Command and Conker., ATTN: Snowflake, and Crowe.

[Charlie Quill]

Gunrunning
Working for: Alliance
Goal: Pick up a shipment of weaponry from Dureel the Toydarian on Nar Shaddaa and bring it to Tralus. Alliance operatives will meet you on preplanned coordinates.



Nar Shaddaa had long been regarded as the Galaxy’s prized cesspool. It was a world deprived of money, civility, and hope. Those buggers unfortunate enough to call the gargantuan gutter home were tough because they had to be. Equality and fairness were forlorn concepts to the natives, who were forced to stoop to the levels of their oppressors simply make ends meet. It was easy for a prim and proper liberal politician to denounce the common people as ‘savages’ when they were off-world in a villa paid for by the Hutt who kept them as an articulate trophy. Such widespread depression was reflected in the world’s grim, unimaginative architecture. Towering spires, clunky and without flowing contours, sprouted from the green smog that hugged the surface, in a desperate, albeit feeble, attempt to suckle on untainted air.

Stim-imbued heavies hefted crates around the tiny hanger, pausing every now and again to hurl moronic abuse, and the occasional profanity, at one another. Methodically, the ragtag workforce hauled the tightly sealed boxes over a pockmarked floor and up the Marble’s gangplank. Teal overalls, discoloured in patches, identified the unskilled workers from those skilled aeronautical engineers that set about examining the freighter’s rather simplistically designed landing struts. A squad of Astromech droids assisted the tradesmen in their duties, weaving effortlessly through the slalom of busy bodies and stockpiled cargo. A bloated noon sun provided the stunning backdrop for the rather shady sequence of events. The star’s natural beauty was marred somewhat by the interwoven layers of airspeeder traffic. Dollops of sunlight occasionally penetrated the airborne highways, illuminating those glum characters that were caught in the shadows of the superstructures.

Charlie looked on apprehensively. He hated folks mingling around his ship as it was, even more so when those who had permitted themselves entrance were the calibre of unsavoury sorts that Beraal took into employment. If the concept of a stench of body odour floating through the barge’s tubular corridors wasn’t enough to send to mentally torture the captain, then the mental image of muddy boot prints certainly was. He leaned against the section of walling that neighboured the hanger’s entrance. Determined not to bawl at the misfit crew for their nonchalant execution of their task, he buried a sun kissed palm into his trouser pocket and retrieved a small, rather tastelessly fashioned, mirror. In a weak attempt to divert his attention elsewhere, the pilot set about entertaining his ego and began the thorough process of checking himself over.

Individual mahogany hairs were plastered together with wax to form a handful of tiny spires. These carefully erected structures stood to attention as their master’s scrutinizing gaze surveyed them. Those slacker of creations were manipulated into a more prominent structure through the use of the sticky residue that clung to their flesh. Facially, he was free of any ghastly spots.

Rather thankfully, that bruised tissue that had been sustained through what had been dubbed ‘the incident’ had healed rather quickly. Granted, the constant presence of an on-board medical practitioner had played a significant role in the injuries healing as they did. Whilst he wouldn’t dream of telling her, Snowflake was a godsend. Sure, she had a few annoying habits; the constant deployment of medical jargon being one of them, but on the whole she was great. It was nice having company aboard Mable’s Marble for a change. Much to the smarmy crook’s surprise, his new partner had some serious wit of her own. He liked to think that his quick tongue was a given gift, as opposed to a tool crafted in the bowels of some institute for gifted students. The Force only knew that it had been the doctor’s selective wording that had scared no end of the scoundrel’s cheap floozies away during the two’s recent trip to Zeltros. No woman was interested in fornication with a man when they got a free lecture about sexually transmitted diseases beforehand.

The purge of Archie Quill’s memory had been a swift process. Day by day, minor alterations had been made around the new duo’s home in an effort to dispel the spirit of the ever present smuggler. Witnessing the desecration of his baby brother’s quarters had silently choked the elder sibling. Those trinkets of such sentimental value gradually faded into distant memory. Snowflake, as clueless as ever, had inadvertently destroyed what had remained of the other Quill in her attempts to make herself at home. Charlie couldn’t be mad at her for doing what he had instructed her to do; she had every right to modify her own personal space to best suit her. The vanquishing had finally been made official when the physician claimed the co-pilot’s throne. Whilst the women’s insignificant tweaking to the leather chair may have seemed nothing to one outside of the smuggling community, it was the symbolic moment that marked her official undertaking of the navigator’s position.

The horrendous screeching of metal grinding against another metallic surface plunged the renegade back into the realms of the living. Electric blue orbs were quick enough in pinpointing the imbecile who had carelessly allowed the corner of his load to ricochet off of one of the gangplank’s pneumonic arms. Hastily the pocket mirror that still occupied his left hand was stuffed into its lair.

”Cholesterol! Yeah, that’s right; I’m talkin to you, fat arse! Watch what the hell y’ doin’ around my baby!” Conker snapped, wafting an olive finger in the direction of the overweight Twi’lek workman who had so carelessly performed his duties. Such an accident was inevitable. Those grunts that the Hutt had at his disposal were far from professional. The bulk of them were drug abusers, looking to earn the measly sum of credits that would buy them their next fix. Unlike the smugglers, bounty hunters, and mercenaries, they had simply desires that could be catered for. It seemed they valued their vices over prosperity or financial wellbeing.

”Conker, Conker, Conker, calm it, will you? These guys know what they’re doin’. They’ve pretty much loaded everything that’s on the manifesto. Where’s that hot little number you’re cruising with nowadays, huh? Man, if I was ten years younger… I mean, you’re almost ready for take-off.” Vance croaked, appearing from behind a canyon of crates. The elderly man’s attention flicked from the pretty boy, to the data slate containing the ship’s manifest. Stubby fingers danced across the tablet’s reflective skin, serving as a visual statement that the ex-smuggler was still the master of two dexterous hands.

”Who the hell taught you speak like that, old man? No wonder your lady’s bangin’ that Banzon vendor if you’re speakin’ like that around her. That ‘hot little number’ is called Snowflake. You’d be wise not to go speakin’ with that tongue around her when she gets here too, Chance. We were runnin’ a shipment out Telos way and I saw that schutta smoke her way through half of the TSF. She’s a cold fraker, I’m telling ya. How you think she got the nickname?” Charlie spoke in his usual unflattering manner. Vance’s nostrils flared at the mention of his ex-wife, but he refused to fold to the banter. The old Mirialan’s tattooed face flicked upwards to best scowl at the younger man. Before Last Chance Lance could summon the words, Charlie spoke again ”And don’t ask me where she is, ‘coz I ain’t gotta clue. She was gettin’ us both some caffa, what? Five and quarter hours ago. Relax, old fella, she’ll be here in time.”

