Chapter 3 : The Appraiser's Eye
The open-air market on Level 2847 is chaos given physical form.
Vendors shout in a dozen languages. Smoke from cooking stalls mingles with industrial runoff. The crowd is thick—humans, Twi'leks, Rodians, Duros, even a Wookiee bartering over starship parts. Everyone here is armed. Everyone watches everyone else.
Perfect place to disappear. Also perfect place to get killed over five credits.
I keep to the edges, moving through the press of bodies with the paranoia of someone who's been in this galaxy for less than a week. The battered datapad I bought sits heavy in my pocket—200 credits that hurt to spend, but necessary. Can't exactly show potential clients a glowing holographic menu that only I can see.
Jassi's stall occupies a prime corner: real estate means power down here. She's Twi'lek, green-skinned, with the kind of calculating stare that prices your organs while you're still using them. Her "junk" is arranged with deliberate chaos—broken electronics, damaged tools, suspicious tech that probably fell off a Republic transport.
I approach slowly, keeping my hands visible.
"Looking for something specific?" Her Basic has a Rylothian accent, musical and sharp.
"Just browsing."
The Appraisal function activates automatically when I focus on her display. The headache starts immediately—I've already used seven appraisals today. Eight more before I hit the limit.
[ HYDROSPANNER - DAMAGED ]
[ REPAIR: TRIVIAL ]
[ VALUE: 5 CREDITS AS-IS, 25 CREDITS REPAIRED ]
[ SECURITY PASSCARD - COUNTERFEIT ]
[ REPUBLIC FORGERY - MEDIOCRE QUALITY ]
[ DETECTION RATE: 60% ]
[ BLACK MARKET VALUE: 150 CREDITS ]
[ FLAGGED: ILLEGAL ]
The passcard sits between a stack of data chips and a broken scanner. She's buried it deliberately—anyone who spots it knows what they're looking at. Anyone who asks is either stupid or Security.
I pick up a random tool, examine it like I know what I'm doing. "This one's junk."
"Everything's junk. That's why it's cheap."
I point at the passcard without touching it. "That one too?"
Her eyes narrow. Just slightly. But I see it—the calculation, the risk assessment. Her lekku twitch.
"Fifty credits."
The Appraisal function already told me it's worth 150 on the black market. She's testing me. See if I know what I'm holding.
"Thirty."
She laughs. "You're funny. Fifty or walk."
I walk.
Made it ten feet before she calls out: "Forty. But you repair the hydrospanner free."
I turn back. "Deal."
The transaction takes thirty seconds. She's professional—takes my credits, hands over the passcard wrapped in cloth, doesn't ask why I want Republic forgery documentation. The hydrospanner is a gift, technically. I'll fix it tonight and flip it for twenty credits profit.
Small gains. But they add up.
The crowd shifts as I'm leaving the stall. A Duros pushes through—gray skin, red eyes, wearing a blast vest that's seen recent action. He spots me and stops.
"You're the one. The off-world supplier."
Word travels fast in the underworld. Too fast.
"Depends who's asking."
"Someone with five thousand credits and a need for discrete weapons." He gestures toward a quieter corner of the market. "Let's talk business."
We end up in the shadow of a broken cooling tower. The Duros introduces himself as Vex—no surname, because down here, surnames are liabilities. He wants five blaster pistols. Nothing fancy. Standard security-grade weapons for "personal protection."
Which means: criminal enterprise, muscle recruitment, probably planning something violent in the next week.
I pull out my datapad and show him the catalog I prepared—sanitized screenshots of the System's offerings, edited to look like a supplier's inventory list. The M6D pistol is listed at 3,500 credits each. The System's base price is 2,800, so I'm adding 700 credit markup per unit.
Legitimate profit margin. The System won't punish me for that.
Vex examines the images. "UNSC manufacture? Never heard of them."
"Outer Rim supplier. Very discrete."
He doesn't press. In this business, supply chains are sacred secrets. "Three thousand each."
"Thirty-five hundred."
"Thirty-two hundred."
We settle on 3,400 per pistol. 17,000 credits total for five weapons. My profit will be 600 credits per unit after System costs—3,000 total. Not great, but better than negative balance.
"Delivery?" Vex asks.
"Here. One hour."
He raises an eyebrow. "You have them nearby?"
"I have sources."
He transfers 8,500 credits as down payment—half now, half on delivery. I accept and watch him disappear into the market crowd.
Then I find an empty alley and start the painful process of materializing weapons from the Smuggler's Hold.
Each pistol takes thirty seconds to pull through. The headache is worse than Appraisal—like someone's drilling into my skull from the inside. The first one makes me gasp. The second makes me stumble. By the third, I'm on my knees, vision blurring.
The pain is biological cost. The System processes items through my neural pathways—essentially using my brain as a dimensional anchor point. Too much too fast, and I'll cook my own neurons.
[ WARNING: EXCESSIVE SMUGGLER'S HOLD USAGE ]
[ NEURAL TEMPERATURE ELEVATED ]
[ RECOMMEND 10 MINUTE COOLDOWN BETWEEN MATERIALIZATIONS ]
I wait. The alley stinks of chemicals and rust. Somewhere overhead, a speeder's engine whines. The market continues its endless churn fifty feet away.
Ten minutes. Then the fourth pistol. Another ten minutes. Then the fifth.
By the time I finish, an hour has passed and my nose is bleeding. I wipe it with my sleeve and stagger back to the market. Vex is waiting at our agreed meeting point, flanked by two armed associates.
"You look terrible," he observes.
"Rough morning."
I hand over the pistols one at a time. He inspects each one with professional attention—checks the action, tests the weight, examines the ammunition port. His expression shifts from skepticism to approval.
