#Pirates and Smugglers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sinisterexaggerator · 3 months

Text

Friends In Low Places (part 1 )

Tech and Hondo Ohnaka

Rated: Teen and up (a rare general audiences fic on my part.)

Warning: Violence, death, injury, all comparable to what we see in The Bad Batch, stealing, foul language, sass, pain mention, broken bones mention, secrets, fight or flight.

Summary: Tech is plummeting toward death, yet he is spared, all thanks to a Weequay pirate who was simply in the wrong place at the right time, depending.

Word count: 5k+

Notes: This is a kind of crack / AU scenario. I like the idea of Hondo being the one to encounter Tech after his fall. The idea was definitely inspired my Phee's line at the end of season 2: "Well, don't go running off with any pirates or smugglers while you're gone," and by an ask I got from @spicedrobot :) Don't take this too seriously, though at the same time I tried to make it plausible. The main point of this was to have fun with Tech and Hondo ribbing each other in their own way. I love both of these characters, and I am excited to see what you guys think.

P.S.: This will have a few more chapters, but I am sure I will not be able to finish this before Wednesday (the season 3 premiere), though I do intend to keep writing this story no matter what happens in canon.

Read on Ao3

Tech had only milliseconds to formulate a plan of action, yet there was nothing that could be done.

A dense fog stretched on for what felt like kilometers, the world below advancing swiftly as he descended. His head whipped to the left and right, the remnants of the railcar bearing down on him with regrettable rapidity.

There was not anything to grapple onto, nothing to prevent his fall.

The clone craned his neck; there was a rumbling sound the likes of which sublight engines made, the distinctive shape of a ship materializing like a phantom from the breadths of the mist. From this unnatural angle, it appeared to be 55.52 meters in length, painted brown and gray with yellow detailing, some additional markings on its nose and sides.

There was no time, much like he had told Wrecker moments earlier.

Tech disengaged from the length of cord that was still attached to the hunk of metal threatening to overtake him, his unmoored form slamming hard into duralloy, a resounding thud most likely heard by all within. At the same time, the tail end of the railcar met the tail end of the unknown vessel he had landed upon, hazardous debris shooting off in one direction while an electrical discharge and the beginnings of a fire sparked to life shortly thereafter.

Alarms sounded; he heard voices rising in fear and anger. He tried to breathe, clinging desperately to shreds of the ship’s hull as it began to make a nosedive toward a vast expanse of trees. He could not decide what might be worse: being crushed by the massive weight of the railcar, or shredded to pieces in what was sure to be a nasty crash.

Tech sat up; he stood, albeit shakily, activating the appropriate leg muscles to tighten his grip and stay his balance, even as the starship tipped. Once the canopy of the trees beneath him was within range, he sprinted with all his remaining energy, running to the closest edge.

Leaping as far as his momentum would carry him, Tech braced for impact, the first of what must be a thousand branches pummeling his body as he dropped, once again, toward the ground.

---

Two brown eyes fluttered open at the sound of a tenacious grunt; something or someone was attempting to acquire his right boot. In his delirium, the clone could not understand what one would do with it, noting that the two came as a pair. He moved to speak, though he found it difficult for his vocal cords to produce sound, the onset of a splitting headache having silenced him from protesting against this attempt at robbery.

“Hmm?” a deeply resonate hum filled his ears, the voice belonging to a face he could not see; it appeared that his eyewear had been lost in the fall, Tech left in a world full of undefined shapes and vague outlines in comparison to what he was used to; it was a thing that worried him despite there being so much else to worry about.

Currently, it was the theft of his shoe.

“Oh, uh—” there was a clearing of this person’s throat, “—you are not dead.”

“No,” Tech managed, beginning to flex his fingers as he stretched them in turn, determining if one or many of them were broken - so far so good.

“Den... I shall come back later,” this oddly vivacious voice declared, the rustling of nearby foliage signaling to Tech that he was lying in a bed of something fibrous and soft.

Eriadu. He was still on Eriadu. A series of factoids flooded his overtaxed mind.

A terrestrial planet in the Eriadu system of the Seswenna sector, Eriadu is located in the Outer Rim. Known for its varied geophysical elements, it is defined by landforms such as mountains and jungles—

The canopy - the native flora - he assumed, had slowed his descent. It was the last thing he remembered before his vision inevitably went dark.

