Slimy Negotiations
Sloo-sector transport bound is boarding at gate Besh-43, a cool Alderaanian woman announced over the comm system of the Pallista Spaceport.
Friyr’s lips twitched at the mention of “Sloo-sector.” Force knows what that system had done to him. He’d missed the first transport off of Alderaan trawling through the markets for something warm to wear. He’d settled on an Echani desh breastplate. Soft, manicured, and battleready - it wasn’t hard to part with his dwindling credits for it. It was warm even in the open maw of the cold spaceport.
He had planned on staying, but a very raw feeling had erupted inside of his chest.
Friyr took a deep breath and rubbed at the leather bracers he’d made to support his wrists. He was possessed of a strong feeling of disbelonging, something that he often felt when he had first come to the Jedi. Something that Knight Ward had imposed on him like a wayward child in his inability to understand that blindness was not a baggage. The knight was young. Almost haughty in his assumptions if not his manner. Friyr had experienced this sort of emotional neglect in his earlier tenure with the Disciples, but-- Friyr found it a hard thing to return to. Where it had once been a hazard of slipping around the underbelly of the Empire, the haunting reflection of those who had held his chains in a place he had learned to settle felt like iron in the belly rather than around his wrists.
Friyr was coping, re-reticulating his emotional responses and picking through the weakness as he stood in the long shuffling line of bodies before the ticketing counter. It was shameful really, but Friyr had little time to dwell as he stopped at the counter. He seized the opportunity to vault over his feelings.
Friyr fixed a cheery smile on his face as he emerged from the line of weary Alderaanians. “’M goin’ t’Ambria.”
The woman’s voice had the same quality of feeling he had from eating dehydrated Imperial rations.
“We have a direct transport--”
“D’ya have layovers?”
“Hold.” Friyr tapped his foot and hummed obnoxiously. His blind blue eyes raised to the ceiling.
“We have a layover in Hutta leaving soon.” “Whattabout Carrick?”
“In a few hours.” Friyr was warm but not warm enough.
“I’ll wait,” he sighed.
Lack of patience was a lack of credits. He didn’t need to know that Nal Hutta was going to cost more to dock into than Carrick.
He returned to a bench tucked in front of a Starship Repair store. It was warmer away from the open mouthed entrance. It was still a little warm from whoever had paused there last in his absence.
His head jerked up at a sharp ping emanating from the droid at his feet.
“Who’s callin’, George?” Friyr asked in a voice was a little too apprehensive, even to his own ears.
The small droid staticed out an answer that made Friyr’s sightless eyes pop round. “Pudd’im through.”
<<Hello, Friyr right? The Magnanimous Mister Juunaba told me you were expecting a call from me--?>> The garbly blue figure was inquisitive.
Friyr blinked spots out of his eyes. He had shoved a holofrequency chip into Boris Juunaba, owner of the Cartel run Pick ‘n Mix bar that Friyr had started frequenting for pickups as of late. Friyr had put on quite a show swooning into that Hutt’s arms, but he hadn’t expected anything to come of the little play. Now...here he was, cards in hand for so long that he wasn’t sure how to lay them.
“Fer business, not pleasure ‘m afraid.” Though...” Friyr hitched on a crooked smile. “We could make it both.”
___
The connection to Hutta had taken him to Rhu Caenis Spaceport, then finally finally the Hutts’ domain. The language of the announcements through the transport carriers was frilly and unfamiliar. Hard as they began to descend. Sickly yellow light filtered through the windows, and NM chattered quietly in Friyr’s clasped arms.
“I-- I goddit, George. I c’n--” Friyr closed his lips to hold a roll of nausea. “I c’n deal with the Hutt. ‘M pretty coy too when I needa be.” A concerned rumbled from the little self-proclaimed smuggler.
“Can’t be worse than Sith.” Dewootoowoo.
Friyr squeezed. “I’ll be careful.”
Reeetwwooooo.
Friyr half shrugged through deep breaths. The transport’s pressure dropped sharply, popping his ears. Friyr stiffened in time for the craft to come to a bumpy but secure landing.
