Post by lion on Nov 17, 2015 0:23:54 GMT -5
Name:
Reksanamuran "Rex"
Race:
Squib
Age:
18
Birthplace:
Bargain, Squib Needle-Ship.
Allegiance:
Squib Merchandising Consortium, Himself.
Status:
Merchant
Rank:
Itinerant merchant/salvager, or as he'd put it: "Big-Time Best Deal Maker, You Bet"
Height/Weight:
3'0, 45lbs
Appearance:
As a Squib, Rex is tiny by human standards, comparable in mass and height to that of a prepubescent child; were it not for the rodent features and dense coat of azure fur, he could pass for one. Large, yellow-blue eyes stare out from either side of the rodent-esque skull, and two tufted ears at the top of the head hint at a strong sense of hearing; each capable of turning to zero-in on sounds regardless of the source. A short muzzle forms the mouth, tapering into a stubby black nose, complete with whiskers
Rex keeps himself fairly well groomed as necessary, though as an adherent to his own culture, he's not what you would call a keen dresser. The less the better, as far as Rex is concerned, as the Squib's fur is not only a good-enough deterrent against cold weather, but acts as a sensitive olfactory organ; the more of it exposed, the more sensitive to the environment he becomes. Of course, that doesn't mean the young man will walk around naked, or at least, not in company; depending on the task, Rex can be found in as little as a belted loincloth and sandals, all the way up to a full environment suit to handle hard-vac scrapping operations.
A common theme in the Squib's attire, however, is functionality and storage; it's gotta have a purpose and it's gotta have a lot of pockets. After all, when you make your living buying and selling whatever you get your hands on, it helps to carry as much of it as you can; hands only have limited space.
Personality:
Loud, crude, unabashed and proud; Rex is as Squib as they come and has no shame in tooting his own horn, as the saying goes, when it comes to talking with others. The young man's grip of Basic might not be the best, but the message is far from hard to misconstrue when he talks; Rex has a super-high view of himself, you bet, and you'd best-smart want to be his friend, no worries.
Since Squib culture leans so heavily on bartering and bargaining on practically anything, including one's own offspring, Rex is unashamed to make an offer on something he wants, regardless of whether or not it's available. A Jedi's lightsaber is just as for sale as a vendor's wares, for example, it's merely a question of finding the right price; if they're offended, well, clearly it was too low an asking point and negotiations will continue. Often persistent to the point of annoyance, Rex doesn't know when to quit pressing a subject, especially when it comes to bartering, often using annoyance as a tool to help cave his opposition into seeing his way. Oddly enough, this love of bartering is something of a weakness to the young Squib just as much as a cornerstone of his personality; deprive him of the opportunity to bargain for any length of time, and Rex will become morose.
A creature of habits and vices, Rex isn't above indulgences now and then, and often a quick way to gain the Squib's trust is with a drink. The harder, the better; he won't drink on the job, but with a droid to fly his ship and slow days every now and then, it's not hard to envision the blue-furred rodent getting a little too under the influence. When drunk, Rex becomes all the more boastful, touting the natural and obvious superiority of the Squib over others, but likewise he becomes more friendly.
Despite an energetic attitude and a penchant for being a haggling fiend, Rex is far from a thief; Squibs are honest in their deals, and Rex would take insult from such an accusation. He has never outright stolen anything, merely that he's made several bargains that may or may not have favoured him more than the opposing party. But then, that's hardly theft, right? Whilst Rex does his best to ensure the equipment he sells isn't faulty, he likewise sees it as the buyer's responsibility to make sure it's what they actually want. Sure, that droid motivator might work, it might not; it's up to you if you buy it or not, in his eyes.
A curious man, like all of his kind, Rex can come across as forward and 'grabby-handed', and seemingly not too bothered to respect boundaries placed by others. Naturally inquisitive, he won't hesitate to ask questions about something that draws his interest, but don't mistake his questions for ignorance; the Squib is far from an idiot, and is quick to know when he's being conned.
When it comes to fighting, Rex does his best to stay out of it and keep one step ahead of situations that may bring harm to him, preferring to run, barter or bluff his way out of a fight where possible. When he cannot escape conflict, however, Rex will fall back on desperation tactics and improvisation, trying to make an opportunity to flee; he will kill only as a last resort. Fortunately, however, the situations that Rex finds himself in aren't so severe, but there are certainly those in the galaxy enough that favour 'aggressive negotiations' enough to warrant armed bargaining on occasion; leaving the Squib to carry a sidearm for protection.
