Aristeia, an ambitious and self-reliant journalist on Tatooine, crosses paths with a Mandalorian after a harrowing encounter with Imperial remnants.
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"Aristeia tried to get a better read of him, but unlike most people sh...
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ARISTEIA SIGHED as she weaved her way through the busy streets of Mos Eisley, Tatooine. It was almost sunset and most people were heading home after long days at work. A layer of dust rose around the feet of those attending to last-minute errands. She watched as a woman bought a large red fruit my from one of the street-side vendors. A soot-covered teenaged boy stood by the neighboring building, stocking up on mechanical supplies. Near his feet, two sunburnt children fought over a small toy. The scene was normal to her: ever since settling on Tatooine years ago, Aristeia had slowly grown accustomed to the slow and gritty flow of the planet.
As she continued walking, she kept her head down, eyes always focused a few steps ahead of her feet. However, whenever someone neared, she would look up briefly to offer them a small smile. Most of the time they ignored her, scowled, or rolled their eyes, but every now and then, someone would return her gesture. Those moments made the effort worth it.
Unlike the people who meandered around her, Aristeia was just starting her work for the day. She kicked up clouds of dirt as she made her way to the recently-abandoned mechanic's shop. She used to frequent it back when she had a speeder, but after the owners passed away, it had unfortunately turned into a popular site of criminal activity. A few days back, she had intercepted a transmission that mentioned a meeting at the location, and as a journalist, she had to be there to see what was going on. Armed with a small notebook and stylus, she was prepared to document the whole thing.
Turning the corner of a dusty alley, which was littered with miscellaneous tools and sheets of scrap metal, the old mechanic's place finally came into view. Its exterior architecture was similar to that of the rest of Tatooine, however its dark and doorless entrance led to an underground network of small rooms. With every step Aristeia took towards the building, her anxiety grew. Unlike her other investigative stakeouts, she was going into the mechanic's blind. The transmission didn't reveal a whole lot about the nature of the meeting, which she knew meant it was of special importance. These were the kind of meetings that could provide her with a groundbreaking story. They were also the kind of meetings where someone could get hurt.
Aristeia had never been good at fighting – physically, at least – but she did give herself credit for not having died so far, especially in her line of work. Put a blaster in her hand and she'd probably shoot her own foot off. However, put a pen in her hand, and she was a force to be reckoned with.
Aristeia had been writing ever since she was young. It started with little stories: she would go into a crowd of people, find a quiet place to sit, and observe each person that passed by. She would notice what they were wearing, how they carried themselves, who they were with, where they were going, and then she would make up the 'why': Why were they dressed like that? Why did they walk like that? Why were they with this person or that person? Her imagination would stitch together the missing pieces of their backstories, creating life narratives of people she had never even met. She did the same thing now from time to time. In fact, people watching was imperative to her role as a journalist.