“I—I will be needing that boot.” His voice sounded unlike himself, weak and pained. His chest burned, though he was sure had it not been for his armor, he would be dead. Reaching out with limbs that were sore and stiff, Tech found the grass beneath and around him to be dense, yet spongy.

A part of a larger family, either Poaceae, Cyperaceae, or Juncaceae, this monocotyledonous plant had narrow leaves, hollow stems, and clusters of very small, usually wind-pollinated flowers— though Tech could not tell given his present condition. Grown for either food, fodder, or ground cover, this particular variety had helped to save his life and occurred naturally, much to his silent thanks.

“Deeey are not my size, anyway,” the previously ebullient voice replied, now having taken on a dry and dour tone. He felt movement and heard a “thwack” at what he theorized was his boot returned to him, the crunch of vegetation being trampled underfoot accompanying the retreat of the mysterious figure.

“Wait,” this clone called out, the form before him turning to glance over his shoulder.

“You look like him. Are you… one of dem?” the man questioned, Tech not having an answer as his inquiry was incomplete; it lacked specifics, yet he surmised he meant one thing.

“Are you speaking of Jango Fett?” Tech asked, hands pressing against earth for fingers to splay apart as he used his forearms to halfway right himself, though it was tough going.

“Ah, so you are,” the man replied, traipsing forward through the grass in Tech’s direction once again; his black boots were the only thing clearly visible at this height and at this range - he had his own, so why did he need his?

“I thought so. A clone, den, but you look… so different. Skinnier. Sort of, how you say, sickly. Not at all like my dear old friend...”

Tech brushed off his insults, not taking offense, as that sort of thing did not interest him. He cared not what others thought about his outward appearance, as he knew that it was what is on the inside that counts.

“I am a member of an experimental unit that was engineered with an enhanced mental capacity and superior intelligen—”

“Dat es all fine, well, and good, but. BUT. You look ab-so-lute-ly terrible. I am… surprised dat with de level of damage tu your factory-made armor, you are still among de living.”

Then, Hondo paused, as if thinking about something. “Yes, yes… perhaps you are of his ilk, after all.”

“I need to get back to my brothers; to Omega—”

“—Indeed. I am en a bit of a predicament, tuu, you see—”

“—They are in danger, the Empire—”

“—De Empire shot. me. down!” this man practically yelled, overcome with a sudden, zealous anger. Though not privy to the exact way his beloved, modified luxury yacht had been taken out, assumptions could. be. made!

Tech thought perhaps it was in his best interest not to admit he may have had something to do with it, although it had been out of his control.

“You would tink dey have never seen a Weequay pilot a SoroSuub 3000 over restricted airspace before,” the man continued, Tech taking this time to slip his boot back on. “Why, I even masked its signature! But de area was swarming with activity from de moment I arrived,” he was quick to claim, Tech staring up at the blurry sentient who was much too loud for his pounding head.

“Lower your voice. Someone is bound to hear you, and I do not think that—”

“—Are you giving Hondo a command?”

“—we should remain here for much longer.”

“I am not one of your subordinates; I am Hondo Ohnaka! De king of pirates, and captain of de notorious Ohnaka Gang,” the being professed, Tech noting his hand to be wafting in the air. “Ef et were not for being dragged entu your war, I might still be sitting pretty, hm?”

Hondo did not want to think on his ravaged base. At least his ships had been safely stowed away beneath the desert, residing in a spacious, private vault of his own design. He also did not want to think about how his favorite amongst them was now nothing more than bits of twisted and charred shrapnel; it would never again grace the skies or soar amidst the stars.

Then, he seemed to rethink things, the Weequay emitting a low growl in disapproval. “Mn… But I suppose dis es not your war, either. You were… created en a lab,” he finished, Tech’s attention having waned to the point he was now searching the surrounding area with both hands, looking for his goggles.

Studying the clone commando down the tip of his nose, Hondo found a new topic to speak on rather quickly. “You are very, very lucky,” he informed him, “what wit you not yet being dead, and for Hondo tu be here at de very same time. Tell me, what was dat other explosion I heard?” he asked curiously, the self-named pirate king bending forward at the waist to hunch over the wounded man.

“Our mission should have been straight-forward, but it was a failure,” Tech stated matter of fact. “It was complicated by the presence of Saw Gerrera; he sought to bring down the entire Imperial facility when our goal was to install a homing-beacon on one particular ship that—”

“—Ah, you speak of ships! Yes, yes… Dat es what I need,” Hondo glossed over the rest of the conversation, ignoring Saw's mention entirely and the series of unfortunate events that had led Tech to this place. “But tanks tu you and your little playmates, de planet es now crawling with Imperial forces, more so dan usual, I suspect!

