#jesse libarra

Jesse led the way down the dimly lit line of doors, boots leaving muddy prints in the dingy carpet. “I usually stay here when I’m in the neighborhood. The owner is an Arcona who served in the Sisti Strike Force during the last rebellion. Let’s just say he’s familiar with the standard modus operandi of his clientele.” She glanced at the number on her card and turned the corner. “Two ways out of every room, and the walls and doors are blaster proof.”

She opened their door and flicked on the lights. A single bed, two chairs, and a table greeted them, startlingly green against glaring red carpet. An ancient holoplayer ogled them in the light of the single lamp. Their reflections looked bleakly back at them from above the open sink. “Well,” Jesse said. “It's, uh, not much.” 

          “But?” 

          “No, no but. It's just not much.”

          Aden looked like he agreed with her, but he didn't complain. His face was gray and drawn down into harsh lines of fatigue. Jesse took his rifle off his shoulder. He blinked but didn't resist. “You get the fresher first.” She forced herself to sound cheerful. “I'll unpack.”

          “Right.”

          While Aden showered, Jesse removed and cleaned her armor, stacking each piece in a neat pile as she finished with it. She cleaned and calibrated her rifle, dug the mud out of her boots, and sharpened the blades on her gauntlets. She looked up with a toothbrush in her mouth as Aden reentered the room. He was glowing with the warmth of the shower, his brown hair bristling in wet spikes all over his head, his face still damp and pink from shaving. 

          He tossed his heap of clothes and armor onto the bed, sorting it back into his rucksack as Jesse unbraided her hair. “Go ahead and get comfortable.” She said, heading for the shower. “I'll take a look at you when I'm out.”

          Already half asleep, Aden raised his head. “Wait, are we sharing?” 

         “Tonight we are. I wouldn't trust you to tie your shoes by yourself.”

          “Nah. No laces.” His voice was muffled by pillows. “They buckle.”

          “See? Even worse.” 

          “What?” 

          “Shut up.” She laughed, throwing a towel over her shoulder. “Give me ten minutes.” 

          “Prima Donna.” Ten minutes was extravagant. Showers in most militaries were limited to three. 

          “You spend three months in a jungle with hair like this.” She tossed her head. “See how you like it.”

          She showered unhurriedly, luxuriating in the warmth, allowing the grunge of months to drain away, letting the water pound the knots out of her muscles and pull the snarls out of her hair. The water was hard and made her skin sticky. The soap was extraordinarily pungent. The shampoo made her hair cling to her hands and snarl around her fingers. With her elbows knocking on the wall with every movement and the soapy steam suffocating the tiny fresher, it was certainly the complete cheap hotel experience, but the months on Taris had been so long it felt like a Naboo health spa. 

          When she emerged in a cloud of steam, dressed in the loose red fatigues of the Grand Army of the Republic, towel turbaned elaborately around her head, Aden was soundly asleep on the single bed, twisted awkwardly around a lump of pillows. Jesse tossed her medic bag onto the bed, but he didn't even twitch when it bounced down beside him. She crawled up next to him, shaking his shoulder until he surfaced. 

           He cracked an eye. “Oh no. There’s a strange woman in my room. What would my momma say?”

          Jesse smirked under her towel turban. “I don’t know what your momma would say, but I say sit up and take off your shirt.” 

         “Not a chance.” Aden mumbled into the pillow. “I’m not that kind of man.”

          “Well, I’m that kind of girl.” Jesse waggled dark eyebrows in a ludicrous caricature of flirtation. “Where’s the fun in spending the night with a strange woman if you’re going to be old fashioned? Shirt off.”

         Grudgingly, muttering darkly about mothers’ warnings and women picked up off the street, Aden struggled to a sitting position. “Are you sure you want the shirt off?” He asked. A bright red glow was spreading up his neck, lighting the tips of his ears on fire. “I wouldn't want you to feel intimidated by my impressive physique or anything.”

          “Take it off.” Jesse waved a hand in his direction, her head buried in her bag. “Doctor’s orders.” 

