—I once blew a power coupling midway through a swoop race.
—No!
—Fierfek, mate. Serious?
—Yes. ‘m not lyin. You can’t make this poodoo up.
—Ha, right! I saw somethin’ like that on a holodrama.
—Look, you coupl’o kungs. You want to hear the story or not?

Mereel snorts into his drink and waves a busty Nautolan waitress over. He discards two cards from his hand and draws three fresh ones from the pile.

—Another round. I’m goin’ to need it.

The Rodian beside him puckers his sucker lips to blow a raspberry, clearly unconvinced, and downs the rest of his towering mug of ale. Yet their combined disbelief does nothing to dissuade the green skinned Mirialan ex-racer.

—So we’re down the last stretch, Nar Shaddaa’s Corellian Sector blocking out the sky, and I gun my engine. Swoop’s lasted an hour, five consecutive runs without break and I figure I feed the slackers my exhaust fumes.

The Mirialan takes a drag from his expensive, brand-name cigarra.

—Mistake, yeah? One explosive bang later and I’ve got smoke in my viewport, and in my lungs.

Mereel barks a laugh and tosses two credits into the betting pot.

—Already got smoke in your lungs, burc’ya.

The Rodian joins in the laughing and checks the bet while the Mirialan grins around his smoke-stick. He draws two cards from the deck, cigarra sliding from one corner of his mouth to the other.

—Tattooine’s red sky, my luck’s left me tonight.
—But not when your swoop blew?
—Frack yes. Let me finish the blasted story.
—Hey, hey. Your bet, choobie.

The Mirialan racer takes a swig from his unlabeled bottle and tosses two credits in the growing pile.

—All right. So as I was sayin’. Smoke up in my everywhere and fire lickin’ my windshield. So I jam down the manual brake, reroute the fuel line and cut the oxygen filter. Flames go out and I’m losing speed. Got a fool catching up, so I whip out a cryo charge and toss one off the side.

The Rodian draws four cards and slams down a handful of low denomination credits, rattling the table.

—Impossible! That’s not legal!

Mereel grins, rearranging his cards inconspicuously.

—Few things are legal in Nar Shaddaa.
—Man’s right, Rodian! Now left me finish, before you pop an eye in hysterics. As I was.
—Pop an eye? I am not hysteric!

The Mirialan grins and extinguishes his cigarra in a small tray set aside the Sabacc game.

—Look, mate. In a Nar Shaddaa swoop race, anythin’ goes. So, finish line’s in plain view and rear sight says direct fierfekla hit on the second up, so I’m home free right? Wrong!

He slams a fist to the table hard enough to cause the pile of credits in the center to take temporary flight.

—I’m twenty meters off from Grand Prize when PING! I don’t recognize the sound, so I don’t check it, what with the winnings so close any way. And then, red lights flash across the dashboard before disaster.
—Disaster?
—Don’t listen to him! ‘S gonna end this story in first place with double the prize and two pretty piffers.
—Didn’t I say my luck left me? Didn’t I say.

The Mirialan points a menacing, tattooed finger at the Rodian across the mound of credits. Mereel lounges lazily, balancing his chair on its back two legs.

—So what hit you?

The table shines orange as the ex-racer lights up a new cigarra.

—A Mynock. Frozen.

Mereel gapes, nearly dropping his cards and himself from the chair.

—What? A what? Mynock?
—Frozen.
—I don’t believe it!
—Oh, it gets worse, my angry Rodian friend.
—You lie!
—I don’t see how a frozen Mynock can get worse.
—Right up the tail pipe!

The Mirialan slides his open palm over the table and straight up into the air.

—The warning light flashes once and then the tail end of my swoop blasts off. I take a nosedive and fall in an uncontrollable sidespin.
—Sweet mother of chaos.
—Shab.
—That’s what I said.

The Mirialan discards two cards and picks up three fresh from the dwindling deck. He frowns, blows a long cloud of smoke from the side of his mouth, and tosses a credit in the pot.