Aware of his limitations in height and stature, it's not uncommon to see Rex standing atop his trusty T1 utility droid when bartering, using the flat top of the machine's head as a platform to practically double his height.
Ships/Vehicles:
Squib Scout-Freighter, Big Deal.
Equipment:
(General Gear):
Fusion-Cutter.
Welding Goggles.
Hand Flood-light.
Hydrospanner.
Screwdrivers.
Compact Welding Rod.
Droid Repair Kit.
Datapad.
Commlink.
Garbage Grabber (handheld)
(Weapons):
Bolt-Action Scatter-gun.
(Droid):
T1-45, T1 series utility droid. (Cobbled together from replacement parts.)
(Other/Big Salvage Gear):
Space Suit and Harness
Squib Boarding Cutter
Garbage Grabber Tether Gun/Grappling Hook.
Stats: (Feeble, Below Average, Average, Above Average, Superior, Legendary)
Strength - Feeble
Agility - Average
Intelligence - Average
Charisma - Above Average
Combat Training: (Unskilled, Novice, Apprentice, Adept, Expert, Master)
Marksmanship (Pistol): Unskilled*
Rex knows about as much in the art of marksmanship as you'd expect someone who's never fired a blaster to know. Other point, shoot and reload, the Squib knows nothing; he carries a very highly (and poorly) modified bolt-action scattergun only on the rare occasion he ever needs to defend himself. If nothing else, it's more for show.
Other Training: (Unskilled, Novice, Apprentice, Adept, Expert, Master)
Bartering/Bargaining: Expert
Tinkering: Adept
Appraisal: Adept
Welding/Cutting Metal: Adept
Ship Repair/Engineering: Adept
Droid Repair: Apprentice
Linguistics (Basic): Novice
Linguistics (Squibbish): Fluent
Biography:
The son of two salvage-collectors aboard the needle-ship Bargain, Reksanamuran's birth was nothing special or indeed noteworthy; not only was he not the only Squib to be born on a ship or indeed even the Bargain, but he wasn't even the only child born on the ship at that time; birth on-vessel was a common trait among the Squib to the point that facilities were put in place aboard the salvage-ships to accommodate. Infancy aboard a salvage vessel was, as one would expect, far from easy; often Rex did not see his parents owing to collection runs, but amid the twenty-deep Squib crew, there was always at least one or two adults around to supervise the youths and make sure they didn't get into places they shouldn't.
Then again, there weren't many places that weren't exactly off limits, either; especially with the knowledge that by birth, each Squib fuzzling held position among the Squib Merchandising Consortium. Whilst some children might have spent their infancy in cots, doted over by their parents or nursing droids and playing in playgrounds, Rex spent his early childhood playing quite literally in trash with fellow fuzzlings; supervision extended to the limits of not allowing the children to come to harm, but the natural curiosity inherent in the youths was to be actively encouraged.
The same, surprisingly, went for life at home; despite living in an apartment nestled within Metrobig City, life was not without its trash and clutter. After all, a planet of merchants trying to buy and sell one another's belongings, and even each other, often meant a large amount of junk was simply kept as a sign of status or as an inventory to barter off later. Nothing was sacred; it wasn't unreasonable for one to barter even their own offspring; at the age of two, Rex found himself surprisingly changing parents in exchange for three new droids.
His new parents, Rex never really learned their names; he'd been told several times but simply used 'Ma' and 'Pa' to refer to either of them, failing to commit the lengthy monikers of his 'adoptive' parents to memory. Ma and Pa, much like the Ma and Pa that had preceded them, were salvagers; every few months, Rex would find himself taken aboard a ship and flung into out space in search of new finds, only to return months later and do it all again.
Rex might very well have spent more than two thirds of his nine years of fuzzling-hood with his feet not upon solid ground, but instead upon the bulkheads and walkways of a needle-ship. Education was hands on, simple, and unrefined; you learned by doing and what you did was learn to salvage. Numbers, literacy, life-skills, it all revered back to salvage and the sale thereof of shiny objects; what was good was to be found out and appraised properly, what was junk was to either be tossed or kept for other projects.
