A muffled shout from somewhere far off awakens you. A basket of grits lies half-eaten on the ship’s console. Ah yes. Now you remember. You had stopped off at a small backwater docking center at the edge of the Twi’lek neighborhoods in Kal’Shebbol. A small diner underneath a water recycling plant offers the workers on break a sandwich and some grits to get them through the day. FrezFries, it’s called. You’ve never had galactic grits as good as they make ‘em here.
You had dozed off listening to the local planetary news broadcast. The reporter continues. “…And now four families with ties to the Imperial Military have been targeted by the increasingly violent attacks from local Twi’lek terrorist gangs. The motives are unknown, leaving us to believe that the attacks have arisen from a deep-seeded hate of community members in favor of law and order and the Human population, and all the ideologies the Galactic Empire held so dear. These radical alien terrorist cells are ingraining their younglings with their unethical and dishonorable philosophies from such an early age that we have very little hope that—“
Something flies at your viewport--
You spring from your seat. A hunk of metal junk was flung from somewhere out of sight and cracked into your viewport, leaving a shallow scratch on the surface of the transparisteel.
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM
Someone hammers on the door of the ship. You hear an angry shout in Twi’leki, and you can only catch a few words: Pra’tari shak (ship), Alkin (murderer), Ch'sei (death). You have a strange feeling that they just called you a murdered and they want you to step outside of your ship. You haven’t the faintest idea why.
Now you see a small crowd of shapes moving threateningly around in the dimly lit hanger oustide. Filthy Lekku swinging around leering alien faces masked under grubby headwraps, slimy hands clutching crude weapons: a couple long pieces of rusty metal, a blaster pistol here and there, even a deadly vibroblade. The crowd begins shouting for you.