Yatuka mapke bai pikee, the pilot announced in the same sterile garble. Friyr couldn’t tell if it was a droid or-- well a person.
NM sprung from Friyr’s arms to the floor and scuttled to the aisle. Friyr snatched the harness and stumbled his way into a very cushy body.
“Adtahia peee uba doth bolla,” its owner remarked roughly.
Before Friyr could stick on his sheepish grin and raise his hands the small droid shrieked, clicking as he claw talked and walked forward. Threat this, blaster that. Friyr allowed himself to be pulled closer tot he persons belly so they were almost nose to nose. The person growled, and Friyr caught a wave of heavy wet breath.
“Geooorgeeee,” he muttered and shifted his hips, so the lightsaber on his belt caught the light. “Stoooop, please.”
The person stiffened.
“Kark Jeedai,” he spat at Friyr who was somewhat wide eyed.
NM tugged Friyr forward with a sharp grumble.
“Kark Jedi?” Friyr asked as he stumbled into a wave of smog.
<<Kriffing Jedi>> the droid translated in a tinny robotic replication of standard basic.
“Oh,” Friyr said, then pitched his guts.
____
Customs wasn’t much better, but people gave Friyr and the one other Knight from Alderaan a wide berth. He’d given Friyr a paper bag to retch into and pressed his cape against the padawan’s nose, like a smog filter. Chems were still sharp in his nose and watering eyes long after.
“Make sure you eat and drink something soon,” the smooth gentle voice said. The knight’s hands were firm holds on Friyr’s forearms. Friyr nodded.
“Why’re you here? You don’t look like you’ve even gone one level down Coruscant before.” The warmth in the knight’s voice translated to his laugh, which flowed easily at Friyr’s expense.
“Hey, hey. You gotta travel t’get galaxy wise don’ya?” “I guess, but you’re a padawan you said? You should be with your master.” “Heh.” Friyr waffled as the throngs passed them by. The filtered air of Nal Kragga’s Spaceport was cleaner. Friyr glanced up towards the mans voice and imagined he was looking into a pair of brown eyes. “Our place it-- needs this. An’ I did ask th’council first. I wouldn’ just run off, ya know?”
The knight sighed. Friyr could hear his head lower.
“It’s th’only thing ‘m good at,” Friyr said quickly, before the man could get a word in edgewise. “Talkin’ t’people is my...thing since my shoulder got busted. S’always been my thing, but I c’n do this fer my Jedi. If they don’ wan’it then.” Friyr shrugged. “Then I tried, but if no one does it, then...we missed out.”
The knight squeezed Friyr’s leg. “I was a difficult padawan too, so I get it. I’m sure there’s more to you than just talking, but maybe-- you should focus on becoming a Shadow or an Investigator instead of calling shots by yourself. They train people for this, you know.”
Friyr gave him a difficult smile.
”Let’s get you to customs then.” A large hand pulled Friyr forward. “You know what you’re gonna say to your Hutt?” ”No idea! I gotta feel a situation first, then swing it.”
”You’re so not a Guardian type, padawan.” ___
There was a guy fussing about his wallet behind Friyr at customs. The knight was ahead of him finished the process of declaring his lightsaber and rattling through the list of questions spoken in a greasily accented common. Even inside, Friyr could still smell the smog.
Friyr notated the questions, spun up his answers, and stepped forward after the knight had passed. He stepped forward queasily, accutely aware of the guy still looking for his wallet behind him. Friyr was going to guess that in a place like this, it’d already been palmed by someone looking for a next meal.
“Do you have anything to declare?”
“I--”
“Meryn!” the wallet man behind Friyr called out happily and left the line.
“Do you have anything to declare?” the customs officer asked as Friyr began to fish for his lightsaber and the eerily hissing rod on his back
“Yah, I--”
“He’s with me,” someone side quietly to the irate officer. Friyr zoned in on the distinct rattle of credits, so everything else fell to the background. He knew the sound of money against skin.
Friyr’s head tipped up and with urging from his little seeing eye droid, he shuffled out of line with a sheepish smile and a wave. No one said a thing, which told Friyr that this occurred with some commonality and that whoever had just greased palms was someone of rapport.