Playtime consisted of similar lessons; bartering pretend with other kids and even older Squibs, or learning how to use the tools that would later become as much a part of him as his ears, nose and eyes; as simple as spot-welding bits of sheet metal together all the way up to learning how to wire simple circuits. Friendships were made but died off just as quickly as families shifted about from ship to ship, place to place; you rarely met the same kids more than once. There were always people around to talk to, of course, and to learn from; merely that none were around long enough to really attach to, leaving Rex to develop something of a curious social stance in his older years.
By any other species' standards, it could have been considered horrible.
At the age of nine years old, Rex took a step towards maturity, shedding his youth-fuzz and stepping into the role of a young adult. Responsibilities, for the first time in his life, fell upon his narrow shoulders; aboard the vessel Freebie Rex received his first assignment. Gone were the days of playing around onboard the ship, he was one of the big guys now, responsible for the collection and junk, operating one of the ten tractor beams aboard the bridge to haul in salvage for teams to assess.
And boy, anyone who said space was a big empty void was dead wrong. Good hauls weren't hard to find, even on the short-range missions, as there was nearly always something along the heavier-used trade routes that had been either jettisoned or simply abandoned by others. Wreckage of ships was likewise fair game; derelicts were just as good as abandoned cargo as far as salvage was concerned, and for the Merchandising Consortium, one source of creds was as good as another.
For four years, Rex continued to serve; changing roles from a beam-operator to hull-repair, to inventory-officer all the way to becoming part of the EV salvage team. Instead of sitting behind a computer terminal, calculating vectors and power input or staring at manifolds, the Squib instead had the thrilling role of leaping into a space-suit and out into wild space with little more than a tether to help tow him back. Armed with a bulky plasma cutter, the EV crews were responsible for helping to carve up the larger salvage finds; cutting holes into the hulks of wrecked ships that couldn't be outright stored in search of valuables that could, and cutting off sections of hull that could at least be taken down to their component parts and used elsewhere.
The work was dangerous, but the pay was good; there were few twelve-year olds in the galaxy that had more creds to their name than Reksanamuran, that was for sure! Granted, most of that went back to the Consortium for licencing rights, tool re-purchasing and general costs of living, but the regular income was still more than welcome enough to keep going with the work.
At the age of fifteen, however, Rex's hard work would pay off in the form of an offer. The Consortium made its money not in collecting scrap, but selling it, and that required traveling merchants; those who could take the goods across the galaxy and present it to those would pay top money. It was far less dangerous work than salvage, and far more lucrative for those who could turn the trade to their favour; Rex would be given a ship all his own and the good name of the Consortium, and a hefty thirty-five percent of each sale to use how he saw fit.
Of course, blinded by the prospect of riches, Rex jumped at the opportunity, and with a scouting freighter Big Deal awarded to him by the Consortium, along with a fully-furbished T1-series droid to plot courses and a full hold of various items to trade, was sent on his way out into the stars. Training in the form of holotapes helped to hone the young man's skill with words; how to properly speak during a deal and how to learn Basic, all vital skills to help the facilitation of sales.
For about a year traveling up and down the Rimma Trade Route and along the galactic space-lanes, all seemed well. It wasn't until the age of sixteen, however, that Rex had come to realise he had been screwed harder than a hull-plate to fuselage; the Consortium's cut wasn't the only fees they took. Regular payments ,regardless of sales, practically bent the Squib backward trying to stay afloat when sales were low; the same causes that no-doubt had led to several merchants before him having simply decided to pack it in.
No wonder the position had been vacant to some no-name scrapper. The bout of stress-induced depression that followed sent Rex hard to the bottle as a means of coping, quickly turning the occasional celebratory drink into the metaphorical safety blanket.
Eventually defiant, however, Rex decided to take the matter into his own hands, after a hit of inspiration struck him somewhere between Ryloth and Nal Hutta, after a fairly grotesque alcohol-fuelled moping session. Separating his funds, the Squib opened a private account with the Muun-owned Banking Clan and quickly stashed half of what credits he had left as something of a safety net; something to fall back on that was all his own.
In time, funneled funds to his private account were enough to not only buy up some salvage gear of his own, but served as a 'float-fund' enough to buy and sell wares of his own, operating a quiet side-business to that of the usual salvage-and-scrap ware the Consortium employed him to sell.
In the short span of two years, Rex managed not only to avoid debt, but actually resume a positive inflow of credits. Whilst not overtly wealthy, the Squib manages his money carefully enough; in time the eighteen year old has intentions to buy the Big Deal outright and venture out on his own.
