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SW Gray Tales 30: Window Shopping
🕑 Added 2025-07-28 08:08:36 +0000 UTCSorry for the delay in getting it out. I am travelling on a 40 hours train journey and internet is so shitty that I couldn't even get the website opened up. There might have been small mistakes here and there(there shouldn't be, but I don't trust me) so I would be really gratefull if you can point them out!
And again, hello to the new patrons. Your coming delights my soul.
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"Ah yes, and here we have a particularly rare comm-bead casing used by Republic Commanders during the Outer Rim Sieges—note the simulated carbon scoring. Real combat flavor, you see!"
I gave the helmeted nod of a man who'd just been told a deep-fried nerf turd was gourmet. The salesman, decked out in three layers of overpriced synthsilk and reeking of old ambition, beamed like he'd just introduced me to a relic of the gods.
Inside the helmet—a salvaged patrol trooper bucket I'd Frankensteined with custom audio filters, vocal masking, and passive thermoreg—I internally screamed. This thing? It had the Force signature of a kindergarten diorama. The "carbon scoring" was literally hand-painted. And badly.
I resisted the urge to let out a Vasha-tier cackle.
Instead, I gave a soft, muffled, "Hmm. Curious."
Meanwhile, under the heavy coat (that technically qualified as "one-man tent chic"), my actual body—a very human, very small, and very not rich alien form—remained hidden. I'd padded it out in a way that screamed "wealthy offworld boutique collector with a tragically rare growth disorder." Ridiculous? Yes. Effective? Also yes. Vasha would've absolutely died laughing. Ten times. Then spent ten days mimicking my "rich twink-alien voice" every time I opened my mouth.
Thankfully, she had no idea about this outing. Hehehe.
Still, I had to admit, the guy was trying. Just not very well.
I pinged the object. The item flared dull, barely a flicker of history. Five out of ten of these "antiques" were cosplay props aged with sandpaper and sadness.
Honestly, what did I expect from a shop in the middle-class-but-wants-to-be-wealthy part of Lothal? These people didn't want history. They wanted talking points. Something to wave in a dinner party while bragging about their curated "war-ravaged aesthetic."
We moved on.
I nodded again while he waxed poetic about a "genuine Old-Rebublic era War stim-pack casing," which was about as authentic as a fake ID on Nar Shaddaa.
My mistake for even trusting this guy, and enough time has been shitted so I decided to do things myself
I let my awareness drift.
My bubble expanded—five meters of info-rich intuition bursting silently outward like a Force-powered wifi scan.
A rush of impressions came and went—flickers of true age, long-buried pain, echoes of old hands. Most were static. The occasional piece had something, usually scavenged. Smuggler trash. War leftovers. Once I even felt the trace of a scared clone's anxiety on an old belt clip—probably real, but sold for the wrong reason.
Still, nothing I couldn't find better in a backalley junk bin if I squinted hard enough.
As the salesman guided me to the next pile of "rare items" (read: spray-painted lies), I finally hit critical "kriff this" levels.
Time to end the farce.
"I believe I have seen sufficient," I said in the most pompous faux-accent I could channel—something halfway between old Naboo nobility and drunk Coruscanti real estate agent. "Your wares, while... quaint, do not meet the resonance criteria I require for heritage alignment."
Translation: you sell space Etsy crap, my guy.
He stiffened. "Ah... of course. Your... standards are very refined."
Sure, buddy. Keep telling yourself that.
I turned and strolled out, long coat swishing behind me like I was in a low-budget noir holofilm. Behind me, I heard him mutter a sharp curse under his breath.
"Be'hwa you scammy little fucks," I whispered back in my helmet, grinning.
Outside, the sky had dipped into late evening gold—6 o'clock already? Huh. Hour and a half since I'd left the workshop. Vasha had gone to meet some backchannel client. I had about an hour before she'd get back and start asking awkward questions like "why do you smell like overpriced cologne and laminate dust?"
I tapped the side of the helmet, checking ambient traffic levels. Mid-tier. Not bad.
Should I hit up the richer quarter? Maybe peek at the "serious collector" scene?
Well… screw it. We roll.
Time to see what the actually rich were hoarding. Maybe I'd find something real. Maybe I'd get propositioned by a bored aristocrat. Maybe I'd finally pick up something that didn't feel like it came with a side of space-time STDs.
Adventure. Scams. Mild emotional trauma. Let's go.
...
After shaking off the lingering disappointment of the first shop (and the salesman's wounded ego), I did what any self-respecting gremlin with a helmet full of lies would do: I asked around. A few credits slipped to a street vendor here, a very convincing story about my "collector uncle's dying wish" there, and boom—directions to the real high-end pit of historical flexing.
The place looked like someone had taken a Coruscanti museum, dipped it in credits, and then hired a team of interior designers who exclusively snorted crushed kyber crystals. The doors slid open with a swoosh that probably cost more than Vasha's entire toolkit, and the air inside smelled like… I don't even know. Wealth? Regret? The faintest hint of "you can't afford this" lingering in the recycled oxygen?
