision people were giving me one.

Neon signs flickered over certain ingresses, including one blantantly blinking 'Cid's' in Aurebesh with a picture of a pair of dice. It hung above a dinky stairwell leading down to a basement. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I hopped down and entered the facility.

"Greetings, Customer!" A droid aparated in my eyesight. Instinctively, I drew my blade once again in a defensive position. It paid no heed to my reaction. "How may I serve you today? I am AZI-345211896—"

"Alright! I get it!" I waved my hands as if that would miraculously shut him off. Then, I blinked. "Wait, are you a...Kaminoan medical droid?" The small, grey and white droid had a humanoid head, torso, and several collapsible arms—ideal for performing surgery—which also possessed an integrated scomp link to interface with terminals. There were light-green trimming around each socket, though the paint had chipped off in multiple areas. On his bottom half, he had repulsorlifts that allowed him to float and maneuver in the air swimmingly. Giant, yellow eyes beamed at me. "You are correct. You must be—Oh, Fern! I did not recognize you with your short hair!"

"I'm not Fern." I rolled my eyes, sheathing my weapon.

"You are not?" AZI-3 seemed to briefly short-circuit. Then, he dipped forward to examine my facial features. I pulled my chin back in our close proximity. "You are correct." he repeated. "You are older than Fern, therefore you cannot be her. Furthermore, if you were Fern, you would know I am a surgical assistant droid."