[Maris Kala'myr]

Charlie had not been clear. He should have known better than to be ambiguous with Christie by now. But he had bigger things on his mind than worry about her quirks. She had a tendency to take things literally or take trails of logic that were quite baffling at times. But whatever happened, she was a fast learner and took to anything she tried her hand at like a professional returning to his or her trade after a short absence. It was uncanny how quickly she picked up things and quickly went through the motions of mastering the task.

She sauntered into the starport like she owned the place, like she had always been there and always would be. Her gait was natural and relaxed, confident of her destination and any worries that existed deep down never touched her perfect smile. She smiled a lot and to everyone. Even when she was upset or angry, there was a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. Sometimes it seemed more like a mask than an expression, like she never truly felt the smile she gave so generously. Snowflake carried a tray of a dozen caffas with a box resting atop the plastic topped, cardboard caffa cups. Hanging from one hand and swaying slightly with each step was a small plastic bag.

Snowflake's standard issue smuggler boots rang up the metal gangplank and into the Marble's hold. She deftly sidestepped one of the stim-jacked brutes, easily three times her size, and continued in. The precious cargo didn't even wobble in her steady hands. Giving Charlie a warm smile, she shifted the stack of drinks and pastries to one hand. With the other, she worked one of the cardboard cups from the preformed embrace of rough packing material and offered it to him. The cup had scribbles up the side in a quick and carefree script, more secret markings than language.
"This one is yours, just how you like it." Christie said. Turning to Vance, she offered him a warm smile. "Mr Vance, I didn't expect to see you today. Please, help yourself to a caffa and a pastry." She said, and moved alongside Beraal's associate.

Christie claimed the flat top of a crate and placed her cargo atop. The large box opened on a flap of cardboard with a plastic window set in the top to display the contents within. The box contained an assortment of pastries that would suite any palate. Some were frosted, others powdered, one or two were glazed with sprinkles, some were filled with crèmes and custards and jams, while others were more traditional and reserved, topped with nuts and drizzled in caramel. Christie took great care in aligning the box with the top of the crate, making sure each of the sides was parallel. The cups of caffa, steam trailing from the small openings in the plastic lids were neatly arranged next to the pastries. Each cup was a precise distance from the next and arranged in a grid. The small bag was opened to display an assortment of milk, creamers, natural and synthetic sugars, and flavorings all in individual portions.

The final caffa in the tray was claimed by Christie. It was almost finished and light in her hands. Removing the tray from the table, she stepped back to inspect the spread. She made a face that said she wasn't particularly pleased with it, but she had done the best she could with the available materials. After an approving nod, she moved to stand beside Charlie, holding her small caffa thoughtfully. She smiled to him, reached into her pocket, and handed him back the cred-chit. Through his precious Snowflake, Charlie had just bought caffa and pastries for everyone.

Charlie looked tired. She knew he was worried about a great many things. He was worried about their cargo, the men trooping through his precious Marble, another running with the Confederation, and that was only the beginning. She knew he wasn't getting enough sleep. But then she couldn't judge him on that, Christie didn't sleep. She had been Charlie's smuggling partner for over a month now, and not once did she feel fatigued or tired. What puzzled her was why she suffered none of the ill effects that should have accompanied such severe insomnia. Her body should have shut down over three weeks ago. But it hadn't and she knew that there was something terrifyingly wrong with that. There were other disparaging things that Christie had recognized and the most worrying was her lack of appetite. She could eat and nibbled on things occasionally, but she knew the caloric content of what she was consuming could not sustain a human of her height and build. She should have been wasting away, skin and bones… but she wasn't. She saw no change in her body mass or energy.

This realization caused many an hour locked in the fresher, wearing little more than her underclothes, and poking and prodding at her body. Christie pinched the pink flesh about her tight stomach until she winced in pain. Her body should have been consuming the fat reserves and muscle mass, but it wasn't. She should have been bloated and cramping and in severe pain, but she wasn't. Dehydration was another worry Christie kept to herself. If the lack of sleep and lack of appetite didn't end her, the lack of water should have done so. Every now and again something would tell her to drink some water, and she would do so. After downing a glass or two, the imperative would leave and return a day, two days, a week later. It was too little to be healthy, but Christie felt fine and knew that she shouldn't have.

The caffa was brought to her lips for a second and then lowered. Christie made to swallow. The cup was cradled in both hands near her chest and she looked eagerly between the two men.
"Many more?" she asked Vance with an informative nod of her blonde hair to the crates being brought into the hold.

[Charlie Quill]

Like a petulant infant, the smuggler trudged from the beneath the atmosphere’s toxic blanket and into his mobile home. Vance was quick in tow, attempting to physically appease his co-worker’s ego with an apologetic tap to the shoulder. The feeble attempt at calming an otherwise furious individual was met with a cold stare. Muscle-clad humanoids, all clearly premium members at the local gym, hefted the cargo through the tubular corridors. Each little squad that comprised the idle workforce adopted a hardworking façade when the vessel’s owner and dock master passed through their designated working area. Occasionally, the distinct twang of metal ricocheting off of another metallic surface made its way through the corridors. Charlie refused to bite at the abundance of minor ‘mishaps’ that had been masterminded by the uneducated labourers. Instead, mustering every bit of restraint he had, the captain perched himself against the hold’s Holoprojector in a weak attempt to look unconcerned.

It was the moronic wolf-whistles issued by the unsavoury workers that alerted Charlie to his partner’s presence. Decorum was a concept wholly lost upon the brutes who truly believed that their array of howls could entice the radiant physician. It was strange how women of such beauty could invoke such redundant, testosterone fuelled outbursts from the rougher sex. Masterfully, the woman wove her way through the gang of behemoths, and joined her new colleague via the main hold’s threshold. Snowflake’s sincere smile was met by a toothy smirk from the captain. His smile was the calibre of smile that an infatuated teenager deployed when trying to unintentionally deter the school’s star cheerleader. Angry at himself for allowing his inexplicable crush to dictate his physical behaviour, Conker clenched his jaw.

”This one is yours, just how you like it.”Cups, etched with markings that only a master in the art of caffa could truly decipher, were trailed by the outlaw as the errand-girl sought a surface to lay them down. A gracious tilt of the head was exchanged with the clearly flustered female in return for the piping hot beverages. In the newly minted co-pilot’s off-hand was a pristinely kept box, branded in marvellous, golden calligraphy. As for the holder’s contents, the only thing that was certain was that it contained something capable of discharging the most terrific of aromas. It annoyed Charlie to no end how Christie displayed the rack suspending the caffa, and arranged the mysterious box. The overly devised layout was a testament to the doctor’s OCD. In an odd sense, it represented everything that was wrong with her. Everything involved too much thought; there was no dynamism. To anybody else, the order in which they were to present their beverage took little, if any thought. With her, everything was so precise, so flawless, and so unfaultable.