Roleplay Sample:
"I don't care what you think you're entitled to, you will pay the docking fee before landing your vessel."
The digitized voice, scratchy and filled with auditory artifacts to the point of almost outright incomprehension, filled the cockpit like a miasmic fog, blanketing the small chamber in its presence. Bouncing from the greasy, dirty metallic surfaces of the cockpit, the voice seemed to echo for just a moment, reverberating from the walls of the vessel as speech into a tin, as it faded into silence once more.
The vessel had seen better days; the banks of aging computers bearing more scorch-pockmarks than a dingy cantina tabletop, lined with near burned out laser exciters and discarded LED globes barely registering activity. Thick, bulbous knots of metal stood out along each panel, creating broad seam-lines that ran alongside the solid rivet-joins and bolts holding the metallic planes together; blatant 'welding scars' joining steel sheets together without care for aesthetically-pleasing results.
The clumsily cobbled-together framework of the computer banks would have seemed out of place on any other vessel, and might very well have even been the first complaint of any passenger aboard it, if it weren't for the entire ship also bearing similar worksmanship. Bulkheads of multiple metallic substances held the ship together, fused by any means necessary be it welded, nailed, screwed, bolted and in some cases even taped down.
Among spacers, the insult of 'pile of junk' to refer to a ship had been around perhaps as long as the concept of space travel, but rarely was the epithet ever worn as a badge of pride, and likewise had it rarely ever rang true than it could have right then and there, as the Squib-owned Big Deal idled above Coruscant, escorted in from the outer reaches of the planet's orbit by a towing tug. At the helm, sat in the ripped-up cushioning of what had once been the ejector-couch of a Republic Starfighter, still scorch-marked with the laser fire that had no doubt killed its last pilot, was the proud captain.
Blue fur, a meter or so in height, rodent-esque in apperance and as scruffy looking as a newborn nerf rolled in dirt and engine grease; it could have been a dictionary image for the definition of Squib, as the agitated looking Reksanamuran reached for the commlink activation stud; formerly a fizzyglug-bottle cap, bent and worn to near rust over time and neglect.
"Hey! Hope you're not backing out of very much-serious deal you made, space control man! I said you send tow-ship in, I give you good deal on sale; you sent tow ship. That sounds like make-agreement, you bet!" Barked the minute voice; a high-toned barrage of words that could have choked a Givin for the sheer quantity of air being used up. Atop Rex's head, the tapered ears flicked in slight annoyance, threatening to flick the fishing cap turned makeshift 'captain's hat' from its precarious perch atop his head.
"The fee is non-negotiable, sir; the tow vessel was sent to ensure your safety. Would you rather speak to my supervisor?" Replied the electronic voice; still barely indistinguishable from static but nevertheless the sheer exasperation from the operator on the other end of the comms line was as clear as day. If Rex was the caricature of a Squib, then that voice alone was the exact quote of 'I hate my job'.
"Visor? You want a visor now? I have plenty-good a-okay visors here, see lots of things. Infer-red, ultra-purple, very koovy. I land, you come look at super-good visors; fair deal."
"This is your last warni-..."
"Ooh, maybe tractor-ship wants in, too. Traffic man, put tractor ship through. Tow-ship, you want super-visors too?"
"We're prepared to use fo-"
"Force? No force here; got force-field generator though? Doesn't work, but that's quick fix, less than day tinkering. Cheap price. I land, you come look."
"Oh for the love of..." Muttered the operator; growing all the more weary-voiced by the moment, as a sudden pause lingered through the speakers. Silence dominated the cockpit of the 'Deal, leaving Rex to shift slightly against the cushion of his seat and stare off into the middle distance. There, just beyond the obscuring view of the navicomputer, was Corustant; the big city-planet that could have put even Metrobig City to shame for size; so many people coming and going that it could've made one's head spin.
"Alright, you hard-bargain, space-man; I pay fee now, you come look at gear, maybe buy nice parts. Can maybe forget you tried to use backward-words tricks on me." Rex offered, after a few more minutes of hushed silence, finally relenting. The traffic controller did certainly hold all the cards; with a tow-ship nearby and control of the ports, the little Squib could only barter for so much if he wanted to land. Since the fees weren't going to go away either way, it was better to simply get it out of the way and try to make it back in selling wares, rather than risk being sent onward to the next planet to try again. "But; you send tow ship to tractor me in. I waste plenty-good space fuel sitting here, you bet."
