Defiant | Star Wars/Rogue One

The saga continues

The saga continues in Insurgent, following Moria as she carries on the fight against the Empire.

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Of all the places Moria Jade had seen during her time with the Rebel Alliance, she would always remember Mos Eisley spaceport the most vividly. Not because it was beautiful or relaxing or exciting, but because it was the single most wretched place she'd ever had the misfortune of setting foot in. The air reeked of smoke and filth; smugglers, bounty hunters, and other troublemakers lurked in doorways and alleys; traders darted around trying to sell their undoubtedly illegal wares. The hood of the cowl she wore was pulled over her head protected most of her face from the merciless sunlight and provided shade for her eyes, but she could still feel the heat from the planet's two suns on her face as it reflected off the endless sand.

As she wandered from one cantina to another, looking for the smuggler that matched the description she'd been given, she took note of the stormtroopers that stood out from the crowd. She'd never heard of the soldiers frequenting the desert planet in great numbers—every sentient creature in the galaxy knew Tatooine was controlled by the Hutts—but they seemed to be everywhere she looked. She knew they weren't looking for her—she'd covered her tracks far too well for that—but they were obviously hunting for someone or something, possibly both. Had she been nearly anywhere else, she might have been concerned that they would see the blaster at her hip or the collapsed staff held against her back and question her about the weapons, but not having them in a place like Mos Eisley would have drawn more attention.

When she reached what she hoped would be the last cantina she would be forced to search, she stepped through the door and pushed her hood away from her hair so it fell like a scarf around her neck. Like every other bar in Mos Eisley, the air was tainted with the stench of alcohol and spice. A Bith band played music that she found irritating, but some of the patrons seemed to be enjoying. A mix of humans, humanoids, and aliens swarmed the space, barely leaving enough room for people to walk.

One barfly, above all the others, caught her attention as her eyes scanned the patrons. Seated in a booth against one wall was an insectoid alien with a metallic-black exoskeleton, four arms, and a pair of antennae on its head. One of his right arms ended abruptly at the elbow. Got you, she thought as she marched over, shouldering her way past whoever was unlucky enough to be in her path.

She dropped into the booth across from the insectoid, not even bothering to introduce herself. "Look, we can do this the easy way or my way," she said unsmilingly. "Either you leave right now and drop off that shipment like you were hired, or I make you regret trying to double-cross your employer."

"How dare you accuse me of such a thing?" the smuggler demanded in a prickly voice, almost like it was coming through a commlink with a bad speaker. "You come here criticizing my reputation and then you dare to order me—"

Not having the patience to listen to the lying insect, Moria drew a vibroblade from her belt and, without activating it, remorselessly stabbed it into the back of one of his left hands, easily cracking through the exoskeleton, and buried it to the hilt. The smuggler cried out in pain as his hand was pinned against the table, dark blood leaking around the blade. None of the others in the cantina came to the smuggler's aid—such a thing was a common occurrence in Mos Eisley.

"You picked a really bad day to annoy me," Moria informed him without removing her hand from the vibroblade's hilt. "First, my ship got caught in an ion storm on the way to this lousy planet and the engines were completely fried, so now I have to find some other way out of here. So far, I've only found one merchant with a hyperspace-capable ship, and he's naturally asking about four times what it's actually worth. Then I had to go to every other cantina in this disgusting space port looking for you, and seven different people asked if I was for sale.

"Now, I'd like to just get this over with so I can leave," she continued, "but I know my sister wouldn't want me to do anything she thinks I might regret. So, I'm going to give you one last chance to make the right choice: are you going to go to your ship and make that delivery like you were hired, or am I going to have to take your hand?" To prove the threat wasn't idle, she twisted the blade, the sound of cracking exoskeleton echoing around the booth.

"I'll do it!" the smuggler hissed in pain. "I'll do it, I swear! Just stop!"

Satisfied with the answer, Moria yanked the vibroblade out of his hand. He wrapped his two remaining hands around the wound, but wasn't fast enough to stop a few fat drops of blood from hitting the tabletop. He all but jumped out of the booth, scurrying away from the ruthless woman. She watched him flee, not looking away until he had vanished through the door. Turning back to the table, she picked up a napkin and cleaned the blood from her vibroblade before returning it to her belt.

Deciding she had earned a small reward, she left the booth and made her way to the bar. She reached the bar and leaned against it with her arms folded in front of her. "Whiskey," she told the bartender. "Corellian." The bartender nodded and quickly poured a glass, setting it in front of her.

"You know your drinks, sweetheart," a voice said as someone dropped into the seat beside her.

"Unless you came over here to offer a way off this Force-forsaken rock, I'm not interested in anything you have to say," she stated flatly before downing her drink in a single swig, trying not to wince at the burn in her throat.

"Well, you're in luck," the voice replied. "I happen to know one hell of a pilot."

Unimpressed, Moria gestured for the bartender to pour her another glass. "Let me guess, you're that pilot."

"Han Solo," he introduced himself. She could practically hear his smirk.

"I don't like cocky pilots." She looked over at him as the bartender took her empty glass. He was obviously several standard years older than her, sported a scar on his chin, and had an air arrogance about him. "They're the ones that get you killed."

He scoffed at the comment. "You're only cocky if you ain't got the skill to back it up."

"Aren't you a philosopher." Moria turned back to her drink as the bartender set the refilled glass in front of her. "How much will a ride out of here cost?" she asked as she lifted the glass from the bar top. She was faintly aware of startled gasps and cries of pain somewhere else in the bar, but she didn't pay any attention.

"Depends," he replied. "Where you headed?"

Moria thought over what she should say, taking a gulp of whiskey. She couldn't tell him to take her to Yavin 4—no one outside of the Rebellion could know the location of their base of operations. The communication equipment on her ship had been destroyed and the frequencies used by the Rebellion were encrypted, so she had no way to contact them to have someone pick her up at a different location—she could break through the encryption, of course, but it would take time. With the few credits she had with her, she knew she couldn't afford to go anywhere far from Tatooine—unless, of course, she sliced into one of the insectoid smuggler's accounts and took the credits; she had enough information on him that it could be done with minimal difficulty.

"Anywhere," she finally answered.