The Sting

The Setback

It was alive. A great, lumbering beast, writhing and thrashing against the torrent in which it labored to subsist, a heaving mass of deceit and honor, sacrifice and abandonment, loyalty and betrayal. Ever conflicted, ever changing, diverging…ever a haven of welcome security, of relative peace.

“You’ll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy,” Qui-Gon muttered, sinking into a large, red, plastoid seat located near the back of the diner. Flexing his toes against the rigid synth-leather of his boots, the Jedi Master struggled to appear outwardly undisturbed. Of course, he couldn’t actually relax until Dex showed himself and confirmed that the coast was clean and that they could talk freely.

About fifteen meters from Qui-Gon’s table, two Gran, their wide heads bent in earnest and probably less-than-legal conversation, chattered in low, grating monotones over blue cups of jawa juice. To their left, approximately six meters away from where the Gran sat, a dazed and ragged old Rodian female hunched over a bottle of something that looked more benign than it seemed to be, her as shoulders bent and broken as her spirit. Three human males, clad in the markedly garish trend that was high Coruscanti fashion, conversed with ease over a half-full pot of caf, gesturing with the smooth effortlessness of the upper class.

In truth, the diner itself was swathed in shady practices, but it maintained a cover that was efficient and perfectly legit, and that was good enough for Dexter Jettster. The Jedi permitted Dex – a former prospector and mercenary with tendencies bordering on piracy – to continue to practice minor violations of Republic law in return for solid, difficult-to-find information that was both sensitive and vital. It was Qui-Gon Jinn who managed to convince the Council not to press charges against his friend, but to enter an arrangement that was mutually beneficial and that neither party would be willing to leave very soon.

“Qui-Gon!” Qui-Gon glanced over sharply to see the hulking, slightly overweight figure of Dexter Jettster lumbering heavily toward him. His four thick harms outstretched in a gesture of embrace and a sloppy grin pasted across his broad face, Dex was a study in welcome warmth, and Qui-Gon rose, smiling genuinely at the sight of his old buddy.

Qui-Gon Jinn was not a small man, but he still managed to lose himself in Dexter’s embrace, just as he had as a Padawan. As Dex playfully slapped Qui-Gon’s back, he leaned over and whispered softly in the Jedi’s ear.

“We’re being watched. The Rodian female in the corner. She’s not as far gone as she looks. She’s an operative. She’s here to see what you’re up to.”

Qui-Gon stepped away, the broad smile never leaving his ruggedly handsome features, but Dex recognized that particular, predatory, fatal glint that his dark blue eyes now carried.

“It’s been too long, Qui-Gon, old buddy.”

“It has, I’m afraid. Business at the Jedi Temple has been quite touchy.”

“Ahhh, tough times, Qui-Gon. Tough times. Sit down, old buddy!” he gestured broadly toward the red seat with two of his meaty arms. “Let me get you something. Jawa juice?”

“Please,” said Qui-Gon, sweeping his dark robe from beneath him and lowering himself into the bench.

“Coming up,” Dex said, motioning to a server droid who whirred over on her ungreased servos and delivered a pot of the blue liquid to Qui-Gon’s table, depositing it gently on the smooth, granite-colored surface. Dex reached over and, gingerly, grabbed the pot with one of his right arms, pouring the juice into a cup that rested neatly on the table. Dex moved closer to the Jedi Master to thrust the cup into his outstretched hand, when, seemingly without warning, his left leg crossing slightly over his right, causing him to stumble. Throwing his four, heavily muscled arms out for balance, Dex fumbled the cup of jawa juice just enough for a huge plop to land smack-center on Qui-Gon’s tunic.

Qui-Gon looked down with disdain as a large, florescent blue stain began to spread like cobalt streaks of flame down the front of his tunic.

“Oh, Qui-Gon,” began Dex, averting his eyes, “I’m so sorry, old buddy. I…don’t know what came over me. Here, let me help—“

“No, no, it’s fine,” breathed Qui-Gon, standing erect and brushing his Jedi robes with both hands, but only succeeding in further embedding the stain in his tunic.

“Buddy, alcohol stains, but if we can get that tunic to some cold water, maybe—“

“I’ve had more than enough help from you, old buddy,” Qui-Gon sneered, fixing the Beslisk with a cold stare.

“Look, Qui-Gon, I’m sorry. It’s not like I meant to, you know.”