—So I hit the eject button, but the damn thing’s stuck.

Mereel tosses two and draws a single card. At the look of his new hand his jaw twitches, but he resumes his ridiculously comfortable position after tossing two low denomination cards in the pot.

—Sure meets the requirements of disaster, burc’ya.
—Why aren’t you a dead sleemo, then?
—Maybe because some god out there wants me to suffer your inane questions, echuta.
—You’re a son of a bantha.
—And your mother’s a Sith Harlot.

Mereel can’t help but grin at their argument as the next round of drinks finally arrive. He plucks a chip from the pot and offers it to the waitress with a wink. The Nautolan blushes a deep green and quickly flees from the table.

The Rodian draws the last card, crows, and slams his cards down.

—Twenty-Three! Read ‘em and weep, fellas.

The Mirialan curses and tosses his cards over the chips in frustration.

Mereel’s grin widens and he stands abruptly from his chair, slapping the Rodian’s hands away from the pot as he smacks down his own cards.

—Idiot’s Array. Trumps the two-three.
—Slatt! You’re a damn cheater!
—Space it, ‘m not playin’ with you ever again, 'reel.

With a shrug and a self-satisfied smirk Mereel adds 726 credits to his wallet.

The ex-racer spits out his half burned cigarra and chugs his fresh bottle of Novanian grog. The base of the bottle clicks against the Sabacc table and the ex-racer let's out belch before sitting up in his chair. He waves his hand vaguely by his head with a heavy sigh.

—I landed in a pillow shop.

The Rodian sputters, ale spattering the table and cards.

—You... You what?

Thankful of the gloves shielding his hands from Rodian germs, Mereel sweeps up the cards to shuffle the deck, laughing and shaking his head.

—…kandosii.

He knows what the word is about him in his little band of miscreants family. And the rumors are true, mostly. (Except the one about the Mon Calamari, because swinger that he may be is, he’s not quite that adventurous.)

Mereel doesn’t make excuses for his behavior – not that he believes there’s anything wrong with utilizing his well-developed, charming personality and dashingly handsome good looks. But chiseled abs can only get you so far with the ladies.

(Of course, Zeltron females are another matter entirely. Zeltrons and Falleens, because talented hands and a nice mouth can’t quite break pheromone induced mind control. And he doesn’t have the time, or the energy, to put up with that osik any day.)

No. Mereel’s mastery, as he is so well known for, lies with innuendo and fantastic timing.  (And has he mentioned he keeps his guns well oiled – because he’s always prepared for a little excitement.)

Word games, essentially. They keep him sharp, keep him focused, and maybe they temporarily distract him from the rage stress buildup of watching his brothers die by the dozens on the Holonet everywhere he goes.

So when the occasional Twi'lek invites him over to help hook up some power couplings… well. That’s just a happy coincidence.

couldn’t get my shirt over my head, so I flick my wrist. A shuh-shunk precedes the ejection of my concealed vibroblade. The handle feels oddly warm in my hand – the things you notice – and I cut away the fabric.

—Fierfek. Good job, Mer’ika.

Two staples missing from the fifteen centimeter gash above my left hip, the edge of the wound strains open and bleeds freely. I dump the contents of my medpack into the sink, tear open a new bacta patch, and slap it on. It’d hold for another few hours, unless I run into another Gamorrean pig who’s taken a disliking to my torso.

I wrap a quick bandage over the patch for added insurance, throw on a bantha-hide vest, and that’s all the time I have.

The medpack’s left in the sink, minus two patches, a bacta spray, and stims. I’m careful to step over the pools over multicolored blood seeping into the carpet. My Merr-Sonn Blaster’s lying by the shattered skull remains of one very uncooperative Duros.

I could get it. I could.

The blubbery mountain of a Gamorrean is in my way. Death did not make the chakaar smell any better.

The timepiece on my left wrist beeps twice.

Now that’s all the time I have.