Another pause. “Are you not… Imperial?”

Tech was tempted to ignore the question. “No, I am not. However, it seems we are both in need of the same thing,” Tech snapped back, his temper rising. “Though it would benefit me to find my goggles,” he added wryly. “I do not suppose you might help with that.”

“You supposed correctly!” this Hondo fellow confirmed with a smile in his obnoxiously jovial voice. “Unless…” he trailed off. “Dere es something en et for me, perhaps?" Never mind he knew what it was like to desire one’s own eyewear should it be lost or taken from you; at the moment it did not matter, nor did he care.

Tech sighed, already exasperated. “You said you are a pirate. I happen to know one such similar person, a treasure hunter by the name of Phee Genoa. Perhaps there is something of value that can be traded if we manage to leave Eriadu alive. My destination would be the planet Pabu. It is where I exp—”

“Phee Genoa?!” Hondo asked, exhilarated. “Why, I have not seen her en years!” He turned his back, something red and splotchy nearly hitting Tech in the face. It was this scoundrel’s coat, though unable to make it out for what it was.

“Pabu…” his voice darkened, Tech not noticing the way this devil’s eyes lit up, glinting behind worn transparisteel as his lip curled upward in a toothy grin.

Wheeling back around, Tech was nearly smacked a second time by the brigand’s foppish attire, raising one arm to protect himself as this Ohnaka brandished a finger toward the dark pall that hung over the sharp and dangerous cliffside, settling just above the jungle’s canopy. “So, DAT es where she has been hiding… What a wily, enterprising woman she es…”

Tech felt a pang like he had not felt before, not in the least bit enjoying the shade this man had taken when he had mentioned Phee by name. He also wondered if he should have brought up Pabu in conversation at all, mentally scolding himself, even though this stranger was no friend to the Empire.

“Is it a refugee planet,” he reminded himself, knowing that Pabu’s location was not exactly a secret, only that their presence there ultimately put many lives at risk, and that Phee had been kind enough to take them in.

“Do you know her?” Tech asked, attempting to mask the unsettling feeling that lingered in his gut. Then, he thought to pose another question. “And just what are you doing here?” he queried harshly, unable to prevent the acerbic inflection that was produced alongside his curiosity.

Ohnaka chuckled, easily deducing he had struck a nerve. Tucking that bit of information away for later, he placed two fingers along the outside of his swoop-goggles and gave them a gentle tug. “You see deese?” he inquired.

“No,” Tech answered brusquely.

The Weequay frowned, at once understanding his meaning and correcting himself accordingly by giving a more thorough explanation; he was walking, or rather crawling, blind. “Lommite,” Hondo whispered with a sinister air. “You see, et es—”

“—a type of ore considered to be one of the primary constituent materials of transparisteel, durasteel, starfighter canopies, and dura-armor. It is mined on both the planet Didyma five and here on Eriadu. Chalky in both texture and coloring, lommite is often utilized by artists and can be molded like clay for—”

“—My dear child,” Hondo interrupted as he had so rudely been, “you forgot one ting en your quite elaborate and unnecessary explanation.”

Tech brushed off what was meant to be another insult, struggling to stand on his feet. The rogue commando would groan in pain and straighten out; he would tower over the other man if he could only manage to keep proper posture, as he was in too much quiet agony to do so. He ascertained two of his ribs were broken, and that his already injured femur had incurred another setback, though he only stared blankly ahead, thinking hard on what it was he may have missed in his otherwise accurate description of the mineral in question.

“Et es easy money,” Hondo finally offered, clasping his hands together in front of his ornate belt buckle as he observed the clone rise with great difficulty. Not commenting on his physical condition – yet – Hondo began to circle around the boy, for that is exactly what he was. A young man in the prime of life, forced to spend it perhaps not how he saw fit, but with a blaster in his hand and a bucket on his head.

“En fact, dere es a mining operation not tuu far from here – one with ships!” Hondo finalized, Tech squinting to barely make out the excited expression the Weequay sported on his striated face; he had waltzed back around.

“And you plan to steal it,” Tech stated flatly, his body turning slowly toward the left as he began scouting for any differences among the grass; he was looking for something gray and yellow, with a recording device affixed to its side. He would even settle for something large and bulky: his helmet. Unbeknownst to Tech, it had bounced off his head once his body had landed roughly in the grass; at least it had stayed on for the majority of his troubling descent.