NM followed the man around the winding throngs of people, acrid stench of Hutta already sticking to their clothes. Friyr took a moment to cough.
“Thanks, but ‘m guessin’ ya didn’ just help me out ‘cause I got a pretty face,” the disfigured sundamaged Jedi said. He was aware of the cottony press of the Alderaanian fabric around his skin and the way he must’ve stood out in those clean cut clothing.
“Heh-- only in part. I’m Meryn. I work for Boris. We talked.”
Meryn had a much nicer voice when it wasn’t being compressed through a holo frequency, Friyr noted with a nod. “Riiiight, right,” he pretended to recall. “’M boyfriend here then?”
“Waiting to receive you in a local cantina.” There was a smirk to Meryn’s voice. “If you’ll come this way?”
“Yah, shur. Follow Meryn, George?”
___
The cantina was playing something quiet. Something swanky over the speakers. What hit Friyr first was the freshness of the air as though it were being double filtered as it eddied through the cantina. Hutt’s domain. Friyr followed Meryn and NM through a giggling group of patrons, laughing at seemingly anything in cool blissed out voices. The whole place made someone want to drop their shoulders and sway to the music. It was everything Friyr had once dreamed of. He’d come in from some job, glide over polished floors, and have a guy drift onto his hip, push his hair back, press a drink into his hand.
Friyr had never really expected to grow up into a half-Jedi who hated alcohol. Or grow up at all, really. Reaching Hutta was always one of those...pipe dreams.
“Hellooooooo hello, my esteemed patrons!” a low booming sound resonated through Friyr, turning his knee caps to a weak sort of jelly. There was a slimy sound, as though the Hutt were trying to dance. “To what do I owe this occasion?”
The revelers in Boris’ presence stopped talking over the low playing band and the pitchy whine of the singer. Meryn stepped in front of Friyr.
“His Magnamity, himself, Boris of the Juunaba Kajidic.”
Friyr didn’t need to be blind to know that everyone’s eyes were on him. A distinct Jedi with a kriffed up face and a golden smile. “I once shook his slimy hand,” one of those gathered muttered.
“Borisssssss~!” Friyr drawled a little too loudly and spread his arms wide.
“I once shook his slimy hand,” one of those gathered muttered as Friyr stepped forward to wrap himself around Boris’ soft gooey belly. He hummed to the dark staccatos of jizz wailing swirling around them, and let the music play him into a state of loving adoration.
“Friiiyr, Fairest of them All! that is a legitimate title he won at my establishment to brandish as he pleases.”
“Fairest of them all? Debatable,” the same man who’d bragged about touching Boris’ hand said. Friyr could feel his eyes roaming the scars. Friyr unstuck himself with a slow wink in the man’s direction. “I once kissed him~”
“What?”
Friyr giggled girlishly and beamed at his so called Hutt boy toy.
“I-- don’t wanna know what else they do.”
“Hi!” Friyr tuned the bemused patrons to the background and stuck his hands in his pockets.
“I hope you don’t mind that I shared your holofrequency with Meryn,” Boris rumbled. A breeze of Hutt mouth stench washed over Friyr.
“Oh shur. I dun mind. I ~missed~ ya. How you been?”
“Friyr dear, I did too.” A large hand ruffled Friyr’s silky head of hair. “Now, business?”
“Shur, straight to th’point. ‘M lookin’ fer a bit of help.”
“Aaaah, there we go; proceed.”
“Chair, George?” The droid led Friyr to a barstool that was no doubt connected to a counter. Friyr planted a foot on the stool to a protesting warble from NM and scrambled onto the counter with a grunt of exertion, a sharp pain down his left side.
“I’m for hire!” someone yelled in the background. “I’m more than just a hot-shot Corellian swoop racer!”
Friyr grinned off the side at the heckler, his palms supporting him as he leaned back on their heels. “I could use a hot-shot Corellian, shur. But not fer work.” An easy laugh as he rolled his head back to Boris. “This is about food. If it was killin’, I’d saber it m’self.”