I stepped in, my ridiculous coat (now feeling more like a trash bag in comparison) barely containing my existential dread. The interior was huge—multiple floors with an open center, artifacts displayed like sacred relics in glass cases that probably had better security than an Imperial vault. And the people—oh, the people. So many rich beings dressed in fabrics that defied physics, sipping drinks that likely cost more than my entire childhood.
A protocol droid—gold-plated, polished to a mirror shine, and oozing more sophistication than a Hutt at a tax-evasion seminar—glided over. "Welcome, esteemed guest," it intoned, voice smoother than a fresh jar of synth-butter. "How may I illuminate your journey through the annals of history today?" (A/N: I had typed anal here and only caught it in last minute editing. it was quite funny to read through)
Damn. Shockwave would've cried binary tears of inadequacy. Note to self: drag his rusty chassis here later for a masterclass in not sounding like a back-alley hustler.
I gave the droid a helmet-tilt of approval. "I seek… historical resonance of my soul with objects of antiquity. The weight of time. The whispers of the past." (Translation: Show me the good shit before I lose my nerve.)
The droid didn't even blink. "Ah. A connoisseur of authenticity. This way."
And oh boy, was it authentic. Every item had a hololabel floating beside it, plus a certificate so legit I half-expected Palpatine's signature at the bottom. No price tags, though. Classic rich-people power move—if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
We passed a case holding a real Lothal Commune-era farming tool—worn smooth by generations of hands, the wood still humming with the echoes of harvest songs and rebellion. Next to it, a toolkit from some long-dead artistic occupation, the faded markings telling a story no history holobook ever would. Further down, a 899 years old smuggler's nav computer, its casing still dented from some forgotten firefight.
None of it was Jedi or Sith bling (thank the Force—I wasn't trying to get Vader's attention), but it was real. Heavy with history. The kind of stuff that made my Hyper Perception tingle like I'd just licked a battery.
The droid gestured to a display. "This, for instance, is a genuine pre-Imperial Lothal militia farming tool used as weapon by farmers turned militia. Note the inscription—'For the Dawn.' A rallying cry during the early protests against corporate land grabs."
I leaned in, pinging it lightly. The blade sang back, not with violence, but with defiance. A farmer's weapon, repurposed for revolution. A tale as old as times. Wonder if there is some pitchforks here.
"And here," the droid continued, "a recovered Separatist holdout beacon from the Ryloth campaign. Untampered. A rare survivor of the Empire's… cleanup efforts."
Oof. That one pulsed with desperation.
It was all incredible. Also, probably astronomically expensive. But hey, if I batted my (metaphorical, helmet-hidden) puppy eyes at Vasha hard enough, she'd cave. Probably. Maybe.
After mentally calculating how many years of "Vasha's disappointed sighs" the fancy artifacts would cost me, I cleared my throat (helmet-filtered for maximum rich-person gravitas) and asked, "However, my interests lean towards... functional history. Implements of conflict, perhaps? Tools shaped by necessity?"
The droid's photoreceptors brightened like I'd just asked for the keys to a spice vault. "But of course, esteemed guest. Our armaments collection is housed on the upper gallery—curated for the discerning historian."
You do?! I barely stopped myself from blurting that out loud like an over-caffeinated Jawa. Instead, I gave a dignified nod. "Lead the way."
The upper floor was everything. Ornate knives with hilts wrapped in leather older than my last life. Tribal axes that looked like they'd been forged in the belly of a myth. Even a few ancient blasters—deactivated, obviously, with plaques boasting things like "Pre-Republic Militia Sidearm. Note the custom grip modifications—likely a sniper's personal weapon."
And the melee stuff? Wild. Polearms with curved blades that defied geometry, a whip-sword thing that looked like it was designed by a drunk Sith(hopefully not), and a mace that screamed "I crush skulls AND societal norms." Every piece screamed Lothal isn't Earth in the best way possible.
The droid gestured to a case. "This ceremonial dagger belonged to a Lothalite clan elder during the first Republic census. Note the inscription—'Blood Marks the Truth.' A… poignant relic of resistance."
"This Drexl-hide grip knife hails from the Shadow Wars of Umbara, wielded by a Nightbrother chieftain against—"
NIGHTBROTHER!? DATHOMIR!? HOT GOTH MOMMIES HOME!! HAS IT SEEN THEM UNDRESSING?
"How much?" I interrupted, my voice modulator barely hiding the eagerness.
GP-9 quoted a figure that made my nonexistent rich-alien testicles shrivel. It was roughly equivalent to "a medium-sized starship" or "Vasha's dream retirement fund." My hopeful internal "cha-ching!" died a swift, silent death.
"Fascinating heritage," I managed, sounding strangled. "Perhaps... something slightly less... historically burdened?" Translation: Cheaper, you glorified vending machine!
I moved on, trying to look casually disinterested while internally weeping for the Mandalorian blaster. My basic Force sense – not the full Hyper Perception suite, just the ambient "spidey-sense" – suddenly twitched. Not danger. Not history. Something... else. A weird, faint pull. Like a magnet humming just outside hearing range, tugging at the edges of my awareness.
