Chapter Four: Taking Bets + Part 2

Ragnar had been sleeping when the buzzer went off. No, it wasn't his alarm but the fuel drive indicators he was dangerously low. "L3!!" he shouted heading to the cockpit, "I swear you better have a good excuse for letting us be this close to dead cells or I'll...," and he had to pause seeing that L3 was also shutdown.

"Dang," Ragnar thought, "this really was the cheapest model of flight droid, he hadn't thought to check the fuel cell on the pilot droid he'd bought recently. He cracked open the back and saw that instead of a standard and usually self-recharging cell was one of those temporary ones they put in for showroom models. He'd really have to work on his Jawa... no wonder it was so cheap.

He was by no means a pilot and while that surprised everyone, including himself, he had always thought it easier to hire or buy pilot droids so he could focus on the economies at hand... his true love... smuggling.

Ragnar wasn't the trusting type so he usually hired crew on for the few gigs he didn't think he could handle himself as long as he had a pilot droid. He liked being alone. It was a struggle to get it through atmo of the nearest planet, ignoring all the way what planet that actually was - not that it mattered since he only had enough fuel to get to the one that just so happened to be where he was anyway.

The tower hailed him in and he made a fairly bumpy landing into a dock. He could have kissed the ground had he not seen a pair of men duking it out... one dressed like a Republic solider/pilot of some sort and one like an everyday mechanic.

Never one to lose an opportunity to make a few credits and seeing a few other republic pilots approaching, he stepped in front of them. "Let's keep it one on one boys," he said flexing his muscles. "Taking bets... I'll offer 2:1 on the local against your Republic pilot!"

The droid Heckler, as the meatbags called him, looked up from the programming of the fuel chemistry in response to the new sensor readings. Heckler did quick bios to make sure he wasn't confusing his master's accelerated heart rate to the action of organic reproduction. Once the sensors confirmed it was in fact not organic reproduction seven nanoseconds later, Heckler, now cycling through what protocols that he wasn't locked out of to find the proper response to the act of physical assault against his master.

Heckler turned around, and began to sprint towards the tall and muscled mestbag that had now rendered his master unconscious. His sensors sweep now detailing the new ships arrival and the fifth meatbag exiting it. Heckler recived the new meatbag's vocal vibrations of a gamble and after less than a single nanosecond later Heckler decided on his own audio response as he extended his left arm at the Republic Pilot standing over his master. Heckler lifted the pilot by the neck and applied the amount of pressure to cut off the Republic meatbags breathing. Heckler turned his head toward the gambling meat bag. "Statment: I will see your bet." Then Heckler snapped the pilot's neck, and his code rippled with pleasure as the driod after so long achieved what it's most base programming had been designed for.