The Under City

Bey Kahn leaned over and probed the top flaps of the scrap metal sack with one meaty green finger, taking a quick glance inside the bag to assess the value of its contents. It was the usual fair, mostly partially rusted support struts that had come loose or flaked off the Undercity's rotten infrastructure. It was poor quality material, no doubt, but easily enough repurposed into spear heads for the community's scavenger teams. He looked up from the bag and nodded at Sven.

Snort Snort Grunt

You did good, lad. Said the droid head on the table, translating for the Gamorrean. It was a half truth. Good materials were hard to come by unless you were willing to forage in rakghoul territory, which Bey could hardly expect from a little lad of 12 cycles. The rusted iron could at least be melted down and recycled into things the community needed, such as the fore mentioned spear heads. Useful enough, if not boring for a smith of Bey Kahn's quality. What he would give for a plate of quadranium steel from a derelict space hulk.

The Gamorrean scooped up the sack of rotting metal in one fat hand and tossed it over beside the forge occupying the center most area of Bey's dilapidated workshop. He then went over to his cot where a thick apron hung from a hook by his bedside. He reached into one of the apron's pockets and withdrew three credit chits. It would be enough for Sven Creedy to get a warm meal for the day, if not much else. He walked back to the young human standing at the front of his shop and took one small hand in his own ham sized mitts. He then placed the credits in Sven's hand and folded the boy's fingers over them before grunting in Gamorrese.

Don't let the gangs see you with credits, lad. Otherwise they'll clean you out throwing bones in an alley rather then putting meat on them scrawny bones of yours. Bey snickered. And by the looks of you I wouldn't be skipping any meals. Now off with you, lad, I have work to do.

By the time he had finished there was a stack of crude but sturdy spears bundled by the door. A few axes and shivs were thrown in as well, though if it came down to close quarters combat between one of the foragers and a rakghoul, Bey didn't like the foragers chance of survival. The old boar left his smithing hammer on the anvil and slung the bundle of newly crafted weapons over his shoulder. He then grabbed the tactical droid head off his night stand with one large hand and clamped it to a hook on his belt. The translator rested against his left leg, swaying slightly with every movement of the Gamorrean.

Snort Grunt Snort Snort Wake up, Sneak-Squeak. I'm leaving.

Bey Kahn stomped his foot on the floor with a loud thud. In one corner of the shop, a pile of rags began to stir. At first a tiny black nose emerged, sniffing the air, followed by a snout and yellow set of fangs. A ranat rose from the pile, garbed in crudely stitched together rags of his own. The ranat's whiskers twitched as he fixed two red beady eyes on the Gamorrean.

"When Pig-thing return?" He squeaked.

A few hours at most. He paused considerately, tapping a thick sausage finger on one of his tusks. Maybe longer, actually. I've a thirst that only a barrel of good ale can sate. Now be a good rat and mind the shop.

And with that he exited his shop and headed out into the evening air.

By the time Bey Kahn arrived at the outskirts of the Under City there was nothing left of his cigar but ash. He looked around at the wasteland beyond, dark and bleak, obscured from the sun by the sky scrapers of the rich that lived in the Upper City. If one thought the Under City was unwelcoming, the blighted landscape beyond its borders was even worse. Home to packs of rakghoul, Gamorrean slavers, and worse. The slavers were few and far between, but that they existed at all was a sore spot for Bey. It didn't speak great volumes to the moral superiority of his species. It also made new customers weary of his shop, despite him not having any connection to those lowlifes. He gritted his teeth, quelling the anger he associated with that thought. The old boar brought his free hand to his brow and squinted as he allowed his eyes to follow the outer border of the Under City. Beneath a support strut for one of the above structure was an encampment crammed up against the city walls. That was the outcast camp he was looking for.

He began the trek over, walking cautiously, allowing his gaze to drift from side to side. Eventually he reached the camp, thankfully without conflict. As he approached the site he could see two of the outcasts sentries step away from their post and slowly walk towards him, blasters in hand. One was a human female, the other a Gran, presumably male. Bey held his free hand up, the other still holding the bundle slung over his shoulder.

"What's your business here, piggy?" Said the human female as she leveled her blaster at Bey.

Easy there, Jacinda. He snorted and the droid head on his hip translated. You know I wouldn't make the trip out here without something worth your time. Take a look.

The Gamorrean unslung the bundle from his shoulder and placed it on the ground in front of him.

More weapons for trade. Some of my finest, in fact. He reached down and picked up one of the spears, admiring his own work briefly before handing it butt end first to the Gran that accompanied the human he had called Jacinda. The Gran took the spear and turned to the side, giving it a few practice thrusts before saying something Bey couldn't understand to Jacinda. The human nodded and lowered her blaster.

"We can trade. No funny business while you're in the camp." She said.

Bey let out a sigh of relief. Wouldn't dream of it.

Bey puttered around the outcast encampment for a while, trying to collect more information on the location with the special metal.

Whereas most of the metal the gutter-runners brought to his shop came from the Taris' rotting iron and durasteel infrastructure, the metal the outcasts had spoke of sounded like it came from something more durable, something that had withstood the passage of time. What was it doing in the sewer tunnels beneath the wasteland? No matter how hard he wracked his brain the answer eluded him. Perhaps the outcasts were lying? It seemed unlikely. Every outcast in the camp that he had tried to enlist as a guide to the area in question outright refused. They knew it was dangerous, that it was rakghoul territory. They had been there before.

