What a Load of... Cargo?

Amos grunted, muscles straining underneath his shirt as he heaved another of the heavy crates from the crenelated stack that lined one full wall of the Astral Queen's cargo bay, and lugged it with a scowl across the few feet that separated its current location from the cargo elevator. The pile that had grown there was haphazard at best, and certainly wouldn't have conformed with Jaden Luka's totalitarian health and safety obsession. But Jaden wasn't here, and couldn't critique; off gallavanting with Rogue Squadron, or somesuch. Hell, his droid Trip wasn't even here to nag him as a surrogate; he'd gone AWOL back on Cloud City, his transponder totally off the grid, and Amos' efforts at recovery had gone fruitless.

Not that the stubby little droid could have done much to help moving boxes; not unless Amos managed to balance them atop his pancake of a head, anyway.

The container was one of the number he'd picked up on Cloud City in the hopes of selling it elsewhere. The Supply Officer aboard the Valiant had kindly offered to take it off his hands at a fair price. Unfortunately, he hadn't arranged for any personnel to help with offloading the cargo, unlike the suppliers back on Bespin; just designated a zone in the landing bay where he could leave it, so that it would be collected on logistics' next sweep.

One last grunt of effort deposited the crate with a thud atop the rest. The stack shifted unsteadily; Amos sidestepped, pressing his hip against the latest crate to keep it balanced. "Okay, hit the lift -"

He stopped himself, half-way. No one was there to activate the controls on the cargo elevator for him; no droid, no pilot; no one. It was just him, alone, rattling around the galaxy on someone else's ship. He sighed, and fumbled atop one of the other containers, grabbing the remote that he'd left there for exactly this reason. Aiming it towards the control pad on the wall, he jammed a thumb into the symbolled key that represented down and, with a metallic clunk as the magnetic locks disengaged, a mechanical whine as the servos kicked in, and a disconcerting groan from some other component that he'd no doubt need to fix in a few lightyears time, the floor beneath him slowly descended, opening a hole in the belly of the ship and allowing the landing bay air - chilled by the vacuum of space that was only a magnetic shield away from sucking out all of the ship's oxygen - to rush up at him, ruffling his clothes and peeling at the patches where sweat had plastered them to his back.

And there waiting, but not waiting for the one coming down the lift, or anyone else for that matter, was Cleo, staring out past the barrier into the vastness of space. It was a fun thing to do, watching the other ships float like bloated bodies. Cleo couldn't help but wonder if a person would look like that when the inky blackness was done with them, or if they scrunched up all horrid. It was a vacuum after all.

She wasn't supposed to be on board whatever ship she was on, but really, all things considered, Cleo wasn't really supposed to be anywhere. The Wheel was filled with fun goings and comings from one ship to another so when she'd tagged along on one of the smaller vessels no one really thought much of it. Most of the pilots had come to know her by sight, if not speech and most knew the girl was relatively harmless. They also knew she only really answered to 'Captain Barty Hennin-in-in-gah' on the Knightfall, and if he wasn't looking, she was off wandering.

Cleo didn't bother looking behind her when the lift came to a halt to see if anyone was there. It was an assumption made, maybe a good one, maybe one that was affected by other things. She hoped it was, maybe that meant she really did belong. Either way, if she ended up talking at herself, that was okay too.

"They all look lik'a buncha bloated ol rottin bordoks with glow flies all settin up camp round 'em dun they? Nah like ships at all. K so maybe metal bordoks, but that dun make a lot of sense does it? Why would a bordok be made of somethin like tha? Canna say for sure..."

She took a pause from the wondering and finally looked over her shoulder. For a moment she looked utterly confused and then nodded in agreement with whatever she'd come to a conclusion with.

"They wouldn't go an fittin in any of those boxes either, ya know?"

ACK. Delete, plz!

Amos didn't have a clue who the midget creature a few paces away was talking to. He'd noticed it as soon as it had come into view; had taken a few moments to ascertain that it was a she, human-ish, and unarmed; and had then paid it no further heed. Her scruffy clothes didn't look remotely like an Alliance uniform, so the chance of him barking orders in her direction and expecting some kind of assistance; instead, he resigned himself to carry out the arduous task of unloading the containers, one by one, and all by his lonesome.