—Re’turcye mhi, Tor’ika.

The blaster has to stay.

I leave the front door open – it’s not my place anyway. Someone will notice the blood stained carpets. And if they don’t, they’ll notice the dead Gamorrean in half a day or less.

I’ve got to get out of here.

The hall’s empty, but the duracrete echoes and it’s 03:42 standard. I step over a snoring mound of unwashed Twi’lek and jam my fist against the controls to summon a turbolift. Voices reverberate in the hall behind me. They’re speaking Huttese, I think. But I can’t be sure, and it doesn’t matter.

I ease back on my heels, feigning calm as I wait impatiently for the lift. My arm stiffens in case I have to snap my blade out from its hidden compartment and deal with the authorities a bit earlier than planned. Pain spikes through my midsection with every breath. I’ll need to send an encrypted message ahead of schedule. There better be a bacta tank with my name on it back at base.

A gasp cuts the silence. It takes half a second to realize it wasn’t me. The following angry, guttural noises are definitely not me. The distinct odor of one very alive Weequay wafts my way just as the lift doors cycle open. The homeless Twi’lek starts up a commotion as I step on.

—Out of way, koochu!
—Chuba! You! You step on? I no floor mat!

It’s a distraction in my favor. If he lives maybe I’ll wire him enough creds for another round of jawa juice. But for now I rap my fist against the controls. I tap the buttons a little harder.

Time to go. Let’s go. Any floor. Let’s go.

The plasteel beside my head shatters from blaster fire. I duck to the side. The doors slide

1.        I’ve got bad news…

2.        No. The Bantha got to him first.

3.        You have one hour.

4.        They don’t match batch standards.

5.        She ate a round, and still managed to smile.

6.        I lied.

7.        They didn’t agree, either.

8.        He didn’t keep his end of the bargain, so we kept ours.

9.        We must make it clear that the current contracts terminate in two years.

10.     They changed it. They changed it all.

The elevated holoscreen situated above Null-7’s head broadcasted HNE’s latest bulletin on the war. No one in the crowded tapcaf seemed to notice, aside from the Null and his recently acquired drinking companion. Now, Mereel wasn’t as big a fan of liquor as the Rodian jet-juicer beside him, but that didn’t seem to bother the drunk, as long as the alcohol kept flowing.

“Stuka ka poodoo,” grumbled the Rodian, waving a sucker-tipped finger at the holoscreen. “Huch, huch, huch! Chone dopa-maskey committee tio pe cushi'cushi, settah pe committee. Koochoo.”

Two-faced committee, indeed. Mereel rapped his knuckles against the grimy counter and signaled to the bartender for another round of drinks. “Democracy’s nothing without a committee,” he noted absently as he eyed the… well endowed waitress leaning between them. She flicked her chocolate curls over her shoulder, picked up a meal of questionable origin, and studiously avoided his gaze as she ferried the tray off into the crowd.

“Ka na ki vo?” The Rodian slurred. “Nek jor pawa bato kirim nudcha. Bunky Dunko nira. Von'bargon che? Pawa nowan che? Nopa buti che.” He pointed a wobbling hand to the holoscreen and formed a gesture that, while unfamiliar, Mereel assumed as offensive.

The Null, previously distracted by the waitress who actively ignored him, turned towards the Rodian and decided to push the subject. “The working man always suffers,” he grumbled in feigned agitation between sips of watered down jawa juice. “And the committee never has to worry.”

“Tagwa!” crowed the Rodian and slammed his empty glass onto the counter. “Moulee-rah. Naga'pich. Pawa'nowa. Publiko cha.”

Money, greed, power. To him it sounded like the generic mantra for all forms of government – and the people running them. But he knew better than to say that out loud.

“Surely if the Conferderacy wants to secede, they should. What right does the committee have to force them to stay?” Mereel sneered instead.