          He struggled out of his shirt, the blush advancing toward his hairline as she studied him. He was more slender than he looked in armor, lean instead of heavily muscled. Points of bone showed through his shoulders. His ribs were a washboard under olive-colored skin. Muscle rippled with his movement, but it was the muscle built of sweat, privation and hard living, not of nutri-supplements and concentrated training in air-conditioned gyms. 

         Bruises mottled his body, blue, black, and yellow. His right arm and flank were ribboned with long claw marks, recently dressed with sticky topical stitches, the souvenirs, she suspected, of his close encounter with the Barabel on Vurus. One shoulder showed signs of a newly healed blaster wound. She crawled around to sit beside him. More bruises spread their tendrils across his chest, tinting scars and tattoos a hideous yellow. “Vod. You are a mess.”

          “Thank you. That’s what every man wants to hear.”

          Sliding down to kneel on the floor in front of him, Jesse activated her medscanner. “No internal bleeding. No punctured organs.” She began to explore his ribs with her fingers. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He swallowed a scream and doubled over. “Well, that's broken.” 

          “No kidding.” Sweat glistened on his forehead. 

         She found three more broken ribs under a web of yellow bruises but no other major damage in the front. “Ok, vod.” She patted his shoulder, rousing him from his half doze. “Lay back down for me.” 

         “Thought you’d never ask.” He muttered with bad grace, working himself around until he could stretch full-length on the bed. Gingerly, joint by joint, he eased himself down onto the mattress, hissing with pain as rusty muscles unclenched. 

         “All the way.” Jesse nudged him with her medscanner. “Come on.” 

          He worked his knee down from where it had propped his back into a protective arch. Jesse shook her hair down from its towel and prodded Aden’s knotted shoulders. “Flatten these out, huh? Much as you can.” 

          Grunting, he inched his elbows out away from his shoulders until the knotted muscles eased slightly. “That's it.” His words were muffled by the pillows, but the strain in his voice was evident. 

She raised her eyebrow. “Right. Let’s see what we’ve got.” Jesse touched the mediscanner to his back. Aden jumped. “Did I hurt you?” She pulled her hand back. 

“S’cold.” Aden mumbled through the pillow.

Rolling her eyes, Jesse replaced the scanner and ran it thoughtfully down each side of Aden’s spine. It beeped to itself, displaying on its little screen a pixelated rendering of bone and tissue. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Jesse whistled under her breath. “How did you do that?” 

“What?” 

“You've got two ruptured discs and one that's disintegrating, plus a dislocated rib here, here, and here. Oh, and here.” She walked her fingers up his back. “What happened?” 

“Dunno. What’ll cause it?” 

She shrugged. “Long-term stress, improper lifting, acrobatics, sudden trauma. You didn't get hit by a speeder did you?”

He seemed to be thinking. “I did fall out of a four story window.” 

She looked at his back and saw shrapnel scars and the pink remnants of road rash. “That’d do it.” 

Jesse put her medscanner aside. “I'm gonna set those ribs for you, then we'll work on your shoulders.” 

Jesse carefully set the offending ribs with her thumbs, careful not to flinch as they crunched back into place. Aden squirmed under her hand but didn't make a sound. Gently, Jesse went about his back with her fingers, looking for knots and points of strain. She started at the shoulders, probing with her fingers at the taut muscles, rock-hard under fatless flesh. She had been good at this when she was younger and now the skill came back to her from the purple parlors of long ago, dripping with perfumed memories. It hadn't been a dignified job, but it had paid the bills. 

    Jesse shoved her way through the stinking crowd, making full use of armored shoulders and elbows. She kept one hand on her knapsack -- these freighters always swarmed with pickpockets-- and used her other to clear a path through the shifting press of bodies. When the top of your helmet comes up to most species’ shoulders, “excuse me” doesn't go very far. 

     She trod on a Devaronian’s foot with an armored boot. These places were always the same. Filthy floors, filthy windows, filthy people. The kinds of spacers that went into affordable galactic mass transit weren't the kind of people who worried about whatever sticky thing she'd just stepped in. And when you're as poor as those who crowded around her, things like dirty windows weren't high on your list of priorities. Jesse adjusted her helmet’s air freshener and tried not to think about the credits in her pocket. Some of these scavers could smell a full wallet from fifty meters.

