She's a Rebel [Star Wars | Luke Skywalker] *EDITING*

Droids for Sale

I fly out past the canyons inhabited by the Sand People, savage and nomadic creatures that live in tribes, and keep going until I'm quite far away from Mos Eisley. It's clear the droids didn't land there. They'd either have been captured by the patrolling Stormtroopers and Imperial Officers, or they would have been snatched up by Jawas. 

That's a point. They would have been snatched up by Jawas even if they landed in the desert. I decide to look for a Sandcrawler, and I veer my flight path to the right. Maybe there are a few Sandcrawlers selling to the residences on the outer rims of Mos Eisley. And if I can't find any, I'll head up to Anchorhead and search there. 

I keep going until I see the familiar triangular shape in the distance, silhouetted against the bright blue sky, and what seems to be a small homestead and moisture farm. I decide to park the landspeeder up on the cliff beside the Sandcrawler, as the Jawas would snatch it up in the blink of an eye. Come to think of it, they snatch up anything that's made of metal.

I park the speeder behind a large rock and hop out. I creep along the edge of the cliff until I'm at a good vantage point, and I crouch down behind the rocks, not wanting to be spotted by those who live at the homestead or the Jawas. I pull my binoculars from their pouch and bring them to my eyes, plugging the small earphone into my ear. 

I look towards the front of the Sandcrawler, which is made out of salvaged and extremely rusty brown metal. The Jawas scurry about like little desert womp rats, their tatty robes fluttering from their movement, and I can make out their little, glowing yellow eyes from beneath their hoods. They mutter gibberish as they busily line up their battered captives in front of the Sandcrawler. I raise my eyebrows at the variety of droids they have; a Tatooine protocol droid, an Imperial protocol droid, a WED Treadwell repair droid and a Gonk droid just to name a few. 

I spot Artoo and Threepio, not too far from each other, Threepio looking especially battered, more so than he did the last time I saw him. Artoo, a small blue and white astromech droid, shuffles about, swivelling his head to get a good look at his new surroundings and generally seeming rather calm. However, Threepio, a tall, gold protocol droid, shuffles about and dithers anxiously, constantly looking towards the Jawas that have ion blasters. Many people simply refer to them as their specifications, R2-D2 and C-3PO, but I prefer to call them 'Artoo' and 'Threepio', because they're more than just programmed software inside tin bodies, and those names make them seem alive. Well, to me, at least. 

I move my binoculars towards the small homestead, which consists of three large holes in the ground, and is surrounded by several moisture vaporators, with one small adobe block house and a garage. I don't want them getting their hands on Artoo and Threepio, so I put my binoculars away and quickly scale down the cliff.

I creep through the shadows next to the Sandcrawler, slowly making my way round to the front. I lean forward, looking past the huge treads that allow the Sandcrawler to trundle over the tough desert terrain, and I watch as the Jawas scurry around. They fuss over the droids, straightening them up and brushing dust from small crevices within their metal work.

I place my hand on my lightsaber, not because I want to kill the Jawas, but as to create a distraction or to scare them off for a bit. However, that doesn't really sound like a good idea when I'm right next to a homestead, especially considering whomever lives there probably owns some kind of rifle for fending off Sand People.

I decide to stick with my original plan, and I lean forward, making my way out of the shadows. But I'm suddenly distracted, as I sense someone heading out of the house, and I dart quickly back into the shadows behind the treads of the Sandcrawler.

I watch as a burly man in his mid-fifties comes limping out of the shadows of the house. He's obviously a farmer; his tatty and discoloured tunic and trousers easily give it away, and his reddish eyes are sunken in his dust covered face. A Jawa walks towards him and greets him, ready to start spouting a sales pitch in its native language.