“Oh food I am well-vested in,” Boris intoned. “I have connections, supply...” The Hutt moved, and it made another wet sound that Friyr idly tracked with his head. “Technologies?”
Friyr nodded and hummed along to the slow warble of the new song. “’M a Jedi who lives in a refugee town. We get funded t’take in people fleein’ planets with war ‘n all, but the planet we’re on? Ambria? It’s got no natural resources an’ we’re at the end of our rope with th’ R’Pahblic givin’ us stuff. These Jedi. You know how we are; we take in anyone. Big hearts, no stuff t’keep ‘em beatin’. I thought maybe I’d look into private contractin’?”
“A Republic settlement... Ohh dear,” the Hutt fussed. A slow slimy sound of anguish. The Hutt equivalent of running fingers through hair, Friyr supposed. “My Imperial leaning allies would be very upset. Most upset indeed, hmhm.”
The slimey sounds trailed their way softly to Friyr. His chin tipped. The next rumble of the Hutt’s big voice was low. Intimate. Deep in Friyr’s chest, breath against his face.
“Have you heard of hmm... The Vorulan system?”
Friyr leaned forward and slid his hands down the new pants to rest them on his knees. His washed out blue eyes fed off the way Boris’ voice penetrated him for a lover’s intensity. “Nah, I can’t say I have.”
“Well, it so happens they have a space colony; that space colony was formed after however long in isolation, and they have a little innovation I like to call space farming.” Boris paused then added. “OH and hydroponics. Can’t forget the hydroponics.” He leaned closer to the little Jedi, almost skimming Friyr’s up-turned nose on Boris’ top lip. “Turns out, some oligotrophic organisms are quite sustainable! But then I’m sure you’ve heard of Mynock Coronet City?”
Friyr breathed in the unheady smell of hutt and swallowed a thick resurgence of bile. “Coronet? Corellia?”
His mind processed at lightyears a minute all of the wordy language and civilizations he knew nothing of. The reins of this situation disappeared over his head as the Hutt plunged him into the realm of unknown. This was big leagues talk, and Friyr didn’t quite have the mouth to back it up, but-- do or die that had never stopped him before.
“‘M not too edumacated, but hydrophonetics? That have somethin’ t’do with water?” he breathed out.
“Yes, that would be the flavor assortment - point being, you can treat mynock meat with spices to make it palatable. And yes, some cultivated plant varieties need not soil, just water and perhaps a cotton substrate.”
Before Friyr can puzzle this into a cohesive assortment of words in his brain, Boris’ tail wrapped around them, sectioning off human and Hutt from prying eyes. The Hutt leaned still closer, and Friyr obligingly skimmed his nose against the Hutt’s face as he spoke. Friyr held his breath.
“If you can’t use the soil... well... space potato seems to grow plentifully in asteroids and that colony was making exogorths and dianoga that will feed off of whatever refuse substrates you have. Dianogan pie, I’m sure you’ve seen at some lower level diners.”
Friyr stroked the Hutt’s face. If the accent recalled the lower levels of Coruscant, then it did its job. “Iiiii think I see,” Friyr dodged answering; he knew As’traa wouldn’t want him to sell his soul in a lie, but nor could he tell the truth. “Ambria is a wasteland. Worse than Tatooine. We got a lake but no soil.” Boris’ skin was slick and foldy under the forner SIth’s burned fingers. “What kinda supplies do ya need t’grow this?” he whispered.
“Hm, the spacefarming? Well, I’d hope you have an outlying station or craft. Not quite sure how they pick space potato out of asteroids. Hydroponics you’d need water and a suitable container of course. Buuut there are third options.”
Hydroponics stuck to Friyr, and he seized it with both hands before Boris could draw him off on a third venture.
“We got a lake. Would that do okay?” Friyr arched his pointed brows high.
Boris flexed his brows under Friyr’s fingers and leaned still more into the Jedi so Friyr’s legs could straddle around his chest. Friyr did so, obligingly, feeling Boris’ thick slick sides beneath his heels in an altogether surreal experience for the human.