When he had all that he needed from the outcasts, the old boar left the camp, walking back along the edge of the Under City's outer walls until he was back on the same street that had led him out of town. Reaching into his apron, he rummaged around, eventually wrapping a few fat fingers around an unlit stogey. Withdrawing the fine smoke from his pocket, he brought it past his snout for a quick sniff before placing one nub in his mouth. He took out a lighter and sparked a flame, inhaling as he lit the tip, drawing the thick flavorful smoke through the length of the cigar. He needed a drink. Someplace quiet where he could collect his thoughts and plan his next move. Fortunately Bey Kahn knew just the place.

He headed for the Drunken Rancor.

A barrel of ale later and Bey Kahn was no closer to a decision. Premium materials were essential to making premium products, and on Taris they could be purchased even in the Under City, for a significant price. He had considered simply purchasing such things before; however, the amount that the old boar would have to charge his customers in order to cover the cost of such materials was more than most were willing to pay. Ergo, no purchase, no profit. But if he could get the materials for free...then it would all be profit, even if he sold his goods for less than what they'd go for in the Upper City. The problem was getting to this precious metal the outcasts had pointed him to. He could handle himself in most situations. Gamorreans were known for their brute strength and love of combat, it was their cultural heritage. Yet he was no longer the young boar he used to be and chances were any foes he might encounter in the sewers beneath the wasteland would not be alone. He could hire one of the Under City gangs to assist, but there was no promise they wouldn't just cut and run at the first sign of trouble, or turn on him once they had what he was looking for. Plus they would overcharge, they always overcharged.

Bey took another 'sip' of his ale, upturning the stein until the last few drops and bits of suds poured into his open gullet. He smacked his lips and placed the empty container back on the table, staring into the stein as though the answers he sought could be found within.

They rarely were.

Snort Snort Squeal I'll just have to take a chance.

George stopped toweling off the bar top and looked across the cantina to Bey Kahn's booth.

"Were you saying something, Pig?" It wasn't meant to be rude. It was just what most of the Under City dwellers called the Gamorrean. It kind of came with the whole being a large green space pig alien.

Oh, me? Nothing, just thinking out loud. Bey slid out from the booth and dropped a few credit chits on the table. Thanks for the drink, George. When next you see me, I may be the richest pig you know.

George guffawed. "Then I might start stocking the bar with the good ale instead of this sewer piss you seem to like."

They both shared a chuckle at that and then Bey Kahn was headed out the door, walking back in the direction of his shop.

While continuing to prepare for the potential fight to come, Bey uncovered the chest that had been sitting in the corner of his workshop. He withdrew a ring of keys from one of his apron pockets and bent down to examine the lock.

I think it ought to be this one. He snorted as he began to try keys. The first few didn't seem to work. Or was it this one? Or maybe this one?

This was going to take a while.

Eventually though he did find the right key and the lock opened with an audible click. The old boar removed the padlock from the front and opened the lid, coughing as a cloud of dust and soot rose off the container. Inside the chest was a suit of armor, worn by time and use, but no less sturdy for being old. He took it out of the chest and laid it across his bed, examining the set for any sign of deficiencies. It wasn't as modern as plastoid. The stuff the First Order stormtroopers wore would provide decent protection from most ballistic impact slugs. This was older and a little more primitive than that. Iron and bronzium, some of the first materials he had learned to smith as a young boar. It wouldn't stand up to a round from a shatter-gun, but the metal could diffuse a blaster bolt or two before melting to slag. Fortunately he didn't think blasters were going to be a problem. He just wanted something solid between him and a rakghouls claws. This would do. He tried it on.

A bit more snug around the waist than I seem to remember. Bey looked in the mirror, noting that in many spots the armor's straps were stretched taut. Probably just needs to be broken in a tad.

That was probably it. He couldn't possibly have gotten fatter. Right?

His trek across the wasteland was largely quiet. Bey Kahn moved with caution every step of the way, eyes moving from side to side, glaring into the dark recesses of the devoid area. Every now and then he would stop and listen. In the distance he could hear the groan of rusted hulks swaying in the breeze, intermixed with the occasional sound of claws on steel, the shrill barks of rakghoul packs always following after.

For his part he managed to avoid said packs. Patience was his greatest tool here, for without fail the creatures would move on after a few minutes stay. The only thing that seemed to get their attention was when they found a meal. The old boar crawled up a hill of debris and stopped at the top, laying on his belly as he retrieved a pair of macrobinoculars from his pack. He surveyed a group of rakghoul half a click ahead, ranging about the entrance to the sewer tunnels he needed to enter.

Bey cursed. No translation. Said the droid on his hip. Stupid droid.

He looked to the east, and then to the west. There didn't seem an alternative entrance anywhere nearby. He could backtrack and enter the sewers from one of the tunnels closer to the actual Under City, but they were a hive of paths and twists, and many of the tunnels had collapsed over time. There was no way he'd be able to find his way back here underground. He had to get into the tunnel ahead; a real problem since he was under no illusion he could take on the pack that was blocking the sewer entrance. What he needed was a distraction, something that would lead the pack away from the entrance and give him enough time to make it into the sewers.

Hmmm. The droid head hummed, interpreting Bey's silence as thoughtfulness.

Ah. That was it. He looked down at the droid head on his hip, grinning from tusk to tusk.