“Frankly, Dexter, I don’t care. Now, if you’ll excuse me—“ Qui-Gon said, shouldering his way toward the large, four-armed being.

“Now, just wait one minute, Master Jedi,” rasped Dex, planting one arm firmly in Qui-Gon’s chest and another in his stomach. “You go nowhere until I say that you’re going somewhere. You get my meaning?”

“Are you stopping me, Dexter, old buddy?” Qui-Gon said, his voice a chilling but fully audible whisper.

The eyes of every being who currently inhabited the diner remained fixed on the fierce, bloodless but bitter, contest of wills, scarcely daring to breathe lest they be implicated in what was certain to follow.

“This is establishment belongs to me, Qui-Gon. Just because you’re some Jedi doesn’t entitle you to take advantage of my services. If you don’t like what I have to offer, you can leave. If you don’t like what I have to say, you can leave. And if you don’t show proper manners,” he muttered, leaning in closer, “you, dear buddy, can leave.”

“I don’t think so,” said Qui-Gon through gritted teeth.

Inhaling deeply, Dex balled his left fist and punched Qui-Gon in the nose, throwing his fully bodyweight into the jab but wincing sharply at the deep crack that followed.

“Master! Master! I completed the training exercise just as you—“

The diner patrons shifted their gaze from the large Jedi Master who lay sprawled on the floor of the establishment, eclipsed by the massive shadow of its owner, to the small boy with the light, Coruscanti accent, buzz-cut hair, and a little braid hanging near his right ear.

“Um, hello Dex,” he said, cautiously eyeing the Besalisk. “What have you done to my Master?”

Dex nearly smiled at the young boy. His tone was curious, rather than accusing, and his soft, penetrating eyes were enough to melt the stoutest of hearts.

“We’d better take him to the back,” said Dex, heaving the barely conscious Jedi Master to his feet and half-carrying, half-dragging him toward the back of the diner.

“Okay,” the boy said agreeably, following Dexter.

The strange party ended their brief journey, after breaching several doors and hidden entrances, near a dank, grimy, drafty exit at the very edge of the diner. It looked as if it hadn’t been touched for nearly a thousand years, its frame drenched in a greenish substance of dubious origin.

Dex dropped the limp form of the Jedi Master heavily on the ground, then turned toward the small Padawan with a massive, toothy grin enveloping his face.

“Obi-Wan!” he exclaimed, holding out his arms.

Obi-Wan glanced uncertainly at his Master, who was beginning to stir slightly but otherwise remained unnaturally still. He lifted his little chin up toward Dex’s massive, hulking form, sensitive brow furrowed deeply in thought.

“What’s wrong, Obi-Wan?” asked Dex, dropping his arms in disappointment as the large grin faded from his face.

“My Master. What happened to him? Did you hit him?”

“I’m…fine, Obi-Ban,” Qui-Gon mumbled, rising to his haunches and flinching at the combination of blistering pain and frigid numbness that extended from the base of his nose to the tip. “Dex, why’d you have to bak it? You know it’s been boken too bany times already.”

Stifling a pearl of incessant laughter at his Master’s voice, which was even more nasal that usual, Obi-Wan covered his mouth and studied the grimy floor with expertly feigned innocence.

“I’m sorry, Qui-Gon,” said Dex softly, avoiding the Jedi’s injured expression. “I…lost my head. I panicked. I wanted to get you out of there as quickly as I could. This was the fastest way I could think of. Besides, we used this one when you were younger, and I thought you knew the drill.”

“I did dow the drill,” wheezed Qui-Gon, his hand cupping the fresh droplets of blood that were inching out of his nose. “But I didn’t dink you’d hit my node.

“Ach, it doesn’t batter. What batters is the mission. Obi-Ban, did you do what I asked you to?”

“Yes, Master,” he chirped cheerfully, pulling a small box from inside his robes.

Laying an enormous but gentle hand on Obi-Wan’s head, Dex regarded the box with a grave expression unbecoming his naturally friendly demeanor.

“If you’re ready, Master Qui-Gon, we’d better make this quick,” said Dex. “I have a feeling our Rodian friend won’t be deterred for long.”

“You’re right, Dex. Obi-Ban, if you’d explain? I’m somewhat…”

“Yes, Master!” he said, delighted at his important role.

Holding the box out toward Dex with both small, calloused hands, Obi-Wan was somewhat uncertain where to begin, and yet…

…that couldn’t have stopped him for all of Coruscant.