       The elbow room factor in the ship made the spaceport look like the Jundland Wastes. Variations on the theme of destitute ‘migrant’ clogged the ship, filling every chair, corner, and railing. Using her trusty elbows again, Jesse excavated a place for herself in the crush, more glad than usual for the insulating cocoon of armor. Not only did it shield her from the grimy embrace of the mob around her, it also acted like a forcefield. Few beings in any situation would knowingly jostle a Mandalorian in full kit. 

       Jesse dropped her knapsack down between two lumps of dirty brown cloth, and sat on it. Knees up to her chest, she compressed herself into a ball to take up as little space as possible. She didn't mind elbowing her way through a crowd, but she'd sat through too many galactic bus rides to thoughtlessly go the whole way with her boots in somebody’s face. 

        She dozed behind her helmet, listening to the creak of the ship and the sound of seven hundred beings all living, breathing, and suffering together. 

        The ship made several stops while she slept, the crowd ebbing, swelling, and ebbing again as they passed Coruscant, Nar Shaddaa, and Vurus. The population of these cruisers always grew and shrank depending on the proximity to the Core Worlds. People seemed to be drawn to population centers like lumimoths to glow lamps. Jesse shuddered to herself. She'd never understood that mentality. To her, the plains of Dantooine offered infinitely more than the choking slums of Coruscant in the quest for freedom and prosperity. 

     When her stomach woke her by gnawing on her backbone, the ship was almost empty. Jesse stretched out her legs and drug her knapsack out from under her. Asset protection was all well and good, but you could only sit on a bag full of artillery for so long before certain strategic regions began to lodge strenuous protests.

     Her head itched. She took off her helmet and immediately regretted it, --the room reeked of oil and unwashed bodies-- but she left it off. Her nose had developed some serious claustrophobia from days spent in intimate contact with the inside of her faceplate. She scratched her head, enjoying the new freedom of the transport, and looked around. A handful of lumpy robes were scattered around the passenger bay, huddled in groups of ones and twos. The overhead lights flickered out of tempo with the thrum of the engine, making it difficult to see, but she thought she could make out a Mandalorian wedged into the corner across from her. 

        The Mandalorians were a small, tight-knit community. Any mando’ad was a brother and she was bored, so she climbed to her feet and wandered over to see if she recognized him. He was sprawled in his chair, head lolling, arms akimbo. His rucksack was shoved under his chair, protected by armored boots. A rifle had been wedged between his knee and the wall, accessible only by those willing to stretch an arm across his armored chest in potentially the last, most awkward hug they  would ever give. She grinned. The man's breathing was deep and slow, not a doze but a solid, impenetrable slumber. He was either very comfortable in his environment or very, very tired. Judging by the state of his gear, she guessed it was the latter. 

        Unwilling to disturb him, Jesse wandered away. She rebraided her hair, stretched the kinks out of her muscles, and wished fervently for a sandwich. The spacers were usually willing to barter or sell food, but she wasn't nearly hungry enough for that. She enjoyed living, even with an empty belly. 

        The ship made two more landings, gaining three or four passengers, losing twenty or thirty. Through all the klaxons and turmoil, the Mandalorian never so much as twitched. He lay in his chair, still as death but for the rise and fall of his chest. Jesse dozed again, but the insistent growling in her stomach kept her from contentment. 

      The klaxons sounded again. Mos Isla spaceport. All ashore that's going ashore. Jesse consulted her holomap. The end of the line was fast approaching. Those who remained would be stranded on Dantooine for the next three standard months. These transports didn't run every day. She placed her helmet on her head so as to be instantly recognizable, climbed to her feet and crossed the bay again. 

       She rapped an armored knuckle on his chest plate. “Jate Vartuur, vod.” 

       His whole body shivered. He raised his head muzzily. “Whaa..?” His voice was slurred with sleep.

       “This your stop?” 

       “Where…?”

       “Mos Isla.” 