Reksanamuran "Rex"
Race:
Squib
Age:
18
Birthplace:
Bargain, Squib Needle-Ship.
Allegiance:
Squib Merchandising Consortium, Himself.
Status:
Merchant
Rank:
Itinerant merchant/salvager, or as he'd put it: "Big-Time Best Deal Maker, You Bet"
Height/Weight:
3'0, 45lbs
Appearance:
As a Squib, Rex is tiny by human standards, comparable in mass and height to that of a prepubescent child; were it not for the rodent features and dense coat of azure fur, he could pass for one. Large, yellow-blue eyes stare out from either side of the rodent-esque skull, and two tufted ears at the top of the head hint at a strong sense of hearing; each capable of turning to zero-in on sounds regardless of the source. A short muzzle forms the mouth, tapering into a stubby black nose, complete with whiskers
Rex keeps himself fairly well groomed as necessary, though as an adherent to his own culture, he's not what you would call a keen dresser. The less the better, as far as Rex is concerned, as the Squib's fur is not only a good-enough deterrent against cold weather, but acts as a sensitive olfactory organ; the more of it exposed, the more sensitive to the environment he becomes. Of course, that doesn't mean the young man will walk around naked, or at least, not in company; depending on the task, Rex can be found in as little as a belted loincloth and sandals, all the way up to a full environment suit to handle hard-vac scrapping operations.
A common theme in the Squib's attire, however, is functionality and storage; it's gotta have a purpose and it's gotta have a lot of pockets. After all, when you make your living buying and selling whatever you get your hands on, it helps to carry as much of it as you can; hands only have limited space.
Personality:
Loud, crude, unabashed and proud; Rex is as Squib as they come and has no shame in tooting his own horn, as the saying goes, when it comes to talking with others. The young man's grip of Basic might not be the best, but the message is far from hard to misconstrue when he talks; Rex has a super-high view of himself, you bet, and you'd best-smart want to be his friend, no worries.
Since Squib culture leans so heavily on bartering and bargaining on practically anything, including one's own offspring, Rex is unashamed to make an offer on something he wants, regardless of whether or not it's available. A Jedi's lightsaber is just as for sale as a vendor's wares, for example, it's merely a question of finding the right price; if they're offended, well, clearly it was too low an asking point and negotiations will continue. Often persistent to the point of annoyance, Rex doesn't know when to quit pressing a subject, especially when it comes to bartering, often using annoyance as a tool to help cave his opposition into seeing his way. Oddly enough, this love of bartering is something of a weakness to the young Squib just as much as a cornerstone of his personality; deprive him of the opportunity to bargain for any length of time, and Rex will become morose.
A creature of habits and vices, Rex isn't above indulgences now and then, and often a quick way to gain the Squib's trust is with a drink. The harder, the better; he won't drink on the job, but with a droid to fly his ship and slow days every now and then, it's not hard to envision the blue-furred rodent getting a little too under the influence. When drunk, Rex becomes all the more boastful, touting the natural and obvious superiority of the Squib over others, but likewise he becomes more friendly.
Despite an energetic attitude and a penchant for being a haggling fiend, Rex is far from a thief; Squibs are honest in their deals, and Rex would take insult from such an accusation. He has never outright stolen anything, merely that he's made several bargains that may or may not have favoured him more than the opposing party. But then, that's hardly theft, right? Whilst Rex does his best to ensure the equipment he sells isn't faulty, he likewise sees it as the buyer's responsibility to make sure it's what they actually want. Sure, that droid motivator might work, it might not; it's up to you if you buy it or not, in his eyes.
A curious man, like all of his kind, Rex can come across as forward and 'grabby-handed', and seemingly not too bothered to respect boundaries placed by others. Naturally inquisitive, he won't hesitate to ask questions about something that draws his interest, but don't mistake his questions for ignorance; the Squib is far from an idiot, and is quick to know when he's being conned.
When it comes to fighting, Rex does his best to stay out of it and keep one step ahead of situations that may bring harm to him, preferring to run, barter or bluff his way out of a fight where possible. When he cannot escape conflict, however, Rex will fall back on desperation tactics and improvisation, trying to make an opportunity to flee; he will kill only as a last resort. Fortunately, however, the situations that Rex finds himself in aren't so severe, but there are certainly those in the galaxy enough that favour 'aggressive negotiations' enough to warrant armed bargaining on occasion; leaving the Squib to carry a sidearm for protection.
