Helping Hand (Open)

Hyoga sat in his booth, swirling the last dregs of rum around the inside of his glass. He’d just finished a meeting with a Setosan smuggler, hoping to offload some of his stashed loot; but it seemed under the new Saiyan rule the old trade embargos had ended, drastically reducing its value as it could now be obtained legally in what was formerly Fleet territory. He’d agreed to sell off the cargo anyway, but at less than twenty percent of what he’d expected to make. He had a lot to learn about this new galaxy. So much had changed in his exile, it seemed. Power levels had been reached that were unheard of outside of old legends, the entire political landscape had been upended and almost every contact he’d once had was either dead or relocated to parts unknown. It was depressing, to feel so… Left behind.

He wondered what he would do next. Almost everything he’d planned was invalidated by what he’d learned since his encounter with Ticoga. He had only a single space pod for transportation, one refurbished scouter, and a scattered set of cargo pods he’d buried with the last treasure from his previous black market business. He needed a bigger ship, a reliable crew, and a new business plan. But where to start? He needed more information, but it would be suspicious indeed for an Arcosian to be wandering the galaxy; gathering political, legal and criminal intelligence. Their kind didn’t exactly have the most favorable reputation at the moment, given the recent actions of the World Trade Fleet and the various Arcosians left vying for supremacy in its decline. No, he needed to be more subtle…

He was brought out of his contemplation by the sound of chinking glasses as a Beppan waiter bustled past with two slightly-smudged glasses and a big pitcher on a tray. The containers weren’t so interesting as their contents, however. It was water. Not a common order in a backwater establishment such as this, where half the clientele no doubt had a criminal record and the other half were drowning their sorrows for having fallen so far as to end up there in the first place.

Interest piqued, he downed the last of his rum. Once the waiter had deposited the water at a table opposite his booth, he gestured for another drink. As the waiter headed back to fetch his order, he leaned across to the water-drinking pair opposite him. They were of species he couldn’t name, though they had familiar characteristics. One was pale, with a spiky mane of vibrant hair and long, pointed ears. His only indication of living on the rougher side of the tracks was a cybernetic eye replacement. His companion looked older, with white hair ringing his blue, balding scalp and a prominent horn jutting from his forehead. Their clothes looked more old-fashioned than you’d expect from spacefarers, all buckles, drab cloth and primitive armour. He cleared his throat and began to speak in the rich baritone that always accompanied his second form.

“An unusual order for somebody who’s found their way to this dead-end corner of the galaxy. Forgive me for saying, but you don’t exactly fit in around here.” He stopped for a moment to accept his fresh glass of rum from the returning waiter and take a sip. “Tell me, friends, what brings you to this gods-forsaken place?”