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Commodore's office aboard the Imperial II-class Star Destroyer Warrior. Rear Admiral Hav Antiel, commodore of the ship, was regaling his R4-series agromech with the story of how he earned his cybernetic hands.
“Let me set the scene for you," said Antiel, waving his brassy Mikar Mechno-hand through the air. He was leaning back in his office chair, boots on his desk, one hand behind his head. The R4 droid tottered nearby.
"Toth, 11 ABY, a bar called 'Thank the Maker it's Taungsday' run by a Hutt-connected Klatooinian named Kithastas. Dude loves three things: spice liquor, money, and b'ssa nuuvu music," Antiel nodded, glancing over at the droid.
"That's why I'm there, you see? I'm 18, fresh from my first year at Dammon University, and feeling myself in a big way. My band, the Pink Banthas, have been playing gigs like this at seedy Wild Space dives; we're barely scraping by, but it's thrilling, you know? You never know if the crowd is going to shoot at you or offer you a record deal, and that's what makes it so exciting." He narrowed his eyes, smirking as elbowed the droid. "Plus, you know, the ladies love a musician."
The R4 unit whistled. Antiel chuckled, sure that the droid had appreciated his cringy camaraderie.
'' WHY ROBOT HANDS '' appeared on the datapad transcribing the droid's mechanical speech.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting there," said Antiel. He leaned back into the chair, shifting his feet on the desk. "We had just finished a particularly great set at Taungsday's when our bass mando player, this really put-together Ithorian guy, runs over and says Kithastas is going to stiff us. I wasn't particularly mad—we'd been stiffed before—but our drummer wasn't having it. Maybe it's 'cause he was a Klatooinian, too, because he was normally a pretty chill dude, especially for a drummer."
The R4 droid groaned and '' PERMISSION TO POWER DOWN '' blinked on the screen.
"Hold on," said Antiel. "I'm getting to the good part."
"Yes, get to the good part, Hav," said a familiar voice. Antiel bolted up in his chair. "Prower?"
On the desk at Antiel's feet, a blue holovid of the Hammer commodore crackled to life. A miniature projection of Admiral Miles Prower sat in his Starfleet uniform, iconic pipe clamped in his jaw. "I can't imagine you called me up to brag about your 'pretty chill drummer,'" Prower laughed.
"Actually, I didn't mean to call you at all," said Antiel, scratching his chin. "Must have butt-dialed you."
"Don't say that around Horus," Prower said. "It's bad enough that you're a rear admiral."
"You're not wrong, Miles," said Antiel. "I'll let you go. I was just telling this droid a story about my college years. That sounds pretty dumb when I say it out loud."
"I would imagine this tale involves those cybernetic digits of yours. I read your last report. I'll stay on to listen if you don't mind."
Antiel shrugged. "OK, cool. Oh, but before I tell you this next part, let me explain why you don't want an Ithorian in charge of the band funds..."
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