     He jerked his head. “No. Going to Verad. Dantooine.” 

       “Me too.” She smiled in sympathy. “Go back to sleep, vod. I'll get you when we land.” 

        “Vore, vod’ika.” His voice faded even as his head dropped again. She shook her head, chuckling, and returned to her duffle bag. 

        She passed the time to Dantooine researching her potential marks, mentally matching her equipment against their MO’s. Danotoonie wasn’t infamous for galaxy-class criminals, but there were enough small time psychos to keep her gainfully employed. Her usual class of target typically tended toward the detonite side of her range of options, but she had had enough of crime bosses and serial killers on Taris, so she was looking for some knife and blaster work. Dantooine would offer a change of pace and eating money. The absence of rakghouls was an added bonus. 

         “Dantooine. End of Line”. The loudhailer blared. The last few stragglers gathered their belongings. Jesse slung her knapsack over her shoulder and rapped on the other Mandalorian’s chest plate again. “End of line, brother. Rise and shine.” 

       He twitched. “Whaa? Oh. Okay.” His head drifted back down onto his chest. 

     Jesse grinned. She nudged his foot with her boot toe. “Come on, sleeping beauty. Get up and get out or go back where you came from.” 

      He jumped, as if waking up again. “What? Oh. Right.” He shook his head sharply. “Verad. Right.” He unfolded his arms. Very slowly, he sat up, took his rifle, and climbed to his feet. Moving like every joint was a stranger to him, the man picked up his rucksack. She heard him stifle a groan. 

       “You ready, vod?” 

       He looked around. “Where's my helmet?” His words were still thick. 

       “On your head.” 

       He touched his faceplate. “Oh. Right.” The warrior shook himself, visibly throwing off his stupor. He stuck out a hand. “Nasreyc. Aden.”

        She grasped his forearm. “Libarra. Jesse” She grinned. “Well, Nasreyc Aden. You ever been to this corner of the world before?” 

        He shook his head. “First time.” 

Jesse looked around. The passenger bay was now empty, the last of the migrants having disembarked. “Let’s get out of here before they throw us off. Or worse.” She looked around at the grimy, shadow-filled bay. “Before they won’t let us leave.”

Aden followed her as she led the way out of the hold toward the loading doors. “You got any plans?”

“Negative.”

  “Well, I know this great little cantina just around the corner. You look like you could use a drink.”

“I could go for a plate of eggs, that's for sure.”

She checked her chrono and laughed. “At twenty-three hundred hours? In this town? You'll have alcohol and be happy about it.”

He laughed too. They were used to late nights in small towns. Life on the other side of the tracks didn’t always come with an all night diner. Readjusting his rifle, he gave her a loose-jointed salute. “Lead the way, ma'am.” 

He followed her off the transport, down the gangplank, and into the smoky light of the Verad spaceport. She strode toward the exit, glad to be moving, enjoying the easy power of her body, happy to be alive. Everywhere around her shuffled wizened husks, bereft of pride, hope, and ambition, but her limbs were strong, her head was clear, and her pocket was full of money. Behind her helmet, she was smiling. She paused with her hand on the turnstile. “You coming?” 

        Aden was trailing behind her, bumped and jostled where Jesse had moved untouched. He was limping slightly on his left leg, hunched a little forward against the weight of his haversack. Jesse frowned. “You hurtin’, vod? You walk like an old man.” 

        She heard him try to laugh. “I feel like an old man.”

        They walked out together into the night. Jesse led the way down a dark side street, letting old habit drop her into step with Aden. His limp seemed to abate once he had worked the kinks out of his legs, but there remained a tension in him that tickled her medical senses. “How'd you get that paint job, Aden?” His chest and belly plates were gouged and the dingy red paint had been torn away in ribbons. 

      He chuckled ruefully. “Long story. Let's just say there is no maximum safe distance from a Barabel.” 

       She sucked a breath through her teeth. “Nasty sons of banthas.”

       “No kidding.” 

