Jarren leads the procession of childishly eager Jawas toward the Nerf Chop’s crew door, keeping an eye on them as well as the watching the angles and sight lines to the sandcrawler and it’s defenders. He continues to walk warily until he puts the superstructure of the battered freighter between himself and the Jawa’s slug-thrower rifles, stopping about four meters shy of the ladder. His benign expression turns wrathful as he suddenly yanks his blaster free from his belt in a practiced motion, jamming it to the lead Jawas head.

With deadly seriousness, the blue-skinned alien states, “It’s simple. Return the droid or I blow your head off, then I’ll kill the rest of you.”

The Jawa leader’s robed hands fly up in the universal pose of surrender. The rest of the Jawas that were heading to have a look at the cargo aren’t sure what to do. Somehow they are holding their desire to flee in check, afraid that if they turn their backs, the traitorous Omwati will cut them down. Angry murmurs pass back and forth between them, but Jarren can’t make out what exactly they’re saying.

“Don’t hurt us! We give you our droid,” pleads the leader, his glowing eyes staring nervously down the barrel of the blaster.

One of the other Jawas pushes the one next to him, urging him sharply to go bring the droid. After a moment’s hesitation, he complies and rushes off toward the sandcrawler, nearly tripping on the hem of his robe in the scramble. The rest of the Jawas remain, looking on and hoping that the angry alien doesn’t decide to make an example out of their leader, or turn his gun sight on them.

Vermin, seethes Jarren to himself while standing there waiting for them to produce the droid. He makes sure to keep the blaster pointed at his hostage, but eyes the scene vigilantly in case of any tricks.

From the back of the ship, Jarren hears, “What’s the cargo?” in a jovial tone, presumably from a Jawa inside the vehicle.

“Shh! He going to kill Juba if we don’t give droid to him. Lower the collector!” says another voice.

“He what? We can’t see!” is the no longer jovial response.

“Do what he say! Lower!”

“Very bad. Yes, yes. Here, go.”

Jarren can hear the sound of machinery moving then the crash of metal upon sand as the droid is released and falls to the ground. Leaning down slightly and looking under the ship, between the landing struts, Jarren can see the lone Jawa coaxing the droid to stand up and follow him. The freshly freed droid issues a perfunctory “Affirmative”, stands, and follows the diminutive figure around the ship toward Jarren and the other Jawas.

Once A-18 and his escort arrive, the leader asks, “Droid is here. Let us go now?”

---------------------------------

Cool refreshing air greets Dex, Ian, and Ears as they enter the Oasis Cantina and Inn. The change of environment brings their attention to the grit and dirt clinging to their bodies along with the dried perspiration. Dex also feels somewhat foolish now that he’s in a social situation wearing a towel on his head and a makeshift poncho. Ian could care less.

The lighting is blessedly dim in the room beyond the entry, helping add to the shady and soothing atmosphere. The murmur of the patron’s conversations carries to their ears as they take in the surroundings. An L-shaped bar cuts the corner of the large rectangular room, lined with a variety of different stools, mostly the same height. Glasses dangle on a low hanging shelf that traces the contour of the bar on the ceiling, giving the bar the impression of more of a wall with a gap in it than just a serving counter. The front of the overhanging shelf is decorated with a variety of machine parts such as gear wheels, chains, and covers from dismantled gadgets of unknown function. The main walls are likewise decorated with more machine-related parts as well as antique signs, relics from defunct mining concerns that once held sway on Tatooine. The perimeter of the room houses booths with maroon seats flanking tables inside dull black outer frames. Several tables with benches to provide seating fill the open area.

There are only a few patrons in the cantina. A pair of tentacle-headed Quarren can be seen having a good time talking to each other in an unknown tongue in one of the booths. A group of three humans, one male and two women, are at another booth along the adjacent wall relaxing and having drinks. They watch the party come in with mild disinterest. There is also a single man sitting at the bar, and the barkeep himself.

The pale blue Rodian barkeep takes a look at the motley party as they walk in, eyeing Ears uneasily and mumbles a purposely audible, “You’ve got to be kidding,” to a rough looking human customer hunched over a drink at the bar. The human looks up at the party in response to the bartender, snorts once in derision, then looks back at his drink, subsequently ignoring them.

“Look pal, you’re going to have to keep that thing under control or leave it outside. Understand?” he sneers, nodding his head at Ears on Ian’s shoulder as he finishes wiping the counter next to the human. Ears gurgles a little and hisses happily at the attention.

After waiting to make sure that his words sink in to the obviously poor, newly arrived, dimwitted farmers, he asks brusquely, “What’ll it be?”