"Mr Vance, I didn't expect to see you today. Please, help yourself to a caffa and a pastry.” Christie added ever so politely, sealing her words with a smile that treated the older fellow to a view of her immaculately kept teeth. Charlie allowed a childish chuckle rumble through his rather unimpressive trunk. He was under the impression that he’d taken on a new second in command, not a personal assistant. Her mannerism was one that was largely alien within the criminal community. Simple, courteous words such as ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ were largely regarded as words more commonly used by those of a weaker nature. Everything was about image. To most crooks, it didn’t matter how successful you were, as long as you maintained your ‘reputation’. Whilst he wouldn’t dream of admitting it, it was Christie’s genuineness that appealed to Charlie.

Eager to take up the beauty on her offer, Vance made for the box of pastries. He wasted no time in attacking the small holder and its delicious contents. Spoiled for choice, the dock master’s wrinkled paw hovered above each of the varying delights, before finally settling on a lightly drizzled number that was infused with apple and cinnamon. The sheer sight of glazed pastry was enough to turn the pilot’s stomach. Besides the Confederation, his only other two lifetime rivals were the infamous Mr. Sugar and his cousin, one Mr. Complex Carbohydrates; a calorific duo who had ruined too many good people.

“Many more?” Snowflake asked, taking another swig of the boiling liquid. Before Chance was permitted to answer the rather straightforward question, the dull thud of hulking frames colliding with the nearest corridor’s curved skeleton caught wind. Those physically imposing beings were reduced to snivelling cowards by the individual who caused them to press themselves against the wall. The hum that was commonly associated with pacing wings became audible above the labourers’ heavy breaths. Dureel the Toydarian hovered across the main room’s threshold. If the squat, hideous little alien hadn’t the rather bloody reputation that he had, then undoubtedly he’d have been the punch line to a good few dozen jokes.

“Conker Quill, how dare you. Youa been in my starport for not even a day and youa gettin’ Chance to do my job! I’m the one in charge of this dock, you moose-haired little frack! Who’re you authorizing people to load up this heap of junk?” Dureel spat, gliding over to the smuggler’s side with clenched fists. Charlie cackled hysterically. Dureel, rather like Christie had always been all about proper etiquette and formality. The fact that someone of a lesser rank had completed his task was too much to bear.

“Ha-ha! Apologies there, halfwit. C’mon, D, you know the only time you’re any bright is when I throw a lamp at you. Ok, ok, I was only havin’ a laugh. Look on the bright side, we’re movin’ ahead of schedule. We’re suited and booted, so, if you’re ready to fly your stinkin’ little arse back the way you came, we’ll get on with it.” Charlie snapped back rudely. Chance, anticipating the airborne hothead’s next move, moved to pull him backwards before he lashed out at the skinny man.


“You,” Dureel’s head snapped towards Christie “I’vea heard nothing but good things about you. It’s a pleasure to meet a pilot who isn’t high on their own self-importance. I looka forward to speakin’ more wit’ you downa the cantina upon your return. Force knows how the good lookin’ ones always fall into his trap...” The winged beast spoke, embedding a number of insults intended for the pretty boy within his speech.

[Maris Kala'myr]

Christie watched as Vance pondered his choice, pleased at his hesitation. A smile grew on her lips. It told her that she had done well in choosing. Or perhaps his hesitation spoke to the opposite reaction and Vance was choosing the least offensive from the box. Vance chose an apple-cinnamon strudel and Christie nodded in approval at his choice. Chancing a look at Charlie, the smile dipped at the corners and her expression became one of concern. He was frowning at the pastries. Christie turned back to the confectionaries and inspected them once again.

She failed to see what could have caused this sudden change. Had Vance snatched the pastry that Charlie had had his eye on? Failure washed over her and the smile finally slipped from her face. Sometimes it seemed that whatever she did was marked with disapproval, and she tried so hard. Some would have been disappointed with such a revelation, but it only spurred Christie to greater levels of professionalism. Failure was not a brick wall to her, but a hurdle. She would try harder next time.

A finger brushed against the box's side, realigning it back with the tabletop from where Vance had jostled it selecting his strudel. Her attention diverted from her own failings and onto the noise that dimly echoed through the metallic corridors of the Marble. She registered panic, a scuffling of feet eager to clear the way, and the beating of wings, then the Toydarian came into view. The anger twisted on his alien features was clear and he was fluttering towards them.

“Conker Quill, how dare you. […] Who’re you authorizing people to load up this heap of junk?”

If the twisted little face of the hovering alien wasn't enough to convey his emotional discord, his tone and choice of language rang clear. Christie could see the potential for violence to escalate from this encounter even though she didn't register where that thought came from. The smile the doctor wore had been designed to be calming and she slipped beside Charlie. It was a defensive move, one that would put her between him and harm should anything unfortunate happen. However, this gesture was unknown to Christie who saw herself simply moving beside the smuggling partner. The truth was only recognized by an imperative that went deeper than the subconscious.

“Ha-ha! […] We’re suited and booted, so, if you’re ready to fly your stinkin’ little arse back the way you came, we’ll get on with it.”

Those crystal blue eyes of hers opened wide as Charlie began his verbal assault. Her head snapped to him as if she had taken a baseball bat to the temple. She gasped sharply. There was fear and shock etched into her muscles and her exposed neckline was taut with apprehension. It was only after a second, after she was able to interpret the scene differently, that she relaxed. Christie had been reminded yet again that this was not her world and her rules did not apply here. Apology would have been seen ask weakness on Charlie's part. Strength, or at least the perceived notions of strength, meant respect. And that could mean the difference between life and death.

“You, I’vea heard nothing but good things about you. […] Force knows how the good lookin’ ones always fall into his trap...”

Christie faced Dureel as he turned to address her. There was a pleasant expression upon her face, but it was ultimately neutral. However, once it was clear that Dureel's addressing of her was not another attack on Charlie, her smile grew larger and the corners of her eyes creased in contentment.
"Oh, thank you, Mr Dureel, but I'm not a pilot yet… more a pilot in training. But with Charlie teaching me, I think I'm making excellent progress." Christie said, touching Charlie's bicep gently as she mentioned him.

"But we should talk later, I would like that." She said, her grin growing to the point of genuine affection.
Turning a hand towards the spread she had laid out, Christie flicked her eyes towards it before looking back to the Toydarian.
"Caffa? Pastry?" she said with a welcoming smile.

[Charlie Quill]

Those flaming, amber orbs of the alien’s were quelled by the pilot’s cool, blue irises. Gazes locked momentarily, as both men adopted their war faces in order to aesthetically beat the other into submission. Accompanying the cold stares were the array of involuntary nostril twitches that put emphasis on how mad each individual actually was. Whilst a battle of fisticuffs would have undoubtedly seen the venerable thug emerge victorious, when it came to façades and false swagger, Conker Quill was unrivalled.