“What else would one du with et? Bury et like treasure tu come back for later?” Hondo asked in a petulant, derisive tone.

“Is that not what pirates do?” Tech retorted, his own tone less than amused. He managed to locate his bucket in some nearby brush, inspecting it for damage. His visor was cracked as well as the circumaural radio muffs that allowed him to communicate at close range with his squad. He tapped his vambrace with two fingers as he held on loosely to his headgear; the components within sizzled and sparked. He was in fact stranded here, and without a way to comm for help.

Then, he had an idea. One that was better than nothing.

The pirate scoffed, Tech ignoring his theatrics to readorn his battered helmet. He flipped the visor down. Though the head-up display had a hairline fracture that split apart into various directions, it was still somewhat functional. He felt suddenly elated, though this was only a small victory.

“Perhaps you are… unable tu understand when I am joking, for however smart you say you are,” Ohnaka quipped.

“It hardly seems worth the effort,” Tech commented in regard to his poorly thought out plan.

“Ap-Ap-Ap!” the Weequay interrupted viciously, “—dat es where you are wrong, my friend.”

“I am not your friend,” Tech said in his defense, “and I am seldom wrong.”

“I am betting dat you are,” Hondo rejoined callously, all teeth.

Tech did not speak for a moment, gathering his thoughts. One bit of local history came to mind, a fascinating story that pertained to the current topic of conversation. “Have you ever heard of the pirate queen Q'anah?”

Hondo narrowed oblique, gray eyes, “And what of her?”

“Well,” Tech began, “Eriadu used to be a frequent target for pirates, marauders, and privateers. Lommite shipments leaving the planet on their way to the Core were of particular interest to these pirate gangs. This planet formed their own paramilitary group, which was named the Outland Regions Security Force; they attempted to handle the situation by themselves. This force found itself to be stretched too thin to deal with the problem on a more permanent basis, the pirate threat becoming far worse when multiple gangs formed an alliance under the leadership of queen Q'anah.”

“Take a breath, why don’t you?” Hondo chided, though truth be told he loved a good story, even if it was one he had already heard, and, more often than not, he preferred to be the one telling them, however humoring the clone only so much as he desired.

Tech disregarded him, continuing unperturbed. “Eriadu Mining and Shipping was ingeniously outsmarted by Q'anah's Marauders, who brought the mining company to the brink of bankruptcy. The raids ended when Wilhuff Tarkin, a then lieutenant in the Outland's anti-piracy task force, managed to crack the sequence Q'anah used to decide which specific lommite containers she would target.”

“What a decidedly smart woman she must have—”

“—the same Wilhuff Tarkin who is working under the authority of the Galactic Empire, the man whose home base sits at the top of Raven’s Peak,” Tech pointed out, having just come from there only a few minutes ago. Or perhaps it was hours now; he did not know for sure.

“Uhh— Uh-huh,” Hondo offered in response, not able to come up with anything more articulate than that.

“He managed to infect the chosen lommite containers' hyperdrive motivators with a virus that would spread to the pirate’s vessels, forcing their navigational computers to override the coordinates entered to instead deliver the ships to the waiting Outland Security Forces.”

“Mhm, mhm, yes, alllll very fascinating, but I du not see what dis has tu du with—”

“—Q'anah's reign ended abruptly when Tarkin ordered that Q’anah and her crew be placed into empty shipping containers that would be subsequently programmed to slowly pilot themselves into the sector's sun. The feed from within the container was broadcasted live as the pirates were slowly roasted to death in order to strike terror into the hearts of anyone who dared to follow in Q'anah's footsteps.”

Hondo cleared his throat, turning his back on the chatty clone. “Dat other planet you mentioned, er, Daddy fiv—”

“—Didyma five—”

“—Perhaps et would make for an easier target, but—”

Tech scrutinized the man, or that part of him which he could barely pick out against a backdrop of tall trees, opening his mouth to counter his assumption.

Hondo added something more; he had not been finished. “Dere es one thing you failed tu mention, however.”

Tech sighed, fiddling with the settings on his visor, aiming to adjust its current configuration to display the heat signatures of sentient beings. All living things gave off infrared energy to a degree. It was with this knowledge that Tech was able to bypass - and even solve - his current dilemma, the one in which he was unable to see, despite it being only possible between a dizzying variety of crisscrossing fractures and uneven lines.

“And what might that be?” he asked, words clipped.

