"I think Wormie's caught too much Sun."

“Well, if it isn’t what the Massiff dragged in.” Camie jeered, taking her hands off the laser-ball machine, which clunked and clanked as the now-unattended laserball ricocheted past the bumpers unmolested and triggered the tell-tale fanfare of a game over.  “L-l-l-l-loser.” The machine’s barely serviceable vocabulator warbled mockingly.

Without the presence of Fixer, Tank, and Biggs, the solitary social-area of the Tosche Station seemed anything but social. The trio of boys, much like herself, had all grown tired of waiting for the perpetually late Luke Skywalker to show, and they had collectively opted to set off into Anchorhead without the errant farm-boy. 

Biggs had opted to arrive on his new swoop-bike, replete with fancy-threads and a haughty air that only the salary of an enrolee to the Imperial Academy could provide. Thus, without Luke, there hadn’t been enough seats to ferry them all into town. Camie, not for the first time, had drawn the short-straw and been left to wait for Luke.