The galaxy is adrift after the fall of the First Order.
While the Core Worlds politicians struggle to rescue the ideals of the Old Republic and reestablish a democratic governing body for the galaxy, the Outer Rim Territories settle back to normal...
The Clump had countless retails and private services scattered by its many sectors, but the main commerce hub, called the High Market, occupied the largest series of interconnected wide chambers in the station. It was fabled they were eight former hangars rescued from the scrap of Death Star II, but that was impossible to confirm.
Nonetheless, the resulting hall was big enough to justify the legend and had positively imperial architecture, made somewhat warm and welcoming by the colorful constellation of neon signs lighting the paths through a maze of side-to-side tents, where a mob of aliens chattered and bartered noisily.
Retired control rooms suspended by pyramids of stairs along the walls were retrofitted into luxurious showrooms for VIPs, and a big tent that occupied a full hangar by itself at the north end of the High Market housed the bank and the stock trade.
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Grova floated in from a maintenance hatch high in the north wall, getting suddenly caught by the gravity of the marketplace. She grabbed one of the many red fabric strips hanging from the ceiling to the center of the chamber, braiding loosely like lotus petals or a spider web, and slid down comfortably behind a small crowd of customers in a walkway.
Each group profitting off from the market had its own police force patrolling the chambers: the militia was there to certify that freelancers weren't breaking any of the Scrapper's Guild's monopolies; the Bounty Guild had a policy of flash contracts at fixed fares for storeowners in case of theft or property damage; and many armed groups of thugs protected the interests of syndicated crime in the darkest corners of The Clump.
Clashes between those factions were regular and none of them were paid to have any comitment to the wellbeing of customers and workers, so the mechanic had to move around carefully, specially having the team's purse with her. Grova already knew where to go first.
Around the animal cages row at butcher's corner and through the speeder bike open yard, she could consult real specialists. "Empire antiques!", their neon sign blinked, luring inadvertent prey into the round door to the twin's tent.
"Ah, Grova! Why am I not surprised to see you here?", laughed old Manarr from behind the counter, his silver head barely visible under the precarious lightning. "Hey, Tamarr, come see who's here to barter!", he shouted, turning his head to a back room separated from the front of the store by a pair of old imperial banners hanging from the structure.
"Oh my!", Tamarr's head popped out of the fabric doors, identical to that of Manarr in every aspect --even the scars across the wrinkles of the face seemed equal, perhaps because oldtimey stormtrooper helmets all caused the same injuries. They were Imperial veterans of war. "Green team's purse better be full!"
"Hey, boys. Where's Jotarr?", Grova greeted, taking a second to look at the holographic replicas of their inventory shimmering on the shelves.
"Guarding the Loader at the port", said Manarr with a grin, getting closer to Grova.