“De fact dat I am Hondo Ohnaka,” the Weequay sneered, gazing at him from over his armored shoulder plate, “and Hondo Ohnaka survives. every. time.”

In fact, he just had survived yet again! Not a scratch on him; it was more than he could say for his poor men.

Tech was not impressed, assessing his DC-17 blaster pistols to make sure that they were still operational. “Who or what you are is irrelevant,” he began, “what matters is finding a mode of transportation that will get us out of here, preferably undetected.”

“Irrelevant to whom?” Hondo Ohnaka asked, already beady eyes constricting further into slits as his prominent brow ridge bowed inward, Tech not reacting to his sudden change in mood. The commando had, without much effort, gotten under the scoundrel’s skin. To deny Hondo’s importance or notoriety within the galaxy at large was perhaps the biggest insult one could have placed upon the Weequay; his reputation preceded him! How dare he suggest otherwise!

“What is relevant is—” Tech was not sure why he hadn’t thought to ask yet, his train of thought derailed before he could finish one sentence to complete another, “—do you have a comlink?”

Hondo huffed, turning back around. “Ef I had a comlink, du you not tink dat I would be hailing my crew —what es left of dem—” Hondo mumbled, “— for a much-needed rescue? Granted, should my frigate meet ets end at de greedy, grubby hands of de Empire, den, I will be very, very angry. I am not… well liked when I am angry,” he stated in a low, gruff tone.

“Did you arrive here alone? There is security in numbers,” Tech could not help but to inquire, though he thought he already knew the answer; he had heard multiple voices cry out during the ship’s descent.

“I ded not come alone!” Hondo assured him indignantly, “my co-pilot was killed en de crash.”

Tech had nothing to say for once, simply keeping his eyes trained on the man. Part of him felt like it was his own fault. He weighed his options on coming clean.

Already this Weequay was unpredictable; he easily decided to continue holding his tongue.

“…As were two others of my men—” Hondo grumbled, “—dey ded not seem tu understand de meaning of safety. I told dem, boys, strap en! But—splat! A very ugly ting tu witness.”

A few seconds elapsed; Hondo glared. “Since my name es of noooo importance tu you, I hesitate tu ask what yours es,” he stated, obviously rankled.

“I am Tech,” the clone said without fanfare, much unlike his current company.

“Tech,” Hondo repeated slowly. “Tech, who es nothing like Jango; du you have any other bright ideas?”

“Yes,” he replied.

Hondo groaned a displeased sound, yet he could not help but wonder what this brainiac had come up with. Currently, he was thinking about how he could use this child-soldier to his benefit, not above cutting and running should the need arise.

“Enlighten me, oh smart one,” he derided.

“Though I do not have my goggles, my visor will read the heat signature of any living thing. I may have trouble with inanimate objects, not to mention my heads-up display is damaged, but if we work together, perhaps we can make it to the mining facility to procure—”

“—Ah, so you are not above stealing,” Hondo cut him off.

“When the situation calls for it,” he answered succinctly.

“So verrrry wise, you are,” Hondo offered, sarcasm lacing his butter-smooth baritone.

Just then, voices could be heard in the near distance; they sounded human, eager. Hondo bristled and pulled a vibrocutlass from its sheath as Tech reached for his pistols.

The clone did a doubletake, catching the sword's outline thanks to its vibration. When molecules vibrate, they are known to bump into one another, thus transferring kinetic energy to other molecules. Sometimes, this energy radiates outwardly as heat; Tech was more than a bit surprised. “That is an odd choice.”

Hondo glanced to the clone, then into the thick of the forest. When Tech did not cease his unrelenting stare, Hondo turned back to face him. “Es dere a problem?”

Before Tech could answer, a bolt of blaster fire whizzed past his head. He had only marginally shifted to the right in the nick of time, the readout on his display having flashed a warning as the plasma ray came rushing toward him.

“I suggest we run,” Tech said cursorily.

“What a highly intelligent ting tu say,” Hondo mocked.

Though in an exorbitant amount of pain from head to foot, somehow Tech found the wherewithal to push forward, dashing past the pirate to head into the cover of Eriadu’s jungle, albeit with a limp and heavy breathing.

“Just where are you going without me?” Hondo called out, turning tail to follow in pursuit. “And very slowly, might I add,” he commented, reflecting on the hobbled gait of Tech just a few feet away.

