*Chapter 17: Gathering Intel*

While the engineering droids patched up the ship, Qennto struck up a conversation with Truda, an old acquaintance.

“So, where’s Ferasi? Why didn’t she come with you?” Truda asked, eyeing the group. “Those guys over there look unfamiliar.”

He nodded toward Murte, Ventus, and the others.

“They’re my new… uh…” Qennto fumbled for words. He couldn’t exactly say Ferasi was being wined and dined back on Dawn as a hostage, could he?

“Partners,” Murte chimed in from behind.

“Yeah, partners!” Qennto latched onto the word.

“Whatever mess you’ve gotten into, clean it up yourself,” Truda said. “I’ve already tipped off Jabba. His people should be here any minute.”

“Hey, old man! You’re screwing me over! I just got to Tatooine—can’t I at least grab a drink first?” Qennto griped.

Truda smirked. “We both work for Jabba. You know how it goes.”

Sure enough, as they spoke, a group of bounty hunters swaggered in, shouting, “Qennto! Get your ass out here! Where’s Jabba’s stuff?”

Qennto flinched, shooting a pleading glance at Ventus, who gave no reaction. Swallowing hard, Qennto stammered, “Right, I’m… I’m coming.”

“You lot, unload the cargo and pack it up! This is Jabba’s!” a Twi’lek mercenary barked, waving a blaster rifle at Ventus’s group.

That blaster was military-grade, far better than the cheap DL-18 pistols Qennto’s crew carried. No wonder these guys were so cocky.

T-850 stepped forward, ready to teach the loudmouth a lesson, but Ventus stopped him. “Let’s load the cargo.”

Without complaint, Ventus headed to the ship’s cargo hold, hefting a large crate onto a Bantha-II cargo skiff. The bounty hunters stood back, hands behind their backs, watching Ventus’s group do all the work. One tossed Qennto a handful of coins and sauntered off.

Qennto counted them, then shouted, “Hey! This is only 2,000 wupiupi! We agreed on 5,000!”

Wupiupi coins were the currency on Tatooine. Out here in the Outer Rim, under Hutt control, Galactic Republic credits were useless. Only hard currency like wupiupi mattered.

The bounty hunters didn’t stop. One turned back, sneering, “Be glad you got anything, you useless Mynock-milker! Hahaha!”

Qennto’s face twisted through a range of emotions. Once the skiff was out of sight, he flipped them off. “Bantha-spawn bastards!”

Murte, unfazed, slung an arm around Qennto’s shoulders. “No big deal. We got some credits, right? A few more jobs, and we’ll be fine. Once our colony’s built, we’ll have plenty of work and won’t need to kiss Jabba’s tail anymore.”

“Jabba…” Qennto’s head drooped at the name.

“Come on, let’s grab a drink. My treat,” Murte said.

“Pretty sure it’s still my credits,” Qennto muttered with a wry smile, shaking his head.

They made their way into Mos Eisley, a chaotic sprawl of a city with no proper roads—just a jumble of shacks and buildings, like an oversized slum.

The streets were packed with all sorts of aliens, draped in cloaks to shield against the scorching suns. Some hawked strange goods, others begged for work, and mercenaries leaned against walls, weapons in hand, waiting for a job. The mercs tried to look as intimidating as possible.

Then a cylindrical, pole-like droid strode by, carrying several severed Quarren heads. Pedestrians scattered, the toughest-looking mercs sprinting away fastest.

Whispers rippled through the crowd. “Look, those are Iron Fish Gang Quarrens! They hit one of Jabba’s freighters a few days ago…”

Qennto pulled Ventus, who’d been watching curiously, out of the way. “That’s IG-41, one of Jabba’s bounty hunters,” he whispered. “Stay clear. It’ll shoot anything it thinks is interfering with its mission.”

Ventus didn’t respond. He glanced at the droid, then turned and followed Qennto to a bar in Mos Eisley. The place was a dive, filled with a mix of droids and aliens drowning their meager earnings in cheap booze, venting their frustrations.

There were squid-like Quarrens, boar-like Gamorreans, and Twi’leks with their head-tails and varied skin tones—a zoo of rare species.

Murte, clearly thrilled by the scene, grabbed some coins from Qennto and wandered off. Within minutes, he was laughing and drinking with a Twi’lek woman.

Ventus, however, went straight to the oval bar in the center. He ordered a drink, sipping it slowly, then slid a wupiupi coin to the bartender. “I’m looking for info on the Skywalker family,” he said quietly.

The bartender pocketed the coin without a glance, wiping dishes as he replied in a low voice, “They’re in Mos Espa, slaves to a Toydarian junk dealer named Watto. He won them gambling from Gardulla the Hutt. That story’s been around a while.”

Ventus slid another coin over. “I want to find them. Any advice?”

The bartender took the coin, stacking dishes neatly. “Mos Espa’s Gardulla’s territory. You know how it is between her and Jabba—those Hutts don’t play nice. You’re with Jabba’s crew. You can guess what’ll happen.”

This place was a cesspool—nobody could be trusted, Ventus thought. He’d barely set foot on Tatooine before Jabba’s goons swooped in, and word had already spread.

Ventus toyed with his last wupiupi coin, about to speak, when someone shoved him aside. He turned, ready to snap, only to see a drunken thug slumped over the bar, reeking of booze. “Hey, pink-skin!” the drunk slurred. “Wanna make some credits with me?”

At the mention of money, Ventus signaled T-850 to stand down. “What’s your plan?”

“Hahaha! You look soft, bet your family’s loaded, huh? Hic! I kidnap you, then we get your folks to pay the ransom. How’s that? Hahaha! Hic!” The drunk cackled, joined by a group of his buddies at a nearby table.

*[Easter Egg Chapter Image 1: Tatooine Street Scene]*