Aware of his limitations in height and stature, it's not uncommon to see Rex standing atop his trusty T1 utility droid when bartering, using the flat top of the machine's head as a platform to practically double his height.
Ships/Vehicles:
Squib Scout-Freighter, Big Deal.
Equipment:
(General Gear):
Fusion-Cutter.
Welding Goggles.
Hand Flood-light.
Hydrospanner.
Screwdrivers.
Compact Welding Rod.
Droid Repair Kit.
Datapad.
Commlink.
Garbage Grabber (handheld)
(Weapons):
Bolt-Action Scatter-gun.
(Droid):
T1-45, T1 series utility droid. (Cobbled together from replacement parts.)
(Other/Big Salvage Gear):
Space Suit and Harness
Squib Boarding Cutter
Garbage Grabber Tether Gun/Grappling Hook.
Stats: (Feeble, Below Average, Average, Above Average, Superior, Legendary)
Strength - Feeble
Agility - Average
Intelligence - Average
Charisma - Above Average
Combat Training: (Unskilled, Novice, Apprentice, Adept, Expert, Master)
Marksmanship (Pistol): Unskilled*
Rex knows about as much in the art of marksmanship as you'd expect someone who's never fired a blaster to know. Other point, shoot and reload, the Squib knows nothing; he carries a very highly (and poorly) modified bolt-action scattergun only on the rare occasion he ever needs to defend himself. If nothing else, it's more for show.
Other Training: (Unskilled, Novice, Apprentice, Adept, Expert, Master)
Bartering/Bargaining: Expert
Tinkering: Adept
Appraisal: Adept
Welding/Cutting Metal: Adept
Ship Repair/Engineering: Adept
Droid Repair: Apprentice
Linguistics (Basic): Novice
Linguistics (Squibbish): Fluent
Biography:
The son of two salvage-collectors aboard the needle-ship Bargain, Reksanamuran's birth was nothing special or indeed noteworthy; not only was he not the only Squib to be born on a ship or indeed even the Bargain, but he wasn't even the only child born on the ship at that time; birth on-vessel was a common trait among the Squib to the point that facilities were put in place aboard the salvage-ships to accommodate. Infancy aboard a salvage vessel was, as one would expect, far from easy; often Rex did not see his parents owing to collection runs, but amid the twenty-deep Squib crew, there was always at least one or two adults around to supervise the youths and make sure they didn't get into places they shouldn't.
Then again, there weren't many places that weren't exactly off limits, either; especially with the knowledge that by birth, each Squib fuzzling held position among the Squib Merchandising Consortium. Whilst some children might have spent their infancy in cots, doted over by their parents or nursing droids and playing in playgrounds, Rex spent his early childhood playing quite literally in trash with fellow fuzzlings; supervision extended to the limits of not allowing the children to come to harm, but the natural curiosity inherent in the youths was to be actively encouraged.
The same, surprisingly, went for life at home; despite living in an apartment nestled within Metrobig City, life was not without its trash and clutter. After all, a planet of merchants trying to buy and sell one another's belongings, and even each other, often meant a large amount of junk was simply kept as a sign of status or as an inventory to barter off later. Nothing was sacred; it wasn't unreasonable for one to barter even their own offspring; at the age of two, Rex found himself surprisingly changing parents in exchange for three new droids.
His new parents, Rex never really learned their names; he'd been told several times but simply used 'Ma' and 'Pa' to refer to either of them, failing to commit the lengthy monikers of his 'adoptive' parents to memory. Ma and Pa, much like the Ma and Pa that had preceded them, were salvagers; every few months, Rex would find himself taken aboard a ship and flung into out space in search of new finds, only to return months later and do it all again.
Rex might very well have spent more than two thirds of his nine years of fuzzling-hood with his feet not upon solid ground, but instead upon the bulkheads and walkways of a needle-ship. Education was hands on, simple, and unrefined; you learned by doing and what you did was learn to salvage. Numbers, literacy, life-skills, it all revered back to salvage and the sale thereof of shiny objects; what was good was to be found out and appraised properly, what was junk was to either be tossed or kept for other projects.