The airborne alien was first to disengage from the staring competition, choosing instead to address the newly minted co-pilot with a renewed sense of vigour. Words that one had presumed foreign to the squat beast were strung together into an uncharacteristically kind chunk of dialogue. As was quite often the case, Dureel was physically incapable of directing any rant laden in vulgarity towards the beauty. It was the age old example of good looks inadvertently slaying the tyrant’s wicked heart. Half expecting the well-educated women to dismiss the hideous cretin’s words with the holier-than-thou snort that most toffs seemed to don, Charlie’s head pivoted to face Christie. It was to his utter astonishment that she wore the smile of one genuinely taken back by such a sincere attempt at establishing some kind of foundation for a future relationship.

"Oh, thank you, Mr Dureel, but I'm not a pilot yet… more a pilot in training. But with Charlie teaching me, I think I'm making excellent progress." Christie spoke, resting a velvet palm upon her partner’s wholly unimpressive bicep. The physical gesture proved successful in kinetically ironing out those creases which had begun to form in the bemused man’s forehead. Her touch alone was enough to unearth those more potent of feelings once again. Animal magnetism came coupled with an emotion that was so much more powerful than any he had unwillingly indulged before. The beginnings of such an emotional connection were usually murdered at birth, but, mainly down to his own failings, any dismissal of the girl that he had grown to rely on so much was now impossible.

”Caffa? Pastry?”Christie asked politely, disappearing behind the innocent smile that she wore so masterfully. It seemed that her choice of wording, coupled with her warm physical gestures, was enough to defrost the gruff Toydarian’s bitterly cold heart.

Those two words hurtled Conker back into the now. Unwelcome delusions of him kindling some kind of relationship with his second-in-command were abruptly cleansed from thought. What stems of love had begun to sprout within him were instead replaced by that mild loathing of her and her insufferable habits. At the rate Snowflake was going, every sociopath from here to Ord Mantel would be stopping by for afternoon tea, and the occasional scone. Nostrils flared and eyes narrowed as the boisterous human allowed his face to scrunch up into a scowl. An emaciated arm was yanked free of the medical practitioner’s loose grip. In a somewhat feeble attempt to dispel the mounting stress, the captain gently massaged his temples with the palms of both hands. It was from the corner of his right eye that he spotted the rotund Dureel succumbing to his gluttony. Thankfully, unlike Vance, Dureel was much quicker in his selection of the baked treat. Only after snatching what appeared to be a chocolate-cream croissant did the dumpy beast disappear back the way he came; Vance in tow.

”Next time, we’ll wait in the corner with confetti and throw it all over that big ol’ butterball when he rocks through here. I’ll serenade him with a beautiful love song, whilst you bake him a cake. Then we’ll put on our party hats and… Come on, girl, you’re killin’ me.” Charlie joked, shooting a lopsided grin in the direction of his partner. Playfully, he pushed her out of his way, granting him with a clear route to the cockpit.

”You know the music; it’s time to dance! Showtime, Snowy.” Charlie bellowed, a hint of excitement clinging to his voice. His words rumbled through the vessel’s corridors, preparing the disembodied entity that controlled Mable’s Marblefor the imminent take-off. Electrical instruments chimed merrily, almost as if they were trying to relay their happiness to their master via a series of genial bleeps.

[Maris Kala'myr]

The Toydarian seemed pleased and in turn that pleased Christie. She smiled and contently watched as he plucked a croissant from the box, and make his exit. Christie waved goodbye, although Dureel never turned to see. Next Christie was looking at Charlie with an expectant glint in her eyes. He had yet to pick from the box and it would seem that he never would. The beginnings of a frown creased her brow as it became apparent that something what troubling Charlie. Her eyes drew down and examined the platter she had assembled with such care. Had she missed some delicacy favored by the smuggler? Then he was speaking and Christie turned her head from the assortment of pastries and studied his face closely.

”Next time, we’ll wait in the corner with confetti and throw it all over that big ol’ butterball when he rocks through here. I’ll serenade him with a beautiful love song, whilst you bake him a cake. Then we’ll put on our party hats and… Come on, girl, you’re killin’ me.”

There was a slight look of perplexity as Charlie spoke, almost as if Christie was struggling to keep up with the conversation. It sounded an interesting approach to underworld dealings and somewhat contradictory to the standard approach that she had seen so far on her voyage into the smuggler's life, but as Charlie had witnessed, the doctor was excellent at adapting to different scenarios. She almost seemed a chameleon in that way, although admittedly a little bizarre in her approaches at times.

As Charlie grinned, Christie's own lips pulled into a mimicry of his. She rocked on the heels of her boots as he pushed her and allowed him past. The smile that now graced her lips appeared more genuine. She understood the shove to be lacking any malice, but it had been a little shocking the first time he had done it. The doctor had turned sullen afterwards and her every thought had been dedicated to uprooting what she had done to displease him. Eventually something clicked in her head and understanding came easily.

”You know the music; it’s time to dance! Showtime, Snowy.”

The first time she had heard Charlie use this expression, she had frowned in wonderment. After a while, this too became apparent. She was learning his ways, his mannerisms, the specific phrases he used on a regular basis and understood the meanings. She knew when to speak and when to keep quiet. There would be no music, no dancing, and no show, Christie understood that now. The stage to which he spoke was an analogue for the cockpit.
"Yes sir!" Christie chirped.

But the doctor pretending to be a smuggler lingered in the hold a moment longer as the burly line of unskilled labor left. Christie made sure to offer them a caffa and pastry as they went by. The containers were empty by the time Christie had secured the hold to the void. She strode confidently from the cargo bay, as if she had done this a thousand times before and joined Charlie in the cockpit.

Christie began buckling herself in, slapping the five point harness' connectors into the central unit with practiced ease. The pre-launch checks she ran through seemed almost an afterthought and as intuitive to her as breathing would be to him. Christie still didn't know the reason why this seemed so instinctive to her, but she was reluctant to question something that gave her purpose to Charlie.
"You haven't told me our cargo or destination." Christie mentioned almost as an afterthought, though the tone of her statement had been carefully modulated to instill just the right amount of curiosity. She gave him a look from the corner of a bright blue eye and her lips rose in a smile.

[Charlie Quill]

The journey through the bowels of the mechanized avian was a short one indeed. It seemed excitement had too filtered through into the jaunty smuggler’s stride. A simple walk, usually incorporating oodles of swagger, had become tainted somewhat by the boyish glee that coursed through him; evolving instead into what could only be described as a skip. This was what he lived for. Those divines hadn’t bestowed many gifts upon him, discounting his stunning body and ridiculous good looks of course, but when it came to mastery of the fixed-wing spacecraft, he was, in his mind, something of a prodigy. The prospect of making credits via the use of a talent was as good of a reason as any to let a childish grin slip through the macho firewall.