The offhand comment bordered on treason, but in truth, N-7 didn’t have much of an opinion either way. The war was what it was: an ongoing fight between two angry governments using an army separate from its citizens, stretched thin and to a standstill across too many systems. No amount of arguing over a decrepit bar with a warm bottle of ale, or shouting amongst a senate, or reporting facts to the Jedi in charge, could change that. Time and again his brothers suggested a change of tactics to General Zey, only for word to be shot down by the Supreme Chancellor and his bid for improving public relations.

He did not envy the General his job. Everything was so much simpler with an objective, a plan, a planet, and his resources on the Republic’s budget. Mereel liked simple.

He also liked the occasional eye candy – females with varying shades of hair, eye, and skin color. Sometimes minus the hair.

“Tch. Uba changa! Fierfek slimo Publiko!” choked the Rodian. And then he fell off his stool.
 

The brisk air of the world-outside-the-cantina woke Mereel from whatever buzz the small bit of alcohol had on him. He shifted his grip around the Rodian’s shoulders as they shuffled down the small side streets, navigating by old-fashioned street lights and the pale purple sky. The occasional speeder blasted by overhead, cutting the silence only briefly with noisy engines before disappearing down a corner and out of sight.

“So, friend, what was it that you do?”

“Nibo'pirka,” he slurred, and motioned to the government buildings around them. “Jee kur'bato lapti bunky dunko committee winkee noleeya.”

Mereel paused as he hauled his friend home. “An architect?” Already his mission took a turn to his advantage, and he hadn’t even finished his recce of the location.

“Wonderful.”

What are the five steps to a successful negotiation?

Picture Prompt: Shower 
 

Steam clouded the transparisteel panels of the ‘fresher. The cold tiled wall vibrated lightly under his splayed hands. Scalding hot water rolled down his back and swirled red into the drain beneath his feet.

Mereel hung his head forward and laughed.

Thick dollops of lather dripped from his currently-auburn hair, down his shoulders and over his abdomen. Everything hurt. Everything.

The null leaned over and switched off the steady stream, stepping out of the stall and quickly padding down his body with a thin, ragged blue towel. He stretched, the cracks uttered by his spine echoing in the small room, and wrapped the strip of cloth around his waist.

A quick tap to the door controls and he was out of the mini sauna, standing naked in the empty ship with a towel over his hips and an open medkit in his left hand.

“Nothing a shower can’t fix,” said Mereel to the empty deck.

A short breath was all the preparation he allowed before he slapped a fresh bacta patch over the still-weeping, hurriedly stitched, twelve centimeter gash across his right bicep. It stung for a long two seconds before the natural anesthetic kicked in, but by then he had already limped the five meters to the cockpit.

The blue streaked field of hyperspace lit up the pit with varying shades of offensively bright blue. He couldn’t help the smile as he slid into the pilot’s seat and leaned back to adjust his towel.

He’d watch for a while. Clothes? Clothes could come later.

Picture Prompt: Storm Is Coming
 

“There’s a storm coming.”

Mereel dragged his eyes away from the massive, ominous black storm clouds rapidly expanding their way across the horizon. “Your observational skills are astounding.”

Jaing lightly kicked the side of the outer gray wall of Tipoca City, and then sighed over their secure frequency.

The few days of dry Kamino summer was coming to an end, and Mereel wanted to watch it go. Though Kal’buir hid it, his surrogate sons could tell his ankle injury acted up less on the two, maybe three, days out of the local year. So Mereel felt it was up to him to record the last remaining minutes of the clear day to something more tangible than eidetic memory.

The two Nulls stopped a meter from the highest peak, maneuvering to assure they had the best view of the impending disaster.

“Make sure the line’s secure,” Jaing droned in his ear. Mereel pulled taut the wire and gave the thumps-up sign to his brother.

Already the storm clouds had doubled in size. Even from that distance, N-7 could see the sea churning violently, waves of deep green crashing and breaking in a cacophony of violent, frothing chaos and pissed off aiwha.