The Weequay groused churlishly as a small group of white-clad soldiers appeared before them. A bolt ricochet off the tip of his cutlass, Hondo having blocked the incoming shot to send it flying back at their enemies. “You don’t even know where de facility es!”

“You should lead the way,” Tech admitted, releasing multiple rounds of fire into oncoming TK Troopers, striking two down with ease. He watched, impressed despite himself, as Hondo Ohnaka sliced the neck of one man and shot another through his plastoid armor with what appeared to be a DL series heavy blaster of some kind; he had withdrawn it from a holster against his hip.

“What an astute observation!” he remarked sardonically, “yooou watch my back, and I will watch our front, yes?”

Hondo was not expecting a reply, nor did he wait for one, putting holes through two more troopers as they vied to overtake them.

Searching within the appropriate pouch strapped to his thigh, Tech withdrew a sonic-based grenade, setting the trigger for a five-second delay. Tossing it with skilled precision, the device detonated, clearing the way for them to move forward through the woods.

“A few tricks up your sleeves, ah?” the pirate called back, having stopped momentarily to catch his breath; he was not as young as he once was, a notion he only seemed to remember when in the heat of battle.

“That was a sonic detonator,” Tech explained for no reason whatsoever, “it emits an oscillated pulse that—”

“Da-da-da-da,” Hondo interjected, snapping as if this man were his own underling,“Iiiiii know what dat was. Now, keep moving, or du you not tink dat you can manage dat?”

The scalawag had squinched deeply, exaggerating his expression to denote that he had not failed to observe Tech’s current condition, which happened to be poor. Even though having this pirate for company was less than ideal, without him, he was unsure if he would be able to escape; Tarkin, or Hemlock himself, had already deployed men to smoke them out. His chances were slim at best.

“Perhaps we can come to some kind of understanding,” Tech offered, already comprehending quite clearly that this man was money driven. While credits were not something he had a lot of, with the help of the others, and hopefully Phee, he would be able to afford to pay him off.

“An agreement?” Hondo nonchalantly tapped the dull, flat side of his blade against the curvature of his shoulder. “You mean you would like tu… make a deal?” he asked, his question not without skepticism, yet Hondo was always game when it came to profits; it was more than obvious his interest was piqued.

“I do not wish for you to run away and leave me behind,” Tech stated concisely, thinking that in this situation honesty was the best policy, although deserving to be withheld in others; he could not remember a time that it was not before now. “The extent of my injuries must have you alarmed.”

Hondo seesawed his head to the left and right, waving his hand and the blaster held by it carelessly in the air. “Eh.”

Tech managed to ignore this, too. “It is plain to see that you are driven by material wealth. We spoke briefly about compensation. I want to be clear: I can promise you the sum of five-thousand credits if you are willing to escort me both to the mining facility, and to find my family.”

“Family?”

“Yes, I mentioned them earlier before you interr—”

“—Five-thousand credits es… paltry at best…”

Hondo tensed; he stopped moving, the tap-tap-tapping of his vibrocutlass coming to a pause. His face hardened as he appeared to observe the man for the first time, his dark gaze traveling the clone from head to foot.

“And what family could a clone possibly have?” Hondo grit his teeth, knowing better than to ask that question.

Tech’s muscles tightened, his mouth forming a thin line. “My brothers are my family; Omega is my family."

“You have so many brothers... Just how many of dem are d’ere?” He did not bother to ask who Omega was.

“They are a part of my Squad. We are a team,” Tech squared his shoulders, not understanding why he had to justify the terminology he had used.

“I see…” His answer was sufficient, tugging the scoundrel’s heartstrings juuuuust enough.

Ah, if only his men were so loyal…

Hondo was no doctor, but he could both sense and see that this boy was on his last reserves. His republic armor had been modified, but it was still beat to shit, cracked in places from whatever chaos had previously ensued. Not to mention, he was compensating for his unfortunately flawed eyesight through that helmet of his; curious, as Jango had a perfect 20/20 and never wore spectacles a day in his life.

The red-clad devil sighed, filling his lungs completely so as to exhale unhurriedly through broad, flaring nostrils. And just like that, he turned on his Pirate’s Honor, sheathing his sword though he kept his blaster on hand.

“I suppose you may come en handy,” Hondo said flippantly, not wanting to admit he had a weakness for sob stories, and especially those that had to do with… family.

He allowed himself to reminiscence on his poor, sweet mother for a time, thinking of a piece of advice she had once proffered him:

“Hondo, someone else’s urgency is your opportunity.” Truer words had never been spoken.