“Oh yes, the lake water would be fine as long as you acquire the plants themselves and somewhere with shade - now consider algae vats. The subterrainian bounty of many a city-world. Why milk a bantha when you can cultivate something resembling milk-proteins and the end result? Little dark interior, a lot of UV light, a lot of the relevant strains, and you can emulate that which you can’t grow.”
Friyr’s mind stopped. That could save lives, to cultivate other crops by synthetic means, but Boris was making slimy sounds of excitement with his oversized tail. A mutual excitement. “Aaaaaaaaaaand I know where you could happen to find a spare one.” Sure that a scalping was on the horizon, Friyr braced dread against the feeling of victory whelling into his chest. Boris’ solution was perhaps worse.
“Could ya give me a sample of th’plants this produces. If I get somethin’ t’take back, I c’n get th’ council t’make a better decision. ‘Cuase ahhhh- s’not me you gotta convince at th’enda the day.”
“Oh yes! And perhaps a sample of that which they use to treat mynock meat to render it suitable for your consumption? It turns spaceflight pest into a resource!” The Hutt clapped his hand in jubilation. “And perhaps some dianoga. I have my fees, but consider it a veritable starting point! I’m also impartial to sewer-fed gorgs. Oho! You can’t taste the difference honestly.”
"Youra lifesaver Boris.” Friyr leaned in and pressed his mouth to the Hutt’s before he started getting too carried away. It was as warm and ... wet as before. Like kissing a syrupy tongue. Friyr licked off the slime. He’d started getting accustomed to it by this point... though it did no wonders for his nausea. “So! About your fees! I don’ think I c’n pay fer this with my body. ‘M guessin.” Friyr picked at a nail, pretending he hadn’t just kissed a Hutt twice.
“Ohooooo!” Boris laughed. Perhaps form the kiss, a potential deal, both? “Hm, fifty credits. I have to think about the shipping costs of course. An entire algae vat, however, hmmm...” Boris’ tail moved thoughtfully over the floor, and Friyr watched stoically. Herein lay the catch.
“So fifty fer now,” he reaffirmed. “Whattabout the full operation? If we were t’get shipments every other week.”
“Ohh, full operation,” the Hutt tsked. Friyr felt it against his whole body. “Fifty credits is for the sample you understand. If it is to their liking we could be looking at a hundred a week for a more significant supply. You want a miscellaneous assortment?”
“Shurrr. About that vat, then? Ya had somethin’ on yer mind?”
Boris’ voice dropped again. “There are several inside faction elements who would be a little upset if one of their supply units went missing - just the one of course!” Of course, Friyr thought dryly. “But if you can procure it without their notice, I can manage the shipping.”
Oh. This was different. Boris didn’t want to dip his tail in, which meant that if this failed the Jedi would bear the brunt of the blame. Clever clever hutt. Friyr glanced tot he side, as if still checking on their privacy as he thought. “I c’n, but yah’d have t’give me details on it.” He dropped his voice just under the chatter of the bubbly crowd of patrons. “What faction and where?”
Boris pressed into him, thrumming, and Friyr pliantly obliged the hands on his back with a blank face. The rather public display of his sexuality was purely performative in nature and so were Boris’, though he was falling into partnership with the Hutt in a purely different way. And what was sexuality but an exchange of give and take? So too was this intricate ritual. He let Boris place his lips into his ear, legs around the Hutt’s chest and arms around his neck.
“New Providence is very politically, hm, something. Imperial elements, Republic elements, former cannibals, two of the factions despise each other. It makes for interesting meetings.”
Friyr licked his lips again as Boris whispered his “sweet nothings.” “Sounds like, heh, a lotta politics. Who’d be missin’ it then?” Friyr’s played footsie with one of Boris’ fat rolls, dislodging something that the Hutt quickly pushed back in. Friyr held a surprised chuckle. Clever Hutt.