A rotund dusk sun forced its rays at the cloud of smog that hugged the moon. Those more wayward of beams penetrated the cockpit’s viewport, drenching the small room in brilliant orange light. An emerald tinge hugged each of the concentrated beams. There were, occasionally, times where the plumes of poisonous gas infused with the daystar’s magnificent aura to create a visual masterpiece. Now was one such time. Whilst environmentalists, high on their organic ‘medication’ and leftist ideology, would undoubtedly erupt over the notion that emissions could in anyway be a thing of beauty, Charlie had always found a strange solace in the spiralling smoke.

Christie was quick on the heels of the captain, striding confidently into the command centre and claiming her seat. Her silky blonde hair absorbed whatever magnificent light dared to kiss it. It was with renewed vigour that the navigator tackled the simplistic harness and its occasionally fiddly locking mechanism. To watch her at work was strange; it was as if she was a completely different person. The timid mannerisms and body language fizzled away into memory, instead replaced by an authoritative air that could unnerve even the hardiest of folk. Charlie, he too now slipping into his throne and quickly overcoming the stubborn harness, couldn’t help but cock a puzzled brow as those worries of old began to take form again.

”You haven’t told me our cargo or destination.” Snowflake stated simply, breaking from her trance momentarily in order to grace her obnoxious partner with her beauty. Conker, in an attempt to not become completely enthralled in her circular oceans, snapped his left hand to head height and forming a ‘hang on one second’ kind of gesture.

The flick of a manicured finger was all that was required to see Mable’s Marble scream to life. Vertical take-off system’s acted instinctively in generating just enough uplift to get the flying fortress airborne. Those spherical nozzles altered the angle at which they discharged their contents ever so slightly, thus seeing the freighter float gradually to the landing pad’s fluorescent brim. In perfect unison, and thanks to a series of complex on-board electronics, the vertical take-off systems transferred all power to the atmospheric drives. The initial drop in altitude was accompanied by the kick from the roaring thrusters, which proved wholly effective in pinning the pilot’s skull to the back of his seat.

The galloping barge climbed from the stingy launching area and higher than the mucky peaks of the manmade mountain ranges. Those interwoven columns of speeder traffic were soon vanquished from the viewport, as were the mounting fumes that crawled from their industrial dwellings. Olive smog clung to the Marble’s body as it scrambled skywards to suckle on untainted air once again. It was only as the ship broke free of the Smuggler’s Moon entirely that the sun, now clearly visible for the first time in a few days, was permitted to douse the duo with unfiltered sunlight.

”Tralus is where we’re headin’, Snowy. I managed to get a quick look at the manifest before we hit the sky. Now, if I was a bettin’ man, which I am, I’d put a whole heap’a money on us runnin’ gun, or somethin’ along those lines, for the Alliance.” Charlie drooled, his left hand disengaging from the joystick in order to waft around aimlessly.

He was half expecting the girl to crumble under the pressure of unwilling choosing a side in a war that she wanted no part in. Indeed, to flounder under such news would have seemed to be the logical response entirely. The matter of the fact was that the Alliance were good customers of Beraal’s. Untold amounts of munitions, weaponry, and armour had been shifted via the small fleet of ‘couriers’. Whilst many pilots, especially those hailing from Dolomar, had begun something of a silent mutiny against their overseer, Conker was of a much quieter disposition when the subject of aiding the organization came to lips. In complete honesty, he held no great love for the mechanised insurgency or their ideals, but he had lost a sibling to them. In a strange way, he felt as if his services to the band of terrorists were benefitting Archie somehow. For that reason alone, he’d already picked a side in this war.

”Buyer’s a Mr. Crowe Ischoron… Ischoron? Why the hell is that name ringin’ alarm bells… Ah well, just keep calm, work your magic, and we’ll be takin’ another little holiday with a couple o’ grand in the back pocket, whadda you say? So, navigator, plot me a course to Tralus. I wanna bypass all know federal hotspots, especially ones passin’ through Confederate space. The last thing either of us wants is a repeat of Obroa-Skai. Punch it when you’re ready, Snowy.”Charlie said as collectively as he could, gripping the ship’s joystick tightly, and waiting on the co-pilot to execute the given orders.

[Maris Kala'myr]

”Tralus is where we’re headin’, Snowy. […] Now, if I was a bettin’ man, which I am, I’d put a whole heap’a money on us runnin’ gun, or somethin’ along those lines, for the Alliance.”

"Tralus?" Christie repeated with a questioning accent to the end of the word, then shrugged her shoulders. The shrugging motion was suppressed by the bright straps of synthetic fiber that hugged her to the copilot's chair. She considered the world they would be travelling to moments before their mission sunk in. She scowled and looked quite concerned for a moment. Christie turned from the controls arrayed before her and gave Charlie a pensive stare. There was no doubt that she had heard correctly or misinterpreted his meaning, but she questioned his logic in a single look.

Then she blinked twice and faced forward again. The worry she felt had been pushed aside and she had to believe that Charlie knew what he was doing. Running guns or other military provisions to a terrorist organization seemed overly dangerous, especially given their place of honor in the eyes of the Confederation. She considered arguing and advise staying low. The silent counsel she kept allowed Christie to see things from a different angle. It would have been naïve of them to believe the Feds would just stop looking for her. Following the threads of thought that had led her to be an advocate of staying low, she believed that to also be the Confederation mindset of their situation. There was a paradigm of thought that made it logical to hide in plain sight of the enemy.

Christie frowned as her fingers danced across the holographic displays and physical controls of the Marble. With their course of action now sound in her mind, she couldn't help but consider why and how she came to that conclusion. The information was a black hole in her mind now, a dereferenced section of contiguous memory. A soft, slightly agitated sound, almost like a growl, vibrated in her throat.

”Buyer’s a Mr. Crowe Ischoron… Ischoron? Why the hell is that name ringin’ alarm bells…"

"Ischoron are a Mandalorian clan." Christie interrupted softly, not breaking stride or stopping to think how she knew that.

"Ah well, just keep calm, work your magic, and we’ll be takin’ another little holiday with a couple o’ grand in the back pocket, whadda you say? […] Punch it when you’re ready, Snowy.”

She frowned again, this time at the mention of Obroa-Skai. Her fingers froze on the console. Christie blinked. Neither of them wanted another Obroa-Skai, not that Christie thought the events on that ball of ice would repeat. The Feds would be prepared the next time they met, there wouldn't be the chance of escape. Her lip quivered, and maybe that was for the best? Maybe she would get some answers then? The maybes of the situation were too intangible to be trusted and she shook her head. She was better off free… better off with Charlie.

Her fingers restarted the dance, gliding through intricate procedures and startup codes required to plot a hyperspace corridor to Tralus. Christie agreed that it would be advantageous to avoid the usual Confederate sectors and her course was neatly plotted around these areas. However, the course she plotted had been mapped to circumvent planetary systems and regions of space that were to all intents and purposes void of Confederation influence. However, Christie knew better than believe that and she shuddered to imagine how she knew such things.
"Course plotted and laid in, sir. On your mark." Christie said without a shred of the worry that was building up inside her. At Charlie's nod, Christie sent the Marble screaming into hyperspace.