Finally, he straightened his hunched back and tutted. “Yes, yes, yes, come with me, and we shall survive dis, ah? Or. My name es not Hondo Ohnaka! And I can assure you dat et es,” he confirmed, as if there had been any doubt.

Besides, thought Hondo, there was no reason not to keep this fellow around a while longer; his family was missing him, after all. Perhaps they would be willing to bargain more than credits. If they were stationed on Pabu as this Tech had said, the treasures housed within its renown Archium would more than cover his expenses; a greedy glint twinkled in his eye.

“I owe you my gratitude,” Tech replied, shifting his weight on the leg that in fact hurt less, yet was still not free from pain.

“Ahhh, but you owe me more dan dat. Do. not. forget, my friend,” Hondo stated, repeating the descriptor Tech had already once denied; his face had split apart into two halves as his grin spread from ear to ear. Then, he turned, beginning to walk - though a little bit more slowly – into the depths of Eriadu’s wilderness.

Tech felt unnerved despite their accord, thinking the Weequay’s smile was suspect if not downright suspicious of something greater, something being hidden beneath the contrived contracting of all fifty-three of his facial muscles. But for the moment, he chose to trust him. There was not much else he could do, a reoccurring theme over the course of the last few hours.

Remaining guarded and forever watchful, as best he could be in his current state, Tech trundled forward, surrendering himself to whatever else was likely to occur.

---

Comments and reblogs much appreciated! Thanks for reading!

Part 2 coming soon.

23 notes · View notes

theoutcastrogue · 4 months

Text

The Port & the City

Buenos Aires, photo by lasgalletas (Creative Commons CC BY-NC 2.0)

Introduction

City of witches and of asphalt, port with no exit to the sea! — La Portuaria, from the port of Buenos Aires

Some cities have a port, and some port cities have a port culture. That's how I call it, anyway. It's a very special thing. It's created by the furious economic activity that concentrates around the coming and going of ships, cargo, and people. A port needs to cater to all of that, the ships and the cargo, the shipowner and the dockworker, the captain and the deckhand, the tourist and the sailor and the fisherman. And that transforms the entire city.

Where a port city meets the sea, there's shipping companies, travel agencies, imports/exports, truck companies, posh hotels, shitty hotels, fancy bars, seedy bars, brothels, strip clubs, theatres, restaurants, casinos, bookshops, tool shops, souvenir shops, fishing supplies, and fresh fish. There's peddlers and businessmen, porters and accountants, all sorts of people, and they all mingle. They have to! The port's there!

Port cities have their own landmarks and geography, with docks, wharfs, piers, depots, gates, shipyards, and people can orient themselves by relation to the water.

New York City, photo by Kari Nousiainen (Creative Commons CC BY-NC 2.0)

Crime

My gold watch and my pocketbook and lady friend were gone And there was I, Jack all alone, stark naked in the room — the port of New York City

Port cities attract furious criminal activity. Firstly and obviously, everything that's smuggled will be smuggled through here, from cocaine to counterfeit handbags to guns to oil. (I mean crude/refined oil, though with the prices we've seen lately, olive oil is equally plausible.) Port authorities, customs, shipowners and workers, all can have a hand in the pie, a little finger or both hands shoulder-deep, depending on how high up the ladder they are.

Second, ports are always full of newcomers, sailors and passengers, and all newcomers are potential marks. Con artists, scammers, and grifters of all sorts can ply their trade here. There's also a lot of shilling for more or less legitimate businesses (come buy this, sir! rent a room here, ma'am! oh but you must have a drink there, buddy!), and peddling less then legitimate goods (may I interest you in a fine watch? Rayban glasses, I have Rayban glasses! 100% genuine!). And then there's good old pickpocketing. Although in most cases, pickpockets are not allowed to operate within the port itself: it's bad for everyone else's business, and unlike cops, "everyone else" can actually enforce that.

And third, there's the entertainment sector: the trifecta of night life, sex work, and gambling, all going hand in hand with the sale and consumption of drugs and booze. Expect the port city to be much more entangled in all that than other cities, and the port itself to attract the bulk of it, or the worst of it. Things that are theoretically illegal might be tolerated here, things that are heavily regulated elsehwhere might follow their own rules here, and things that are otherwise unheard of can be found here. What are you into? Step right up but beware: the large print giveth and the small print taketh away.