Playtime consisted of similar lessons; bartering pretend with other kids and even older Squibs, or learning how to use the tools that would later become as much a part of him as his ears, nose and eyes; as simple as spot-welding bits of sheet metal together all the way up to learning how to wire simple circuits. Friendships were made but died off just as quickly as families shifted about from ship to ship, place to place; you rarely met the same kids more than once. There were always people around to talk to, of course, and to learn from; merely that none were around long enough to really attach to, leaving Rex to develop something of a curious social stance in his older years.
By any other species' standards, it could have been considered horrible.
At the age of nine years old, Rex took a step towards maturity, shedding his youth-fuzz and stepping into the role of a young adult. Responsibilities, for the first time in his life, fell upon his narrow shoulders; aboard the vessel Freebie Rex received his first assignment. Gone were the days of playing around onboard the ship, he was one of the big guys now, responsible for the collection and junk, operating one of the ten tractor beams aboard the bridge to haul in salvage for teams to assess.
And boy, anyone who said space was a big empty void was dead wrong. Good hauls weren't hard to find, even on the short-range missions, as there was nearly always something along the heavier-used trade routes that had been either jettisoned or simply abandoned by others. Wreckage of ships was likewise fair game; derelicts were just as good as abandoned cargo as far as salvage was concerned, and for the Merchandising Consortium, one source of creds was as good as another.
For four years, Rex continued to serve; changing roles from a beam-operator to hull-repair, to inventory-officer all the way to becoming part of the EV salvage team. Instead of sitting behind a computer terminal, calculating vectors and power input or staring at manifolds, the Squib instead had the thrilling role of leaping into a space-suit and out into wild space with little more than a tether to help tow him back. Armed with a bulky plasma cutter, the EV crews were responsible for helping to carve up the larger salvage finds; cutting holes into the hulks of wrecked ships that couldn't be outright stored in search of valuables that could, and cutting off sections of hull that could at least be taken down to their component parts and used elsewhere.
The work was dangerous, but the pay was good; there were few twelve-year olds in the galaxy that had more creds to their name than Reksanamuran, that was for sure! Granted, most of that went back to the Consortium for licencing rights, tool re-purchasing and general costs of living, but the regular income was still more than welcome enough to keep going with the work.
At the age of fifteen, however, Rex's hard work would pay off in the form of an offer. The Consortium made its money not in collecting scrap, but selling it, and that required traveling merchants; those who could take the goods across the galaxy and present it to those would pay top money. It was far less dangerous work than salvage, and far more lucrative for those who could turn the trade to their favour; Rex would be given a ship all his own and the good name of the Consortium, and a hefty thirty-five percent of each sale to use how he saw fit.
Of course, blinded by the prospect of riches, Rex jumped at the opportunity, and with a scouting freighter Big Deal awarded to him by the Consortium, along with a fully-furbished T1-series droid to plot courses and a full hold of various items to trade, was sent on his way out into the stars. Training in the form of holotapes helped to hone the young man's skill with words; how to properly speak during a deal and how to learn Basic, all vital skills to help the facilitation of sales.
For about a year traveling up and down the Rimma Trade Route and along the galactic space-lanes, all seemed well. It wasn't until the age of sixteen, however, that Rex had come to realise he had been screwed harder than a hull-plate to fuselage; the Consortium's cut wasn't the only fees they took. Regular payments ,regardless of sales, practically bent the Squib backward trying to stay afloat when sales were low; the same causes that no-doubt had led to several merchants before him having simply decided to pack it in.
No wonder the position had been vacant to some no-name scrapper. The bout of stress-induced depression that followed sent Rex hard to the bottle as a means of coping, quickly turning the occasional celebratory drink into the metaphorical safety blanket.
Eventually defiant, however, Rex decided to take the matter into his own hands, after a hit of inspiration struck him somewhere between Ryloth and Nal Hutta, after a fairly grotesque alcohol-fuelled moping session. Separating his funds, the Squib opened a private account with the Muun-owned Banking Clan and quickly stashed half of what credits he had left as something of a safety net; something to fall back on that was all his own.
In time, funneled funds to his private account were enough to not only buy up some salvage gear of his own, but served as a 'float-fund' enough to buy and sell wares of his own, operating a quiet side-business to that of the usual salvage-and-scrap ware the Consortium employed him to sell.
In the short span of two years, Rex managed not only to avoid debt, but actually resume a positive inflow of credits. Whilst not overtly wealthy, the Squib manages his money carefully enough; in time the eighteen year old has intentions to buy the Big Deal outright and venture out on his own.
