For a planet hot enough to leave deep cracks in the scorched soil around the landing port, you’d think Tatooine would have had at least one beach on it, right? Or at the very-very least, a huge market for above ground pools.

That was a strange thing to get used to. I arrived sweating in just a simple pair of pants and shirt, so I tried the less clothing route and was rewarded with the worst sunburn of my life. All the desert folk had the fashion of wearing long, billowy robes. I found out later it was because the material guarded their skin from the sun and if a body doesn’t overexert themselves beneath all those robes, their body temperature’s actually lower than the outdoors.

Even with the artificial cooling systems provided for the buildings, the planet was a bust. Anchorhead wasn’t so much a town as it was a dingy little industrial hut. It had one pathetic and dilapidated cantina with a bunch of rough and tumble types without the draw of an attractive dancer or two.

I was one sad little rutian.

The only thing to do on Tatooine was work. I suppose, given the circumstances that allowed me to arrive in Anchorhead in the first place, having nothing but a mining job to keep me warm (or rather snug next to a cooling unit as the case was) at night was some degree of karmic payback.

There’d been news reports of Taris being bombed back into pre-civilization and without the dancer trash to tango with, I’d been talking up the Exchange in Anchorhead. Not the smartest thing, I know, but I was lonely and had convinced myself that talking was only talking and it was a bit different than actually committing to anything. I should have been thankful that I’d gotten myself off of Taris before Malak felt compelled to test out his laser cannons on it. Maybe I should’ve looked at the lists of the planet-wide dead, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Mission only came up on really bleak nights at the cantina when I was short on cash and the gin was expensive.

I wish I could say that something good happened. No one ever wants to hear the end of a story that began with, “well, I struck a deal with an Exchange thug one night while drunk.” Instead, maybe I was able to crawl my way up the corporate ladder and get some cushy supervising job in the mines or that I met an attractive woman that wasn’t as deceitful as myself. While we’re fantasizing, let’s tack on that she’s rich and drop-dead gorgeous, too with a rack stretching out into forever.

…No?

Sand people. Tusken raiders. If you don’t know who these people are, then you’re a speck better off than I am. Now, this is just hearsay, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my boss, Greeta, put them up to it because he was sore over me falling asleep on the job a handful of times.

I can’t explain what happened, not really. That’s just the way the sand people are. Masked and robed and screeching and barking in that language that no one understands. That’s all I heard and then there was a sharp pain in the back of my head and for a second, I really thought I was going to die before the nothing hit.

It’s scary. Not the prospect of dying. I mean, I’d always thought I’d pee myself if I realized I was going to cack it, but it’s amazing how your brain can just shut down with a simple acceptance. What’s scary is the not knowing. To wake up in some strange room whose walls are covered in skins that you can’t recognize. They might’ve been dewback skins. I told myself they were dewback skins and not anything like human or Zabrak. They certainly weren’t colorful enough to be Twi’lek at least.

There was nothing to do but wait. It never even occurred to me to see if the door was open. I tried to measure the passage of time by how much I had to go the bathroom.

By the time the door slid open, I was pacing more to keep from relieving myself than because of nerves. I nearly fell over when I saw the mismatched group that was about to free me.

Dressed from the neck down in Tusken robes, there was a scruffy-looking human with a beard, another human who came up to my shoulders and was the owner of a very foul mouth and even a Wookiee. But it was the Twi’lek that accompanied them that got my attention. A mouthy, blue Twi’lek with an upturned nose.

Sis had grown herself a pair of boobs since I’d last seen her.

If I said she was happy to see me, I’d be lying. I guess she had a point. The planet I’d left her safe and sound on had been blasted into dust. But really, how was I supposed to see that one coming? Mission kicked me hard enough to split my shin and refused to talk to me shortly after our heartwarming reunion.

I know, I know, I get it. I shouldn’t have left her on Taris. Can we move on, please?

Mishmash had struck it big. Financially, I mean. I don’t know what it is about that kid, but she attracts the right kind of people like a cute, snot-nosed magnet. She was hanging with Jedi now and a Republic pilot. The kicker was that they seemed to absolutely adore her, too.

She didn’t look hungry and the armored plate she had on beneath her vest looked like top quality. Both the Mandalorian merc and enormous Wookiee at her back also looked more than capable and more than willing to knock the head-tails right off of me. If the Jedi were in the mood to adopt wayward Twi’leks, I was very happy to oblige them.

As it turns out, whatever charm Mission had used to schmooze the Jedi was not in fact hereditary. The short one that seemed to be in charge spat at my feet and threatened to commit horrible acts upon my person for attempting to cash in on their generosity. You know that human woman turned out to be an amnesiac Revan? I would’ve thought Revan would’ve been bigger, myself. More bulky and muscular.

It was the pilot who saved me. A Mister Carth Onasi. He had a certain soft spot for degenerates for some reason, or at least was opposed to coating the ground with the blood of degenerates. He wouldn’t let Revan hurt me and I very vocally seconded his opinion.

I could see the man wasn’t very fond of me, but Mission had already wormed her way into his heart, so I played on that. It didn’t matter that I was a piece of core slime, I was Mission’s big brother. And what kind of friends would they be if they left the brother of another friend to the mercy of Exchange thugs? Frugal ones, probably, but this Onasi guy, he knew guilt.

That was one thing that I always made sure to hone in and seek out. There’s nothing more erosive in the entire galaxy than guilt and everyone can bank in on it if they’re smart enough to allow the other individual to vicariously relieve some of that guilt through you. Onasi didn’t look Tarisian, so I strung together a story too longwinded to follow about how I could use a tach gland to brew some Tarisian ale that was sure to be in demand now that the planet and everything found on it was in shambles.

It seemed prudent on my part to leave out the information I had about tachs being poached because their glands were valued as an aphrodisiac by several alien species. The gentleman from the Exchange hadn’t specified any reason why he’d wanted the tach gland, just that he wanted it and if I couldn’t provide it, he was going to take his advance payment back out of my hide.

After some bickering, Revan agreed to help me out. A one time deal and if I tried for any more, I’d leave with a pair of broken kneecaps. The deal was fair enough, so I buried them with thanks before they headed out and then went about strategically avoiding the Exchange for the next few weeks.

They actually came through for me. I didn’t think they would. Maybe that Onasi guy was really a sucker, maybe Mission had something to do with it. I like to think Mission had something to do with it, because that feels better than just duping another mark again.

Mission didn’t show up when they gave me the tach gland. It was just the Mandalorian; I still have no idea why they decided to send him, probably just to scare the living daylights out of me. At least, I hope that’s what it was, because it certainly worked. As he walked away, I was hit by an odd feeling in my gut.

Mission didn’t need me anymore, not that she ever did really. I knew I wasn’t ever going to see her again. Not in person.

I felt lighter.

She helped save the galaxy, you know. I can be proud of that. The strongest, bravest thing I’ve ever done is probably lift a kitten up to a tabletop so it could get to a plate of eggs and sausage. Mission grew up good.

Now me? I’m still doing what I’ve always done. As soon as I handed that tach gland over I was off planet before the payment had a moment to settle in my bank account.

But we’re friends now, right? And the galaxy’s a big place and there are plenty of opportunities for someone like me. So if you’ll untie me, I’d appreciate it a lot. Seriously, the rope is starting to chafe at my wrists. You know who my sister is, right? I just told you.

Please?

End