“And I wasn’t talking about the clouds,” Jaing elaborated after a moment of contemplative silence.

“Then what were you?” Mereel adjusted his grip on the … differentially acquired, state-of-the-art datapad, aiming it towards the approaching storm, and recorded several still images. The air picked up around them, whistling eerily, and knocked around any loose kit not fully secured to their bodies.

“Don’t know. I have a bad feeling.”

“Ah.” Mereel briefly considered the consequence of loosening his zip line and plunging to the landing pad a hundred meters below. The image gave him a nice thrill, effectively sending a short burst of adrenaline into his bloodstream. He took the datapad, recorded ten seconds worth of holographic data regarding the storm front, and then tucked the device away.

Once the storm was upon them, it’d be another four hundred and sixty days before they could expect to see the sun again.

“Drama is life with the dull bits cut out.” – Alfred Hitchcock

“Drama,” quoted a Rutian Twi’lek seated on his lap, “is life with the dull bits cut out.” And then she giggled prettily before taking another sip of her homemade fruit cocktail, one lekku swinging across her back while the other curled over Mereel’s shoulder.

At some point N-7 would have been inclined to agree, but then he was introduced to the Holonet’s Showtime “Soap Operas.” If they were what the population’s accepted definition of drama was – and it certainly seemed that way, if the ratings were anything to go on – he wasn’t sure what to make of drama.

“Is that so?” he murmured teasingly, nuzzling her cheek.

She slipped her hands inside his open bantha-hide jacket, smiling as she slowly eased the garment off his shoulders. He shrugged his arms from the sleeves and tossed it to the kitchen floor.

“Yes,” she said, overdoing the sultry purr just a touch. “And I’ve decided it’s my job to erase the dull bits tonight.”

Mereel grinned, reaching up to gently run his knuckles along the edge of one lekku. “You’re taking time out of your busy schedule for me?” He quietly reveled in the way her eyes eased closed and her head tilted back. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the junction of her neck and jaw line, feeling her pulse skip a beat under his lips. He chuckled, brushing his hands down her sides and playing with the hem of her too-tight shirt.

“Life has been so very dull, too,” he murmured against her heated skin.

They didn’t cover this kind of thing in basic training. But luckily for Mereel, he was a quick study.

Ten Things You’d Rather Be Doing

Mereel leaned against the heavy table, arms crossed, staring at the closed armory door. He had no nervous twitch, no irritatingly repetitive movement to perform as the seconds ticked past. It was only a matter of time before the fully loaded Jedi General exited the room.

He turned around and sliced a chunk off the nerf roast. The rough texture was a comfort in his mouth and settled his angry stomach – if only temporarily.

Oh, there were other things he’d rather be doing.

Aay’han, for instance, could do with more tinkering. And though he finished the manual a full chapter ahead of Ordo, there were sections of the defense system he wanted to… explore further.

Ice fishing came to him next. Specifically with a separate submersible designed exactly for that purpose, and hunting fish that, if he were successful, would offer enough meat to feed a family for one standard year.

He wanted to flex his bare fists around the cold metal handle of the nerf prod and watch the Kaminoan aiwha-bait convulse under a thousand volts, screaming her high pitched wail beyond human hearing.

The wooden table cracked under his grip.

Mereel leaned over and sliced off another chunk of meat.

Maybe he ought to give Gi’ka a new paint job – he had an intimidating face in mind, complete with fanged jaws and bloodshot eyes – similar to what he often saw several clone pilots do with their LAAT/i.

And the datapads called to him, in the way inanimate objects could be both demanding and distracting – and in this case, begging – to be combed and collated for relevant data, again. But he had to leave them alone for now. There was no new information to go on, and blind searching only fueled his frustration.

The handle of the knife felt smooth in his palm. Part of the tough meat, still speared at the end, dribbled small droplets of red sauce to the floor.

From a perverse place he wondered how Ko Sai’s heart would feel, still beating, in his hand. Would she live long enough for him to show it to her?