((What awaits them as they land on Tralus?))

[Da'chetre Rahl]

((Everything seems pretty normal as they get into the system. With 'Christie's' mad skills, they avoided any bad run-ins. So Tralus arrives in their viewport and they are given coordinates to land without any hassle. Being in the Corellian system is always something of a nice situation for Alliance work.

So they go to land, and are free to do so without anyone trying to stop them. But there does seem to be a sort of stand-off going on out on the tarmac. Security is there preventing anyone from going in or out of the landing zone by foot. That means that their contact (that is to say, Crowe) is stuck outside of the area that is fenced with concrete walls. Better find out what is going on.))

[Charlie Quill]

On-board electronics responded to their new overseer’s command input. Computers worked quickly in analysing the influx of data; crunching down the digits relevant to them before passing it along to a cousin that chaired another specific component. Christie, an undeclared mechanical maestro, danced her fingers across various buttons and switches as she conducted her own artificial orchestra. Components worked in perfect harmony in order to complement one another. Interfaces opened up, instructing the new taskmistress on successful completion of her said orders. A thunderous yawn shook is way through the rounded corridors, as the dormant Hyperdive awoke from a lengthy slumber. It was only after the Doctor’s extremely formal address that the freighter was propelled forward at light speed. Distant stars, some long extinguished, stretched from their pimple-like state into a wafer-thin beam of magnificent white. Had the procedure no been executed a million times prior, the pilot may have feared that the hundreds of crystalline blades would penetrate his ship’s hull. The kick that accompanied the jump was enough to cement the underweight human to the back of his chair.

Space’s noire canvass was instead replaced by a magnificent violet backdrop. Flakes of electric blue occasionally managed to infiltrate the vibrant view, resulting in what was essentially something of hypnotic beauty. It was so easy for one to find themselves enthralled in the mishmash’s strange allure. For one untrained in the art of ignoring the spectacular array of blues and purples that hugged the black tube, such an aesthetic attraction could quite easily prove to be fatal. Luckily, simple procedures designed to combat the almost euphoric state had been passed down from one smuggler to the next. These guileless tasks served no other purpose than occupying the pilot’s mind. Still, chairing a dozen simultaneous games of Pazaak was better than meeting a horrific end courtesy of one of the galaxy’s many veins.

---Twelve hours later---

By now, the swirling torrents of blue had lost their previous appeal. What had appeared to have been a visual masterpiece hours prior was now an annoying blot that had waged war on the captain’s peripheral vision. Escaping the dance during his brief period of rest was also impossible; in part due to the fluorescent aqua veil had been scorched into his retina. Pursed eyelids had been robbed of their black embrace, also harbouring the image of the blue ghost. Strangely, such exposure to the pirouetting phantom had drained Charlie’s social abilities, thus seeing his and Snowflake’s meaningful conversations deteriorate into idle chitchat. It came as no great surprise then that a sigh of relief accompanied the exiting of Hyperspace. Tralus’ spherical body being plastered onto the viewport was enough to force a crooked smile. On the whole, his voyage from the Inner Rim had been without incident.

Tralus had always been one of the easier runs. Slack federal authorities meant that next to no police presence was maintained in the world’s orbit. Such a minority of officers meant also that most docking areas were scarcely manned. For the local populace, a lack of law enforcers to protect the streets would’ve undoubtedly been something of massive concern, but, to someone with less honest intentions, it meant simply that one could operate freely in the knowledge that they weren’t been pursued. It begged thought then as to why the scenic world still remained the small haven that it did when the market for criminal activity was as promising as it was. If the absence of any such enforcers wasn’t cause enough to be celebrated, then the nonexistence of the Confederation of Dolomar certainly was.

Such a sloppy approach to policing was reflected in the planet’s lax border controls. A simple exchange of transponder codes with one of the many planetary dock authorities was all that was required to grant Mable’s Marble free reign of the airspace. Unlike so many worlds nowadays, heavy industry and commercialization had yet to stamp on the planet’s breath-taking scenery. The barge began a gradual descent on its desired area of dock, granting its commander with just enough time to absorb the wholly magnificent view. For one so at home beneath the billboards and artificial lighting, gazing across an ocean drenched in evening sun’s radiant orange was a strange feeling.

The matter of locating a spare landing-pad was, surprisingly, much harder than anticipated. It was only after happening to spot a few spares ones near a particular coastal hamlet that the Marble swooped to claim its perch. A shiver of uneasiness padded up the human’s spine as the signs of an on-going ruckus came into plain view. Had the exhausted ship been running on a little more than vapours, relocation to another harbour area would’ve been a certainty. From such an elevated position, it appeared as if the two parties participating in the verbal standoff were comprised of uniformed officials and a contingent of disgruntled spacers. Again, if there was any such prospect of the dock authorities exercising their powers and conducting a thorough sweep of his own vessel, Conker wouldn’t have taken the risk. As far as Tralus was concerned, he was Jorick Vandrum; a roving trader flying out of Dantooine’s Khoonda township.

The procedure of rerouting power from all atmospheric propulsion systems and to the vertical landing programs was a simple matter, requiring the gentle tug of a single lever and inputting the commands into the flight controls. So intense was the verbal bashing between the two parties that neither paid the mechanical avian the slightest bit of attention as it gently lowered itself to the ground.

”Hang tight, Snowflake. Lemme go see what’s goin’ on here. Don’t worry; I’m only goin’ to see what the deal is here. I’mma leave the old gal running, just in case. If any o’ those down there look like they intend to come aboard, get us in the air, ok? ” Charlie spoke, his agitation quite visible. Rising from his seat and checking that his casual, albeit designer, outfit was free of disfigurement, he paced towards the lowering gangplank. The short distance from the cockpit to the now ajar ramp took no more than thirty seconds. His face now creasing to show his anger, Charlie leant the top half of his torso out into the dusk sun.

”Please, we all have shipments that we need to get into the town. Unless there’s some looming disaster, which there isn’t, you’d be within your right to ground us, alas that isn’t the case!” An enraged Ithorian bellowed over the top of his peers’ jeers and snide remarks.

”Sir, please, this matter will be resolved shortly, provided that we have your full cooperation. Any such hostilities will only cause further tension between us an---“ the senior official spoke in such a regal manner. It was only as Charlie’s tanned little face appeared from his vessel’s innards that the official seemed lost for words.

”Wow, wow, wow! What in the stars’ is goin’ off here?! Whatever the problem is, fix it. I gotta meet an associate of mine in the town in about, what? Five minutes from now!”

(((So, what is the problem? How come the access to and from the dock has been halted. What happens next?)))

[Lysander Odakota]

((As it's told to Charlie, they only wish they could fix the problem in five minutes. Apparently a young lady has been kidnapped from the hamlet and there's a high chance that she was going to be smuggled off planet. As such the entire port has been shut down--nothing in or out--until she is found. How long this could take is uncertain, but certainly it will be a while.

