"There he goes again A-18, claiming I am made of tin," says the protocol droid, waving its good arm to emphasize its frustration. It pauses for a moment before continuing "Oh! I understand now Master Jarren. By refferring to me as Tin Man, you are creating a colorful metaphor to describe my mechanical origins. How inventive!"

Jarren looks sternly at the droid, wanting answers. The droid fortunately picks up the hint and changes to the appropriate topic.

"As you claimed, Master Jarren, my memory banks were erased by you, so I only remember the short time we've spent together since. I prefer not to access those distressing memories of my time at the safehouse, as you called it, but since you ask I shall tell you what I have stored."

Dex looks up from his investigation of the cargo to look at the redish-brown droid and bursts out laughing, shaking his striped head, not in reaction to what the droid is saying, but rather its bizarre appearance . With the whiz of microservos, the droid turns the upper half of it's body toward Dex, its limp appendage swinging around with it. As it looks questioningly at Dex, it's non-functional arm finishes its arc and clangs against its chestplate. Since no explanation is forthcoming for the human's outburst, the droid turns back to the Omwati and resumes.

"Did you know that our Bothan interrogators had a fondness for deactivating me with a long composite rod they found lying near the unfinished wall? I do believe they were making a sport of it. They would yell at me to move around while they prodded at my neck with the rod, attempting to deactivate me. When they succeeded, I was activated again a short time later and the cycle would repeat. They never seemed to tire of it, Master Jarren. I don't remember much of those times other than it was absolutely horrifying. It's a good thing machines do not have nightmares, sir."

"May I ask sir, why did the Bothans keep asking you about your mission? Did it have something to do with the memory repressing pharmaceuticals you had me hide? Oh dear, what have I been unwittingly become involved in?" it says excitedly. "I'm doomed! I'll be turned over to the scrap merchants for sure!"

Back over at the cargo containers, Dex is sitting casually on the corner of the most recently opened container using his computer skills to pry more information out of the manifest datapad. Drilling down through the interface of the datapad, the notes field of the gambling tables' manifest reveals the following: "Rarfah, contact Klahn discreetly - Payment on delivery plus commerce fees. Comlink 4459281. 4000cr. DO NOT NEGOTIATE." Four thousand credits for the tables he thinks, that seems a little low - actually, after a little more thought, he thinks that 4000 cr. Seems exceptionally low. [OOC: According to Dex's appraise check] There also is no mention of the holo cards' destination other than a simple accounting of the quantity.

Stripe turns back to Ian who is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, seeming to be enjoying his hallucination, and takes the proffered bottle for a drink. Stripe's eyes open wide at the taste of glitterdust spice, the galaxies most popular illegal narcotic, but he swallows anyway, happy to have survived the landing. Knowing that the alchohol is laced with spice makes him a little more wary of drinking too much, however. It also makes him leary of Ian handling a blaster pistol, so he offers to trade Ian the Ion gun for the blaster. Ian seems to have no reservations about blasters or booze though since he believes it's not real anyway.

The monkey-lizard is darting between the ration pile and Ian's leg, grabbing food at the pile, bringing some to Ian and keeping some for itself. All the while, it's keeping a keen, mistrustful eye on the frightening human with the scruffy head. It takes a break from it's gorging to laugh gleefully each time the long-haired human pats it on the head.

Eventually realizing that he's not going to get much more information from the peculiar droid, Jarren turns his attention to finding some gear that might help protect him in the harsh climate beyond the frieghter's hull. Sadly, Jarren isn't having much luck finding any kind of survival gear on board. Frustrated by his fruitless search, Jarren takes a small break and asks Ian what he's calling the Kowakian creature. Ian, beginning to succumb to the effects of the alcohol-spice concoction, responds, telling him the Kowakian is named Ears. Scanning the bay again, the thought of making some kind of poncho or sack out of the camoflage cover crosses the blue-skinned alien's sharp mind. Otherwise, there doesn't seem to be anything that would be suitable protection for a desert trek.

Ian continues to sip at the bottle, chanting "I will meet the Twins, I will meet the Twins" in the hope that his mind will conjure the seductive Twi'leks displayed on the holos' cover. His mind is playing tricks on him though because looking back at the cover shows that they aren't twins anymore, they're two distinct females, one being red, and one being green in color. Nevertheless, Ian takes the discrepancy in stride. He reaches for another ration that Ears is holding up for him, the blaster lightly poking him in the lower back. Ah yes, dreams are good.