Mini.plot - Blog Posts

@lcstpadawan​ // Cal Kestis

nothing substitutes good working parts at the end of the day, but there’s usually enough of that to be found in scraps if you know where to look. and cal did it for years, threw himself into it for so long he almost forgot who he was meant to be. between sabine and bd1, it should be easy enough to figure out a way to communicate with someone in the new republic to come and pick them up, he just needs to be patient, pick out the workable equipment from this mess.

“well then we should be fine.” he says with a smile as they get to work. he doesn’t know sabine but so far she’s been more than helpful, comfortable company to have on a mission - something he’s not necessarily used to, but he’s more than happy for it. he picks apart enough to get some workable equipment, melding some of it together himself and passing others over to sabine when he’s not sure where they could come in handy, chipping away until -

“huh? what’d you find?” he asks, pushing himself up to head over to her. there’s plenty to find here if you actually look for it so he’s not all that surprised. “something that’s gonna help us get home?”

.

Paint was more than familiar to Sabine, something that ran in their family’s history. It could animate narratives and express what words never could, capturing a single moment in time for as long as the paint stood dry. It was functional, a protective layer for any precious metal hidden beneath its touch. The Mandalorian prized themself in recognizing hues and guessing the origin of art supplies just by their appearance, their texture. The markings on this scrap heap, however, were nothing if not foreign to her.

“I’m not sure.” She studied the metal, the scratches on what seemed to once be the hull of a small transport, perhaps a bomber? Or stealth fighter? Whatever it was, it was confusing, an insignia hastily scrawled then abandoned.

"This transport...I’ve never seen any markings like this before. I-I don’t know where they’re from,” she mumbled, searching for any remains of the ship among the wreckage. Not twenty yards away, there it sat, torn to pieces and half-buried. How had the two missed that? Sabine hastily captured images on their datapad, then turned to her new acquaintance. 

“Cal, d’you think this subspace transceiver is salvageable?”