He's told to sit tight and that he'll be updated on the situation as soon as they know more. Still, that doesn't change the fact that there are a lot of angry spacers on a time table... Things are clearly getting restless; no off-worlder cares so much for one missing girl as much as the authorities in charge of the small hamlet do.))

[Maris Kala'myr]

Christie had eyed the standoff of their descent with equal parts curiosity and worry. Something that she wouldn't have given two thoughts to a month ago was viewed with suspicion. She had discounted the possibility that these were Federal agents waiting to board the Marble and take her into custody. Whatever the reasons for the argument below, Charlie and Christie did not play a part of it. She was relieved to see this fact and forced herself to relax a little. Fleeing the Confederation of Dolomar had made her paranoid.

”Hang tight, Snowflake. […] If any o’ those down there look like they intend to come aboard, get us in the air, ok? ”

She just nodded and leant forward in the copilot's chair, craning her back and neck over the banks of displays to try and get a better look at the argument below. The view was obscured and Christie frowned. Once Charlie had left, Christie settled back into the chair and toggled some controls on a terminal, brining around the camera systems that assisted with landing and docking procedures to observe the disagreement. The view was grainy, dull, and cast in cold blue. Telemetics shifted in the lower corner as the sentients below came into focus.

There was no sound, but Christie found that she could read the situation well enough from her vantage point. The standoff was tense, it was clear that the spacer contingent was angry at something and the more official looking half was trying to calm the situation. Christie manipulated the controls and zoomed in on the face of a senior official. As his face resolved in the grainy blue of the monitor, she was surprised to understand what he was saying. She was reading his lips.

"…be resolved shortly, provided that we have your full cooperation. Any such hostilities will only cause further tension between us an---"

Christie wanted to hear more and frowned when his lips pressed into a firm line and turned to face someone below her point of view. Her fingers zoomed the camera out and brought it around, twisting the mechanical eye in the recessed mount to see Charlie immediately below her. Her frown deepened as she attempted to manipulate the camera to draw in on his face, the only view she could manifest was of his immaculate hair. Deciding that it didn't matter what exactly Charlie had said, she could extrapolate out that information, Christie swiveled her view back to the senior official and zoomed back in on his face.

"I ask you to be patient, sir, while we investigate the situation. We received an abduction alert and all birds are grounded until the young lady has been found. We received warning that her abductors had a ship chartered to take them off world." The senior official said before turning to address another, his mouth was obscured and Christie made a worried little noise as she tried to bring the view back into focus. He looked back to Charlie, "Just sit tight, we'll update you when we know more."

The official raised his head to address all the spacers arrayed against him and his men. He held his hands out in a placating gesture and smiled tightly.
"Please, go back to your ships and sit tight. I'm sorry, but you're just going to have to wait."
Christie zoomed out and panned over the scene, clearly seeing that the standoff was over and no one was going to board the Marble and conduct a search. She sat back in her chair as a plan solidified in her mind.

Standing up and patting herself down, flattening her shirt against her stomach and trying to look presentable, Christie walked briskly from the bridge to join Charlie planetside.
"We should help them look for her, they may be looking for volunteers." She said as means of a greeting. Christie came to a stop beside him, crossing her arms. Something from the school of statistical analysis and what she knew of Charlie told Christie that he wouldn't take kindly to volunteering to find some girl. But it wasn't out of pure altruism that she suggested this.
"The search may take us beyond the spaceport." Christie said with raised eyebrows, hoping that he was following her logic.

[Charlie Quill]

Charlie absorbed every word that the senior dock master aired, as did the bulk of the aggravated huddle. The occasional scoff dared to mar the regal man’s speech, but ceased almost immediately after the rather grim circumstances for the prolonged visit had been announced. Generally, common decency prevailed and overrode the collective sourness, prompting those spacers who had previously took it upon themselves to hurl torrents of abuse towards the dock officials to simply accept the news with a degree of graciousness. Conker too met the bleak announcement with a concerned frown and slight shake of the head, ruling that any such unreasonable response on his part would only be disrespectful.

Sound advice was indeed heeded by the previously enraged body of spacers. Gradually, protestors began dissipating from the mob. Smaller pockets of disgruntled beings began forming at various points throughout the open topped landing zone. Some chose to wade out the enduring inconvenience atop one of the many crates that had been strewn across the surprisingly well maintained dock, whilst others either retreated to their airborne keeps or sparked up a ciggara. As a general rule, crews tended to stick together, isolating themselves from their respected rivals. Those captains unlucky enough to have traversed the starry void on their own tended to drift towards those lonelier individuals of the same race or profession. Most found comfort in the presence of what was familiar to them. In this case, it was the false sense of unity that existed between beings of similar races that drove numerous divides to form throughout the landing zone. It was remarkable how quickly the hamlet’s quaint docking area began to resemble the courtyard of some high-end prison. To one ill-informed of the current situation, the scene would’ve undoubtedly resembled the early stages of a race war. Thankfully, there would be no ethnic cleansing today.

"We should help them look for her, they may be looking for volunteers."

At first, the words sounded alien to the pilot. It was the soft way in which the sentence was delivered that prompted him to purse his eyes and savour the dwindling hum that rattled her voice box. For a fraction of a second, tranquillity reigned. It was only as those exotic words that had previously been masked by angelic vocals were subliminally identified as Basic that a curious brow darted upwards. The quite clearly insane doctor’s sentence suddenly began making sense. An increased heart rate chaired the surprise attack on the currently reigning mellowness, followed closely by flaring nostrils and an array of other sour facial expressions.

"The search may take us beyond the spaceport."

Still attempting to comprehend the madness that had spilt from the co-pilot’s mouth with such ease, the smarmy renegade’s slight rage had rendered him ignorant to what was effectively a sound suggestion. Determined not to let the fracture in his thoroughly revised guise go noticed, Charlie pivoted on the ball of his heel to face his radiant companion. The dusk sun projected its magnificent aura over the immaculately clothed captain’s shoulders, drenching the loading ramp in a vivid shade of orange.

”Stars help me, women, I will break my foot off in your arse. Those guys are coppers, Y’know? I wouldn’t piss on one if they were on fire, never mind help ‘em out! I’ve got a better idea: I’ll go ask if they’ll turn a blind eye to the little armoury that’s sittin’ in the belly ‘o my ship if, and only if, I promise to settle down with a local, stop drinking, and maybe get an office job. Meanwhile, you fall back on your ten years of training as an Echani handmaiden, go save this girl, beat up those rude enough to kidnap her on the day we’re scheduled to visit, and then vow to never again try and get me killed. Ok? Then we’ll meet back here at quarter past impossible… You must be kiddin’ me, there’s no wa—“ Conker hissed angrily, making doubly sure to not let his slight anger involuntarily raise the volume of his rant. The lecture laden in sarcasm was cut abruptly short, as the second-in-command’s informative suggestion registered with her slow-witted superior. Sun-kissed skin tugged at the flanks, making way for the toothy grin that served as the centrepiece to the new wave of upbeat expressions. What little shame managed to linger in the man for being so quick to air his sudden, unnecessary outburst, quickly dissipated. Instead, he resorted to cradling the women’s face with his manicured hands and gifting her with a huge smile. ”You’re a twenty-four carat saint, Doctor Winters. It’s a longshot, but we might just be able to pull this off… Great thinkin’, though. C’mon, y’know the music.” Charlie added sincerely, breaking contact with the navigator’s face in order to continue down the gangplank.