“Weeeell, just the one little one wouldn’t be amiss; That is! If you aren’t caught pilfering it. If you were then... Well, you see why I’m leaving the pilfering to you and yours. If I were caught doing such a thing, Queen Aemelia would be quite upset!” Friyr hummed and lidded his eyes so they were almost closed. “Also I am told the Sewerbeast has a fondness of algae vats. Consumes the contents unrefined, straight from the water, mm.”
“Queenie, huh?” Friyr idly storked the back of Boris’ head. “Queenie someone I should be worried about?”
“Oh well, she is Imperial with a self-proclaimed title. She hasn’t barred Jedi, would make the cross faction populace too uneasy, but... well, you can see why she would be most upset with me, which is why I’ll cover extraction to the hangar bays! Careful though, there’s an old legend that the Sewerbeast will try and drag you into her waters. Oho.” Friyr rolled his eyes behind the Hutt’s back, but pulled back and held two of Boris’ fat rolls, just under his neck to pull his head close to Friyr’s. The padawan laughed lightly. “You drive a hard bargain Boris. Tell ya what.” Friyr’s blissed out eyes complimented a wide spreading smile on his cut lips. A satisfied expression, but one that drew attention to the scars on his face and darkened Friyr’s easy-going nature. “Give me th’ full schims an’ I’ll think about it. ‘M still trainin’ an’ can get kicked outta m’Order, but I’ll pitch your idea. No prahmises though. But if not, then we’ll find other means, ‘less ya c’n sweeten th’deal. Say if we take th’vat, we keep it. As in property of th’ Jedi Order. Knock some credits off shippin’? A liddle manpower wouldn’ hurt none too.”
“Mapping the Harrower isn’t as indepth as it could be, but yes. Mmm, credits, manpower. Oh Merrrrrrynn!”
Friyr untangled his fingers from the rolls, and the Hutt’s encircling tail disappeared as the man who’d fished Friyr form customs hurried over. Convenient lovers no more, Friyr’s palms were still dirty from the exchange.
“Yes, your Magnamity?” the voice at floor level said, and Friyr looked down form his adopted cantina counter perch.
“How would you feel about a mission procuring some New Providence goods for this nice man?” Friyr wagged his brows in Meryn’s direction as the Hutt spoke. “You know. Lower levels... the waterworks... the vat room... One little vat? The room with the beast sightings...? That room...?”
Friyr hummed idly as Meryn directed a him. “The Sewerbeast?”
The man, confident before, sounded concerned. Friyr almost felt sorry for him. “Yes, by all accounts it helps as well as it hurts!”
“Don’ worry,” Friyr reassured underneath his lazy grin. “‘m a Jedi.” It wasn’t very reassuring.
“Yes! You’ll have a big strong Jedi to help you!” Boris chimed in.
“More’n one. This’ll need more’n me, an’ less th’ thing is dark sided, it won’ be killed. We’re Jedi; we capture.” Friyr slid down the counter and edged past Boris’ belly to lean against the surface he’d just been sitting on. “‘M more worried ‘bout Aemelia than a--”
“Six foot tall beast with abs, several appendages, eyes like the void.” “Yah.. That. Why’d she be mad about missin’ these vats anyway?”
“She is the Queen of New Providence,” Boris said as Meryn idled across from Friyr. “An Imperial Captain. More or less in charge among the in-charge groups. Also because the vats are something of a New Providence property.”
Their food source. Any pang of sympathy Friyr might’ve felt was drowned by the lack of sorrow he had about stealing form Imperials. Kriff it. Kriff them. Kark the Empire.
Friyr tapped his chin, like he wasn’t feeling a sensation akin to bloody murder inside. “Hmmmmmm, well that’s more tricky. I’ll let ya know what the Council says. Fer now, we got ourselves the start of somethin’. We’ll talk, we’ll talk. Meryn nn~ baby!” He turned his hundred watt smile on the Enforcer watching and eyeing both his employer and the affectionate Jedi. “Mind if I cheat on Boris an’ take ya home with me?”
“Oh, by all means!” Boris obliged with an answering smirk form Meryn that Friyr could hear in his voice when he left with the Hutt’s pet on his waist later on that afternoon. Who was to say Friyr wasn’t living his day dreams to the fullest?