The upshot of all this is that people in the port's vicinity (not the whole city, though) are more likely to be involved, or at least personally know someone who's involved, in profoundly shady and/or illegal business. And that certainly affects the culture. Breaking the law is more "eh" than "oh my!".

Clydebuilt Museum, photo by Paisley Scotland (Creative Commons CC BY 2.0)

Politics

All my life I've lived beside the waters that they call the Clyde I build the ships and watch them glide down the Broomielaw, sir Trudge to work in sleet and rain, labour for another's gain know yer place and don't complain, that's the rich man's law, sir — Alistair Hulett, from the shipyards of Glasgow

A port displays furious political activity. Unions are strong here, because labour is not only working, it's working hard, manually, in the same spaces (so they can talk about it!), and facing the same dangers to life and limb. Working on the docks, handling cargo containers, and ship-building and maintenance are very hazardous jobs (scrapping even more so, I'd say dramatically so), and under these conditions, it's easier to spot the enemy. Not automatic though. Port cities are traditionally, but not unconditionally, strongholds of the left.

Today, it's extremely important for the left to take the ports, because if it doesn't the fascists will. The workforce here has significant ethnic diversity, coming both from inland (immigrants and local minorities) and from the sea (sailors who go around the world sometimes end up working in random ports). So basically, this either goes "proletarians of the world unite" or "foreigners are stealing our jobs", no middle ground.

By the way, if all your knowledge about port unions comes from The Wire, or worse (for our older readers) from On the Waterfront, please be aware that these are slanted depictions, and you don't actually know anything. [They're not equally slanted, The Wire is nowhere near the other one's level of shameless propaganda, nor so completely divorced from reality. I mean yes, unions can be involved in shady business; so can literally everyone else in the port. But On the Waterfront, without the slightest exaggeration, is to American organised labour what Birth of a Nation is to Black Americans.]

Valparaíso, photo by [o] Rolando Vejar (Creative Commons CC BY-SA 2.0)

Culture

Amo el amor de los marineros que besan y se van. Dejan una promesa. No vuelven nunca más. — Pablo Neruda, from the port of Valparaíso

The port's culture seeps through the rest of the city. This is where sailor lore gets created and spread, and a port by definition loves travel and the ocean. Many non-sailors fall for it hook, line and sinker, and write poems and sing songs and their heart swells at the mere thought of sailing. But their fascination is often rose-tinted, whereas people who make a living from the sea typically have a love/hate relationship with it.

Maiden voyages are important occasions in shipbulding ports. A ship's last voyage, before it goes to scrap, is also memorable. If the ship regularly docks there, it will be the talk of the town, and if it's a passenger ship [this assumes a geography with regular passenger runs], a whole mess of people will be sharing stories and memories, waving it farewell, shouting, applauding, crying a little. It can get very emotional.

There's also a silly sort of localism/professional pride going on, where even the port's accountants, who've never set foot below decks IF they've actually boarded a ship, feel like they're a different species of accountant, inexplicably tougher and saltier than their more, er, inland colleagues. No matter who you are and what you do, it's badge of honour to say you're from and/or work at the port, like you're automatically endowed with tenacity and street smarts. It doesn't make sense, but there you have it.

Rotterdam, photo by MaxAmy Photography (Creative Commons CC BY-ND 2.0)

Desire

In the port of Amsterdam there's a sailor who dies Full of beer, full of cries, in a drunken town fight In the port of Amsterdam there's a sailor who's born On a hot muggy morn by the dawn's early light — Jacques Brel (in David Bowie's adaptation), from the port of Amsterdam

A port is filthy, grubby, and hopelessly romantic. If it faces somewhat west, it's on fire every sunset. Silhouettes of gigantic cranes are framed by red clouds like alien tripods. The sun sinks into the ocean, and tell me, in the whole wide earth, is there a sweeter sight? Ships approach like sea beasts, and dock in their usual place like old friends.

A port carries the whiff of grease and petrol, the cool sea breeze, and the incessant sounds of waves and engines and – most of all – people. A port IS people, passing. And tell me, in the whole wide world, is there anything more exciting and heartwrenching than people passing? A port city can fill you with wanderlust and feel like a prison, or a warm welcome, or a devastating farewell.

And if you point a gun to my head and force me to describe a port in a single word, I'll have to say: desire.

Love me, leave me, hold me tight, walk away, forget. Look at how I broke inside, and how the sea has swelled! It's pouring out a riot of colours, scents, and lights, and in the city's gutter it's building paradise. — Ξύλινα Σπαθιά, from the port of Thessaloniki