Jesse stopped on the street corner, just outside the circle of light thrown by a street lamp. She pointed across the street. “Well, vod. Welcome to the Shriveled Sarlacc.” The neon lights flickered as if in greeting. A board fell off the single window. 

“Wow. You sure we’re allowed in there?” She could hear Aden grinning. “Should we go around to the servant’s entrance?”

“No, no. You’ve got it all wrong.” Jesse heaved her rifle into a better position on her shoulder. “We will deign to grace them with our presence.”

‘Right.”

They walked through the door and took a table in the back without a single head turning to look at them. The room was dark and full of greasy smoke, empty save for a few robed beings at the bar. Peeling posters waved at them from the walls. The menu was chalked by hand in shaky Aruebesh on a board hung lopsidedly over the bar. Nut shells and bottle caps littered the floor, and a strange, septic smell permeated the entire room. Jesse took off her helmet and grinned. “Welcome to the armpit of the galaxy, my friend.”

Aden sat his helmet on the table, smiling to himself. They studied each other for a while, without shyness, seeing things few species ever beheld. Jesse saw a youngish human male, brown hair flattened by his helmet. His face was honest without naivety, his mouth firm, his eyes used to smiling. He had a sticky bandage above his left eyebrow, and the remnants of bruises on his cheekbone and chin. His eyes were frankly curious as they studied her. She knew what he was seeing. A heart-shaped face under a mop of brown hair. Green, oval eyes, and the jagged scar that ran diagonally down from above her right eyebrow until it fell off the left edge of her chin. They regarded each other a while, pleased to see another face that understood what it felt like under a bucket. 

“Whachyuo want?” 

Jesse looked up at the waiter. He was a loose-jowled human with a towel tucked into his pants. “Tihaar.”

“How’s your caf?” Aden rubbed a gloved hand backwards across his hair, leaving it in a greasy mohawk.

“They don’t have the worst caf in the outer rim.” Jesse said before the waiter could speak, leaning back in her chair. “But it’s close.”

“Bring the pot.” 

The waiter grumbled and shuffled off, leaving Jesse laughing. “What, you don’t want to celebrate?”

“Celebrate what?” 

“You’ve returned from battle, you're alive, you’re here.” She paused. “Well, maybe that’s not really something to celebrate, but still. K'oyacyi! Besides, You don’t want to make me drink alone.”

“At this point, Jesse, I don’t need anything that’s going to relax me any further.” The greenish shadows crowded into the hollows Aden’s face, giving him a ghoulish aspect.

Jesse shrugged. “Ehh...I’ll give you that one.”

Their drinks arrived without ceremony, and Jesse knocked back her single celebratory shot of tiharr while Aden filled a mug with caf. Throat burning, Jesse watched Aden thoughtfully. “Vod, you look like a herd of banthas stomped all over you.”

He shook his head, sipped his caf, and made a face. “Nah. Not banthas. Remember? A Barabel.”

“Oh...right. Nasty.”

“Speaking of nasty. This is the worst caf I’ve ever had.” 

She laughed. “I told you.” She poured a little bit of the hot, brown liquid into her shot glass. “So, tell me Aden. Where did you blow in from? It doesn’t look like it was a vacation resort.”

He his face clouded. “Vurus. Three months there, hunting Black Sun leadership.” 

           “Fun.” 

           “Buckets of it. It was all cloak and dagger work until I located my target. And let me tell you. If you've never walked face first into a nest of Black Sun bruisers, it is not an experience I would recommend.”

         “It's never been high up on my list of things to try.” She took another shot of caf. “That's what all the theatrics are about?” She mimicked him limping through the spaceport. 

        “You noticed that, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Yeah.” He looked glumly into his caf, a hand going unconsciously to his ribs. “Buir always said, ‘if it comes down to fists, you didn't do your job’.”

         Jesse cocked an eyebrow. She liked the hand-to-hand times, but a glance at Aden’s bent-up posture quelled the expression of her opinion. She ‘mhmmed’ into her shot glass. “He had a point.”

“No kidding.” He filled his cup again. “Now, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? Dirt, kath hounds, and grass as far as you can see doesn’t seem like your kind of vacation.”