"Huh?" I muttered, turning instinctively against the flow GP-9 was trying to guide me on.
"Esteemed patron? The curated displays are this—"
Ignoring the droid's polite protest, I followed the feeling, GP-9 trailing behind with polite confusion. Past the gleaming cases, in a dim corner, was a table piled with uncertified junk—stuff even the rich-people vultures hadn't deemed worthy of display. And there, half-buried under a dented breastplate, was it:
A spear. Or… something like one. A bit battered and broken at some places. The shaft was dark, almost petrified, and the head—a wicked, asymmetrical axe-blade hybrid—looked like it had been chipped from a star's core. It was ugly in the way only truly ancient weapons are, or some design that were just so perfect that even the passage of time couldn't change them, for the peak they were.
Crustacians, my friend. The peak of evolution, the convergence itself.
Now what category did this belong to?
I reached for it, my hands moving for proximity to sense it more accurately
I didn't mean for what happened next to happen, to use telekinesis.
But the second my hand's palm opened toward it, the damn thing leapt into my grip like a loth-cat spotting an unattended meal.
Oh.
The second my skin touched it, the world shifted. I expected to get hit with a surge of sensations and memories so old that leave me with brain anerysm but there was none.
All that it had...was just a sensation of being heavy in force, as if its every pore if perforating with it.
...Did I just pick up some cursed artifact dammit?
"Those items have not undergone complete certification or safety protocols! They are strictly not for handling—"
The droid froze mid-word, gears audibly stuttering. "BY THE MAKER'S FORGED GEARS!?""
He stopped dead, his photoreceptors whirring as they focused on the staff now firmly grasped in my hand. The sheer impossibility of it – the object leaping several feet unaided – clearly short-circuited his protocol programming. He sounded like C-3PO discovering a Wookiee in a tutu.
Uh oh. Kriff. Kriffing kriff.
Adrenaline spiked. Before GP-9 could formulate an alert, scream for security, or spontaneously combust from protocol violation stress, I lunged. My free hand shot out and clamped onto the dome of his shiny chrome head.
"Sorry about this, pal," I muttered under my breath.
My senses dived in its head and more deeper, touching upon the computational hardware and memory banks, things whose location I could recite even in sleep after all the shit I had handled.
The days of future passed, a microsecond flicker, comparing now to five seconds ago. There. The fresh sensory data feeds. The visual log buffer. The auditory recording stream for the last ten seconds. All glowing subtly different in my perception, newly written.
Crunch.
Willing the force to heed my command, I focused the tiny budget I had and gave those specific, newly altered memory sectors a firm, telekinetic crumple. Like balling up a flimsi note before the ink was dry.
GP-9 froze. His entire body emitted a high-pitched "EeeeeEEEErrrk—" His limbs twitched. Photoreceptors flickered wildly, cycling through colors like a malfunctioning disco ball. It lasted maybe two seconds.
When its optics refocused, I was innocently examining a rusted vibroknuckle like nothing had happened.
"You okay there, GP? You kinda… spasmed."
The droid twitched. "Eh—uh—apologies, esteemed customer! It seems I... experienced a momentary subroutine instability. My deepest and most abject apologies for any disturbance caused." He sounded genuinely distressed, like he's kicked a puppy, and while panicking over that, kicked it again.
Waves of guilt washed over me. Poor guy. He was just doing his job. And I just gave him digital amnesia. "No disturbance at all, GP-9," I said, trying to sound reassuring through the modulator while subtly shifting the broken staff on the table.
"Just a minor glitch. Happens to the best of us. Organic and mechanical." I gestured casually toward the pile. "Now, this piece... on the cart here. This unverified stock. Seems... intriguingly robust. What can you tell me about it?" I nudged the broken shaft with my boot.
GP-9's systems whirred. "Ah. That item was recovered from a derelict freighter adrift in the Atravis sector, near the Rimma Trade Route. No verifiable provenance. The alloy head bears a metallurgical signature consistent with pre-Republic forgework—possibly ritualistic in function. The haft is… perplexing. Dense, fiber-bound composite—organic, yet unnaturally resilient. Our archivists categorized it as 'likely ceremonial,' based on curvature and balance."
I frowned. Atravis sector. That didn't rang a bell but I felt like I had read something about that somewhere but just couldn't pace where.
And talking about ceremonial?
Ceremonial my ass. The thing was vibrating in my grip like a tuning fork struck by the hand of God.
"Price?" I asked, bracing for another heart attack.
GP-9 paused. "As it's uncertified… 8500 credits."
I blinked. That's it?! For something that just chose me? Either this place had no idea what they had, or the Force was finally cutting me a break.
"Sold," I said, slapping credits into its palm before it could reconsider.
Now I just had to explain to Vasha why I came home with a sentient stick.
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A/N: Next chapter people are gonna get angry I feel. Guess what can happen?
And btw, a friend of mine has created an Discord server, do you guys wanna join it?
Comments
adolf gitler
who is luthen btw? i dont know the character
Car Crash
Vasha found a love interest, I bet.
jj jj
Will he interact with Luthen? I would love to see what would happen if they met.