An over exaggerated swing of the arms marked the revival of the crook’s unnatural swagger. Refusing to adhere to the most practical method of striding, the man bounced off of the balls of his heels all the way through the droves of disgruntled spacers. It was only upon reaching one of the mid-ranking officers that the audacious criminal prodded him the small of the back with an overactive index finger. "Oh, you. Listen, I’ve already made the reason for your stay abundantly clear, so, if you’ll please, I’d very much like to ge—“ The aging human snarled, only to be cut off by the civilian who had proved to be nothing but a nuisance.

”Yeah, yeah, we’re here to help ya. Listen, sorry for the outburst, y’know? I’ve always been a fan of you guys. I’m tellin you now, the hours you boys have to work for the lousy pension y’ get at the end of it is robbery. Us little guys have got to stick together, y’hear me? So, just tell me what you know about this kidnappin’. C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? We’d poke our noses around, you lot wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You’d be helpin’ all of us out by givin’ at least one of us guys here the chance to get into town a little quicker.” Charlie replied, donning the sincere façade that was often deployed when trying to con or coheres.

((How does the man respond? Are Snowy and Charlie pissing up the wrong tree?))

[Da'chetre Rahl]

((He doesn't give them any further information, but he studies Conker with a shrewd eye before making a deal. "Fine, you want to help? I'll need your identification and reason for your visit here. And you can leave--but understand you can't come back to the spaceport or your ship until she's found if you do leave. Can't have you smuggling her out." He doesn't seem to think letting them out is too much trouble if they can't get back in. "And your cargo stays here until she's found, too. I don't care if it's stuffed woolamanders you've got on board. You don't need 'em to look for the girl."))

[Maris Kala'myr]

She had registered his indignation and was instantly confused by his sharp reaction. She could see his mood in every aspect of his appearance. He had turned to confront her and his eyes were clearly focused and narrowed towards the edges. His nostrils flared and his face screwed up in what she considered disgust or outrage. Christie was dumbfounded to his reaction to her suggestion and she looked both ashamed that she had stupidly suggested a course of action that was clearly wrong and fearful of what would happen next. Charlie had a temper, she knew that, and he wasn't above a vicious verbal tongue-lashing when he failed to understand.

”Stars help me, women, I will break my foot off in your arse. […] You must be kiddin’ me, there’s no wa—“

Christie shied away from his anger, stiffening to the onslaught almost as if she was expecting a physical blow to follow. She struggled to keep up with his speed. Moments and words slipped by her. The content confused her more than she would have liked and Christie found herself being pulled down trains of thought that she could see no value in. A part of her understood his venom as sarcasm, but she couldn't help but analyze every sentence for a literal meaning. She really lost sight of the conversation when Charlie began describing a fictitious series of events where he promised to settle down and she became an Echani.

He had missed the point and all that Christie could do under the verbal barrage was hunker down and let it pass. She wanted to explain herself further but he left no room for her to interject and bring much needed clarity to his flawed understanding. Christie was angry at herself for not explaining adequately the first time. She knew Charlie was prone to such outbursts when he didn't understand and it was her job to make allowances and fully explain her ideas so that someone of his intelligence could follow along. She would have to make more of an effort to communicate clearly in the future.

Then she found her moment when Charlie broke off his rant. Christie blinked, wondering what had interrupted his indomitable chain of thought, before understanding that it didn't matter. She could not allow him to continue. She had to clarify her poorly chosen words before Charlie could pick up where he left off.
"I'm sorry, Charlie. I didn't mean that we—" Christie managed to get out before he was smiling and cradling her face. She stood there like a creature frozen in terror, unable to move with a numb expression squished on her face. This snap-change in demeanor had her dumbfounded. It was illogical to assume that her words had the desired effect upon his thinking; she hadn't even finished. There had to be something she wasn't able to grasp.

”You’re a twenty-four carat saint, Doctor Winters. It’s a longshot, but we might just be able to pull this off… Great thinkin’, though. C’mon, y’know the music.”

Christie smiled oddly at that, her face squashed in his hands and disquieted by his sudden praise of her mental capacity. On top of everything, she didn't know the music. Christie stumbled between indecisions of paramount importance; the change in Charlie's demeanor and that she didn't know the music. Did he expect her to play something or request a tune that would launch the plan into action? Christie had never thought about theme music before and Charlie was already walking away. Deciding that she couldn't ponder this now, she followed after him and quickly caught up.

"Oh, you. Listen, I’ve already made the reason for your stay abundantly clear, so, if you’ll please, I’d very much like to ge—“
”Yeah, yeah, we’re here to help ya. […] You’d be helpin’ all of us out by givin’ at least one of us guys here the chance to get into town a little quicker.”

With an impassive expression of vague friendliness, Christie realized that Charlie was lying. His current statements were polar opposite to what he had told her moments before. He had spoken with conviction earlier how he would treat an officer of the law who had the misfortune of being set alight. She smiled and hid the disquiet that muddled her thoughts and took to studying the dock officials.

"Fine, you want to help? […] You don't need 'em to look for the girl."

Christie realized that this plan was a mistake as the man mentioned his stipulations. She had no identification and would have been reluctant to present it anyway. She had to assume that the Confederation would be monitoring such things and she had to stay out of the system if she had any chance of staying out of their grasp. Not being able to return to their ship until the unfortunate girl had been found was also troublesome. Such investigations could take days – if not weeks – to clear up. They would be stranded here. Even if they agreed, left the spaceport, and found their Alliance contact, they would be unable to complete their business and all involved would be stranded until further notice. It was impractical to say the least.

While Christie considered raising these issues with Charlie, she had to assume that he was competent enough as a smuggler to see the dangers here. It was also wise to not act suspiciously before the already overworked and fretting dock authority. That could lead to more trouble than was healthy. It was only about this time that Christie had stopped to inspect the legality of her actions. She was an active participant in the arms trade. It had been a wonderful adventure up till now. Even when the crates were being secreted into the hold, it had been nothing more than a flight of fancy. Now the seriousness of their actions was setting in. They were aiding a terrorist organization and the law did not look kindly upon such things. However worried Christie may have been, none of it reached her expression and she waited patiently the outcome to be resolved.