“Well, after a tour on Taris any place that doesn’t have rakghouls is a paradise.” 

“Now those are nasty sons of banthas.” He made an exaggerated face. “How long?”

“Five months, after a Twi’lek killer.”

“Just one in particular, or did he have a preference?”

“Definitely a preference. Thirty-six dead across seven star systems before I got his name.” Her face was grim. The memory of those vivid bodies was still fresh. 

“But you got him?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was hard. “Dead. Some people just won’t come quietly.”

“Would you?”

“No, but you can’t blame a girl for trying.” She shrugged. “They’re worth more money alive.”

“So are you.”

“True, that.” She put her elbows on the table, contemplating another shot of caf. “And yours? You brought him in?”

“Yeah. Dead.” He shrugged and winced. “That was what the poster said.”

“Jate.”She spat. “One less lizard.” She filled up her cup again. “Cheers, then.”

He laughed. “To what?”

“To more money than you had yesterday.”

           “I'll drink to that.” They touched shot glass to mug and tossed back their drinks in unison. She turned her glass over and placed it ceremoniously next to the empty pot, putting her elbows on the table. “So, Aden Nasreyc. How long have you been hurtin’ like this?”

He looked startled, and then sheepish, like a child caught with his father’s blaster. “A while. Couple months, maybe.”

“Wounded?”

“Chronic. It's the back, you know. Curse of the elderly.” 

“What’d you do?”

“Don’t remember.” He was hiding his face in his caf cup.

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“No.” Aden made a face. “It only hurts when I’m working, and when I’m working I don’t have time for doctors.”

“Silly question.” Jesse replied caustically. 

“Kinda.” 

They sat in silence for a while, weighing the choice between another pot of caf and the rest of the night’s sleep. Jesse looked at her chrono and made the decision. “Well, vod. It’s officially past my bedtime. You got a place to stay?”

He shrugged. “I have a list of the hotels. I might just camp somewhere. You don’t see many stars on Vurus.”

Jesse snorted. “You won’t see many stars from the inside of a Kath hound. You’re not that hard up, are you?”

He shrugged noncommittally. Jesse frowned. “Well, we can't stay here all night. I'll show you where I stay, and you can make your own decision.”

           Aden nodded, and they gathered their gear.  Shouldering her knapsack, Jesse turned to hand a credit chip to the waiter but an anguished cry whirled her around. Aden was doubled over, arms braced on the table, head hanging down between hunched  shoulders. She was at his side in an instant, her hand on his arm to steady him. 

           “I think your decision’s made, vod. Let’s find a hotel and let me patch you up.”

          Something wicked in his eyes glinted through the pain. “Are you propositioning me, ma'am?” 

           “Uh….no.” Jesse gave him her best unimpressed face. 

           “Then what? Are you some kind of doctor?” He snapped. 

           “Yeah. Didn't you see the bag?” She waved her knapsack at him. He glanced at it and shrugged. She followed his gaze, swore, and swatted the flap down. The red and white sigil of the galactic medical core blazed out into the darkness. “I'm a registered field medic.” 

          “A field medic is pretty far removed from the kind of doctor I need.” He said, straightening. 

          Jesse’s face hardened. “You go into any triage hospital on Mandalore and tell me that. I've worked on everything from snotty noses and skinned knees to broken necks and triple amputations. A little back pain is pretty low down on the difficulty scale.” 

          Aden glared at her. She could see he was going to be stubborn. Di’kut. But with a name like “determined” she couldn't really expect him to be easy to push around. “Jesse, I am fine. Pain is part of life.”

“So it doesn’t slow you down?” Jesse put her hands on her hips, eyes blazing. “It doesn’t keep you from sleeping? It doesn’t make you weak? Why do you think that lizard mopped the floor with you?”

She could see him wavering, but whether the prevailing argument came from her or his aches and pains she wasn’t sure. “I can’t pay you.”

So that was it. “Don’t be stupid.” She folded her arms. “I don’t sell that kind of service to vode. Everyone else, yes. But not to brothers.”

He dropped his head, defeated. “Fine. But I’m paying for breakfast.”