Kenobi Chronicles

Episode 2 (Part 1)

It was only to be a simple journey to Mos Eisley. The hermit of Dejuri was coming to the great city to trade in some of his credits for a new panel for his moisture evaporator. A Jawa had pillaged it during the night, and then had tried to sell it to him that morning at a staggering price—more than four times than what Kenobi had first paid for it. The Jawa had been obstinate, knowing the hermit could not live long without such a crucial piece of equipment, and had assumed the old man would not be willing to leave his cave for a fairer price.

The Jawa was wrong.

Mos Eisley was more civilized than Mos Pelgo, and much wilder than Mos Aespa. It was a sprawling city, compared to the outposts Kenobi usually frequented. And it made the pretense of being an honorable city—if you consider the death-stick capital of the Empire to be honorable. Kenobi had seen only such a flourishing death-stick industry when he lived on Coruscant, but even then, few dealers were so open about their trade.

In Mos Eisley, a dealer was a king. To cross one of these 'businessmen' as they called themselves, was to bring the wrath of an entire city's network down upon your head.

Kenobi pulled his hood up further over his face, despite the intense heat from the tatooinian suns. Of course, journeying into the city was never a good idea, even if he knew no one would recognize him. However, surviving without a moisture evaporator was impossible. He made his way to a local junk yard on the far side of the city.

There he found a small winged creature who tried to sell him not only a 'lightly-used' moisture-evaporator panel (that would need to be modified to fit Kenobi's model), but also a leaky oil droid, and two jet-canisters.

"You won't find a better deal in all of Mos Eisley!" The junker assured, but Kenobi politely declined.

"I'm only in need of a fitting panel, my friend."

"Ehhh—" the junker grunted discouragingly. "To modify, will cost extra. I need time."

"How long will you need?" Kenobi asked. The junker stroked his hairy chin as if he hadn't come up with his answer already.

"Three days."

"Three?" Kenobi asked. "Oh, that won't do, my honorable friend. Have you ever lived in the desert?"

"Ah—maybe I could get it done today—" the junker looked innocently at Kenobi. "I have other jobs, but I could move you to the top for the right price."

Kenobi rolled his eyes. Curse that Jawa—and curse this junker. He rummaged deep within his pockets, pulling out what few credits he had been able to save over the last few months.

"How about you have it done in an hour, and I'll give you its price and a half." Kenobi began to negotiate.

"Or—" the junker took the credits straight from Kenobi's hand and began to count them. "I take what's here—and you come back before sunset. I'll have it done."

Kenobi looked from his empty palm to the greedy junker that was still obliviously counting his money. Junkers are the worst. Never had he met a decent, honest one. Kenobi stood up from the table.

"Have it done in two hours." He said simply, before leaving the shop, with the junker snickering behind him. How he hated Mos Eisley. Of all the planets to seek refuge in, he had to wind up on a dusty ball of death-stick addicts and greedy junkers. There truly was no better cesspool of denizens.

With time on his hands, he began to wander from the junk shop. He climbed his eopie and allowed her to walk with the current of people that crowded the streets of the Mos Eisley market.

Then, whether it was the rhythm of the eopie's walk, or the desert heat, Kenobi fell into a sort of trance. It felt an awful lot like falling asleep. His eyelids grew heavy, and the scene surrounding him grew water-y and blurred.