Roleplay Sample:
"I don't care what you think you're entitled to, you will pay the docking fee before landing your vessel."
The digitized voice, scratchy and filled with auditory artifacts to the point of almost outright incomprehension, filled the cockpit like a miasmic fog, blanketing the small chamber in its presence. Bouncing from the greasy, dirty metallic surfaces of the cockpit, the voice seemed to echo for just a moment, reverberating from the walls of the vessel as speech into a tin, as it faded into silence once more.
The vessel had seen better days; the banks of aging computers bearing more scorch-pockmarks than a dingy cantina tabletop, lined with near burned out laser exciters and discarded LED globes barely registering activity. Thick, bulbous knots of metal stood out along each panel, creating broad seam-lines that ran alongside the solid rivet-joins and bolts holding the metallic planes together; blatant 'welding scars' joining steel sheets together without care for aesthetically-pleasing results.
The clumsily cobbled-together framework of the computer banks would have seemed out of place on any other vessel, and might very well have even been the first complaint of any passenger aboard it, if it weren't for the entire ship also bearing similar worksmanship. Bulkheads of multiple metallic substances held the ship together, fused by any means necessary be it welded, nailed, screwed, bolted and in some cases even taped down.
Among spacers, the insult of 'pile of junk' to refer to a ship had been around perhaps as long as the concept of space travel, but rarely was the epithet ever worn as a badge of pride, and likewise had it rarely ever rang true than it could have right then and there, as the Squib-owned Big Deal idled above Coruscant, escorted in from the outer reaches of the planet's orbit by a towing tug. At the helm, sat in the ripped-up cushioning of what had once been the ejector-couch of a Republic Starfighter, still scorch-marked with the laser fire that had no doubt killed its last pilot, was the proud captain.
Blue fur, a meter or so in height, rodent-esque in apperance and as scruffy looking as a newborn nerf rolled in dirt and engine grease; it could have been a dictionary image for the definition of Squib, as the agitated looking Reksanamuran reached for the commlink activation stud; formerly a fizzyglug-bottle cap, bent and worn to near rust over time and neglect.
"Hey! Hope you're not backing out of very much-serious deal you made, space control man! I said you send tow-ship in, I give you good deal on sale; you sent tow ship. That sounds like make-agreement, you bet!" Barked the minute voice; a high-toned barrage of words that could have choked a Givin for the sheer quantity of air being used up. Atop Rex's head, the tapered ears flicked in slight annoyance, threatening to flick the fishing cap turned makeshift 'captain's hat' from its precarious perch atop his head.
"The fee is non-negotiable, sir; the tow vessel was sent to ensure your safety. Would you rather speak to my supervisor?" Replied the electronic voice; still barely indistinguishable from static but nevertheless the sheer exasperation from the operator on the other end of the comms line was as clear as day. If Rex was the caricature of a Squib, then that voice alone was the exact quote of 'I hate my job'.
"Visor? You want a visor now? I have plenty-good a-okay visors here, see lots of things. Infer-red, ultra-purple, very koovy. I land, you come look at super-good visors; fair deal."
"This is your last warni-..."
"Ooh, maybe tractor-ship wants in, too. Traffic man, put tractor ship through. Tow-ship, you want super-visors too?"
"We're prepared to use fo-"
"Force? No force here; got force-field generator though? Doesn't work, but that's quick fix, less than day tinkering. Cheap price. I land, you come look."
"Oh for the love of..." Muttered the operator; growing all the more weary-voiced by the moment, as a sudden pause lingered through the speakers. Silence dominated the cockpit of the 'Deal, leaving Rex to shift slightly against the cushion of his seat and stare off into the middle distance. There, just beyond the obscuring view of the navicomputer, was Corustant; the big city-planet that could have put even Metrobig City to shame for size; so many people coming and going that it could've made one's head spin.
"Alright, you hard-bargain, space-man; I pay fee now, you come look at gear, maybe buy nice parts. Can maybe forget you tried to use backward-words tricks on me." Rex offered, after a few more minutes of hushed silence, finally relenting. The traffic controller did certainly hold all the cards; with a tow-ship nearby and control of the ports, the little Squib could only barter for so much if he wanted to land. Since the fees weren't going to go away either way, it was better to simply get it out of the way and try to make it back in selling wares, rather than risk being sent onward to the next planet to try again. "But; you send tow ship to tractor me in. I waste plenty-good space fuel sitting here, you bet."
