| abstract
| - Bothawui has been suffering for long months now. For over a decade the planet had been subject to a light touch by its Imperial masters - the Federation's government had remained largely intact and continued to run domestic policy though only at the pleasure of the Imperial Moff. All that has changed now - while Bothan Federation Security continues to patrol the streets they stand aside when Imperial Stormtroopers with utter impunity smash down doors and drag families into the streets. Homes ransacked, belongings destroyed and the victims taken away while helpless neighbors look on. Few are seen again and many are only thankful that it is not they and their families the authorities have come for that day. Drev'starn City Starport is one of the busier on the world, but even it has seen a significant down-turn in activity as legitimate traders and smugglers alike begin to avoid the system and Bothan natives struggle to obtain clearance to come and go from their own home world. Where once customs had been a perfunctory experience that made Bothawui a major hub for smuggling traffic, it is now rigorously conducted by men in naval uniforms. "Next!" - a human male, perhaps in his early 30's whose rank bars mark him as a Sub-Lieutenant demands of the queue held behind a red line painted on the duracrete and patrolled by white-shelled troopers. Beckoning fingers summon the green rodian male at its head to the tall kiosk and its blast-rated transparisteel window. "Name, place of origin, occupation and purpose of visit..." he intones with the emphasis of a man looking for something to liven up his day. Zeebo has been waiting in line for some time since his departure from the budget passenger liner that delivered him to this planet. As he is barked at by the uniformed human it takes a moment for him to snap to his senses. "Bex. Zeebo Bex." The Rodian manages to squeak in Basic. "Rodia." He adds to his statement as he eyes the official. "I'm just looking for work." As he speaks he reaches into a pocket to pull out an identity card. A long, exhasperated sigh escapes the officer, whose eyes flick upward from the DataPADD before him and along the alien's snot. His own nose wrinkles in discomfort, pushing a key beside the screen that illuminates a matching reader unit on the public-side of the screen. "Insert your identification into the reader." he directs with all the enthusiasm of a man doing a droid's job. "You're /looking/ for work?" he enquires, twisting a knob on the bulky black-finished unit to scroll through the encoded data. "No offer of a job standing, then? What is it you do..." his lips pursed as he considers addressing the alien with an honorific and the dignity of his name, before deciding otherwise. Zeebo carefully sets the identity card to the reader with his long fingers and swipes it through to be read. "Not yet." He squeaks out as his details are transmitted to the screen. "I'm a hunter. Big game. Small game. Vermin even. Whatever needs to be eliminated." The rodian tries to maintain a polite tone but the long wait in line has left a strained tone in his voice. At last. A victim. The thought is written all over the junior officer's face as his lips curl into a twisted smirk. "What. Is. Your. Profession?" he asks again with patronising enunciation, as if the Rodian were incapable of comprehending basic. "Fraudulent representation to an Imperial official is punishable by two years hard labour, a fine not exceeding five-thousand credits. Or both." Zeebo snout-twitches as he jumps a little before he straightens himself before the officer. "I'm a hunter. Animals if requested. People when needed. I should have an Imperial License on that card permitting me to shoot official targets." He squeaks in a higher tone than previously, somewhat nervously. "Don't I?" The looming eases up, weigh shifting from the officer's knuckles against the desk and returning a hand to the DataPADD as he wheels through the information on the card. When the information is indeed present and correct, his expression sours ever further, the taste for blood in his vindictive little mouth denied on this occassion. Woe betide the next in line. "So you do." he answers through gritted teeth as he opens a drawer to produce a flexiplast form and a stamp as he drones on through the regulations "You are cleared for passage to Category One through Five regions. Category Six and above remain restricted. Your license entitles you to the unconcealed carry of a side-arm and a Class Two rifle or Class One carbine during the pursuit of a warranted fugitive. Be advised that possession of explosives is strictly prohibited and that violation of the regulations under your license will result in its revocation and criminal charges." "Do you understand the conditions under which you are placed?" he asks, the stamp hovering above the form. Zeebo nods vigorously to the official. Fidgeting as he replies, "Yes, intimately." Then after a beat he adds, "Sir." His large eyes shift to the stamp held hovering in the officer's hand. The stamp slams down with every bit of gathered frustration the sub-lieutenant has accumulated and as if he could not be rid of this Rodian any sooner, he slips it through the slot to the hunter. "Your travel papers. Keep them on your person at all times. If lost, report it to the local constabulary immediately. The papers will be invalidated and reissued with a fifty credit surcharge." "NEXT!"
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