A shudder crept down his spine. He loosened his white-knuckled grip and popped the nerf chunk in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

Mereel wanted to go back to Coruscant and see Fi. And make sure newly promoted Commando Corr got on well enough with the rest of Omega Squad. Both thoughts were irrational, he knew.

On the one hand, there was nothing he could do for Fi. On the other, Corr had trained and traveled with him on more than a few occasions. The man was more than ready for anything, and Omega Squad’s members were nothing if not welcoming. Vode an, indeed.

The armory door did not budge under his intense stare. Behind him, the roast nerf leg dwindled in size.

It occurred to him that he hadn’t yet enjoyed a Mon Cal Opera in full. Of the few times he’d found himself inside one of many prestigious Opera Houses, the mission took precedence over his vacationing goals.

An Opera would be a nice change. Maybe Etain would like to come along.

He smiled sardonically to himself. Yeah, the next time he passed by cultured society, a Mon Cal Opera was at the top of his list.

A hiss cut through the silence as the armory door cycled open, revealing a disgruntled, heavily pregnant Jedi. Instantly his eyes were drawn to the bump, and he couldn’t help but smile. Babysitting little Venku jumped to the top of his list of Things He’d Rather Be Doing.

But, like everything else, it’d have to wait.

3 am

Mad

It fascinates him: the curve of broken waves bisected by a speeding submersible moments before it breaks surface; the blending of lights and faces into rapid, uncoordinated snapshots as he presses a land speeder’s engines to maximum output and dances between Coruscant’s traffic jammed skylanes; the spike of adrenaline and the threat of mild hypertension as gravity takes hold and sends him careening in a controlled downward spiral on collision course with uncompromising pavement, still attached by rappelling line to the side of a too-tall tower.

The little things that send Mereel’s blood pumping hard and fast as adrenaline worked its magic, tightened his lungs, and temporarily enhanced sensory perception as his short life teetered dangerously on the edge of the precipice – few can understand the thrill. But that’s not his concern, what aruetiise believe.

No. Mereel isn’t mad, though other parts of his personality certainly fit the bill.

He’s better, greater than dini’la.

He lives.

“I swear I didn’t put those…”

“I swear I didn’t put those sonic dets there,” Mereel growled through his teeth and hit the heel of his hand to his ear. The distressing ringing hadn’t dissipated.

“Troopers don’t have access to demolitions storage outside of the training facilities," Ordo hissed behind him. “And our vode agreed on a different travel route, Mer’ika. That leaves you.”

Young N-7 frowned as he made a sharp but silent turn down the ventilation shaft, clambering noiselessly down the metal tunnel, and came to a stop when the ceiling opened upwards. With the ease of a man who’s traveled this route a thousand times, he popped his helmet back on and spidered up the vertical shaft.

The metal grating shifted easily enough under his gauntlets, and he hauled himself – Phase One armor and all – out onto the abandoned ground floor.

Mereel pondered the wisdom of pointing out their time-frame left little for him to set up an elaborate trap, let alone the basic shabla they stumbled onto while backtracking through the lower dredges under Tipoca City. And as far as he was concerned it should have been obvious that he wouldn’t have walked into his own trick, and headlong at that.

However, he was loath to admit that anyone other than one of his brother Nulls caught him off guard. Not that anyone else could, anyway. And the sonic detonators had been placed just outside their key exit point, a grated hole that opened to a fifty meter drop, just outside the main cloning facility. Only a complete dini’la di’kut could maneuver that high to set up a ridiculously simple trap. They weren’t even—

“Oy, Ord’ika,” the voice of one of his brothers echoed over their shared frequency. Mereel glanced down the dark vertical shaft, a gloved hand held out to help Ordo in the event he moved his shebs and decided to join him sometime this century.

“Kom’rk?” Ordo cursed in the dark.

“Find my gift yet?”

Mereel almost laughed, if the ringing pain in his ears hadn’t reminded him it wasn’t funny.