"These are quality. Real off-world manufacture."
He transfers the remaining 8,500 credits. My balance jumps to 18,900 credits—actual wealth, by Lower Levels standards. Enough to rent proper shelter. Buy food that isn't expired rations. Maybe even purchase armor that doesn't have holes in it.
[ TRANSACTION COMPLETE ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 17000 ]
[ STANDARD SERVICE FEE: 1700 CREDITS (10% OF SALE) ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 18900 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 2 ]
Vex and his associates leave without another word. Professional criminals appreciate discretion.
I'm about to do the same when Coruscant Security arrives.
Two officers in gray uniforms, pulse rifles slung casually. They scan the crowd with practiced boredom until their eyes land on me. One of them says something into his comm. They start walking over.
"Shit."
I freeze. Running makes you guilty. Standing still makes you suspicious. There's no good option.
They stop three feet away. The lead officer—human, scarred jaw, dead eyes—pulls up a holographic display.
"You match a person of interest. Off-worlder who sold something to a smuggler named Grax two days before his death. Want to explain that?"
My mouth goes dry. I sold Grax a pistol. I also sold information that got him killed. If Security connects those dots, I'm done.
"I sell ration bars," I say. Voice steady, despite the panic clawing at my chest. "Standard nutrient packs. Grax bought some from me last week."
The officer's expression doesn't change. "Ration bars."
"Yes sir."
"At 1400 hours on the night in question, you were seen in Sector 9. Same sector where Grax was meeting his contacts. Coincidence?"
"I was buying supplies. The market's there. I go where the prices are good."
He's not buying it. I can see the calculation in his eyes—arrest me on suspicion, process me through the system, see what shakes loose. I've got 18,900 credits and no legal identity. I'm exactly the kind of person who disappears into detention and never comes back.
Then Jassi appears.
She pushes through the crowd with the confidence of someone who knows every Security officer by name and bribe amount. "There you are! Told you not to wander off. We've been looking everywhere."
The officers turn to her. She doesn't miss a beat.
"This one's my cousin. Just arrived from Ryloth. Barely speaks Basic. Got lost buying supplies yesterday—I had him haggling with me for hours. Must be when your witness saw him."
The lead officer looks between us. "Your cousin?"
"Unfortunately. Family obligation." She sighs dramatically. "You know how it is."
He studies my face, then Jassi's, then his datapad. The math doesn't work—we look nothing alike. But Jassi's lekku are positioned in a specific pattern, and she's angled her body just so. Some signal I don't understand but the officer does.
He closes his datapad. "Stay out of Sector 9. Next time we won't be so understanding."
They leave.
I stand there, pulse hammering, not quite believing I'm still free. Jassi waits until they're gone before turning to me.
"That's two hundred credits."
"What?"
"Two hundred credits for the lie. You think I vouch for strangers out of kindness?"
[ DEBT REGISTERED: JASSI KREE ]
[ AMOUNT: 200 CREDITS ]
[ FAVOR OWED - INTEREST ACCRUES AT 5% WEEKLY ]
The System tracks debts automatically. Of course it does.
I transfer the credits without argument. She pockets them and leans in close.
"You're new to this. I can tell. Security's looking for someone who supplied Grax. You keep showing your face in markets, they'll figure it out eventually. Get smart or get dead—those are your options down here."
She's right. I've been operating like this is temporary—like I can keep my head down and survive until some miracle happens. But there are no miracles on Coruscant's Lower Levels. Just violence, exploitation, and the slow grind of survival.
I need to disappear. Properly.
That night, I rent the cheapest hab-unit I can find: 200 credits per month for a room barely large enough to lie down in. The walls are thin enough to hear neighbors arguing. The door lock is broken. But it has a roof, running water, and a mattress that probably only has three kinds of disease.
I lie on my back and stare at the cracked ceiling. The System interface hovers in my peripheral vision, pulsing with that eternal blue glow. My balance reads 18,700 credits after Jassi's bribe and the rent. Two sales completed. Appraisal function causing manageable headaches. Neural damage warnings every time I use the Smuggler's Hold too much.
This is my life now. Arms dealer in a galaxy at war. Selling weapons to criminals and revolutionaries. Building profit on top of other people's violence.
I catalog everything I know about the Clone Wars timeline. Geonosis—done. Battle of Christophsis—happening soon, if I remember correctly. Ryloth occupation. Malevolence attacks. Mandalore's civil war. Count Dooku consolidating Separatist forces. Palpatine playing both sides.
Every battle is an opportunity. Every desperate faction is a potential client. The Republic needs weapons. The Separatists need weapons. Criminal syndicates, revolutionary cells, planetary defense forces—everyone needs weapons.
War is the perfect market. Demand is infinite, supply is constrained, and moral considerations are luxuries nobody can afford.
I close my eyes. Tomorrow, I'll start building something more permanent. A client base. A reputation. Maybe even a supply chain that doesn't rely entirely on pulling guns out of dimensional pockets.
For now, I need to sleep. The System can wait.
But even as consciousness fades, I'm thinking about profit margins. Optimal pricing strategies. Which battles will create the most demand. My brain refuses to shut down—it just cycles through calculations endlessly.
Somewhere in the transition between waking and sleeping, I realize something: I haven't thought about my old life in two days. The software engineering job, the apartment, the mundane concerns of a world without blasters and Force users—it already feels distant. Like it happened to someone else.
Maybe it did. That person died in a truck accident. This person woke up in a blood-soaked alley with a System that trades weapons for credits.
Two different people. Two different lives.
The blue interface glow fades as I finally drift off. My last thought is mathematical: two sales down, forty-eight more until the pricing stabilizes. Then the real business can begin.
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