That she started talking came as a surprise, and a somewhat confusing one. There was no one else around, so in all likelihood, he was the target of her vocalisations; yet, she had not turned to look in his direction, so presumably had no way of identifying him. Either she was talking to no one; talking to him, specifically because he was the only sentient within earshot; or somehow knew enough to work out who he was without a visual. If the latter was the case, his natural suspicion would have been intel or law enforcement, but he was forced to remind himself where he was, and what cargo in particular all these ships were carrying. He shuddered a little, at the prospect of having his aura violated.

Since he was the apparent target, he supposed that he should pay some sort of attention to her words. He immediately wished he hadn't, finding himself instantly tasked with the thought-consuming task of deciphering her rambling tirade. What a bordok was, he couldn't be entirely sure, though apparently she assumed that he would know. That one could rot and be beset with glow flies suggested some kind of animal creature; thus, her conclusion that one would not be made of metal seemed logical. Unless, of course, it was some kind of replica, or artistic rendering of one of the creatures. He almost said as much, but stopped himself, adopting the attitude that had saved him a good many times in the past: ignore it, and it might go away.

Unfortunately, she chose that moment to turn around and ask him a direct question. He froze, like a womp rat in headlights, staring fixated at the oncoming doom of the repulsorlift speeder of her query. "Uh -" His mind stumbled for something - anything - to say. He frowned. "I, uh - I suppose not."

It only took his replying to her for Cleo to spin around to actually face the man she was talking to. It seemed then that she actually realized he hadn't just wandered there like she had. He actually had a purpose and that seemed to befuddle her. She bit her bottom lip, not a ton, it didn't even hurt. She let herself sway to one side and then the next and finally let her shoulder lead a gesture at the boxes.

"Sa urhm....where ya takin alla that stuff? Seems lik'a lot fer ya to be go anna handlin alla it by yaself..."

Amos narrowed his eyes, peering across the bay. He gestured along his line of sight. "See that red square on the deck plates over there? Gotta move all this stuff from here to there."

He grunted, heaving the unstable container from the top of his tower. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if - if she was a Jedi - she could weave some of that magic the old stories spoke of; shift the boxes around the bay with the power of their mind, or something like that. Then again, maybe it was rude to ask a Jedi to use their powers for something so trivial; they were meant to be guardians of peace and justice after all. Or maybe this wasn't a Jedi, and she'd just think he was weird for asking.

With a sigh then, he hefted the container up into his arms, and trudged the fourty or so paces to where he needed to be. His arms howled in protest as he set the crate down; dispair tugged at his mind at the prospect of lugging more containers in the same fashion.

Then inspiration struck. "Say, kid;" he called, as he began the return trip. "Think you could find me a repulsor sled; make this job a little easier?"

Cleo had to take a few minutes, just a few, to lean towards the red square. It left her wondering why that sort of thing always had to be red. It was a good color, oh yes, that was for sure. But it was always red. Why couldn't it be pink? Or lime green? Or that icky color of yellow that actually hurt the eyes as it started tinging towards greenish and somehow got all the more violent to look at. She was still utterly lost in reverie when the big guy spoke up again which caused the leaning to end with the colors. They went together and if you couldn't have one...

"A whatsit? OH! One of them...moveythingies. Urhmmmmm...dun think there is one abouts. Kinna all silly ta nah go an have one since this is a place where people go 'bouts movin all kinna things. Gotta try an place a complai...complan...argu'ment with tha higher ups, yeah?"

She paused for a moment, letting the gears go and turn in her head to try and move along off her current course of thinking that had her wondering where exactly one could find those in charge of this particular ship and then it dawned on her again as to exactly what the guy was asking for.

"Uhh...you wan' help? 'M not real strong like, nah like you, but I can help just bouts as good as anybody else."

"Uh -"

Amos hesitated, halting mid motion to regard the tiny, midget runt of a child with more scrutiny. Her admission of 'not real strong like' was hardly an understatement; it wouldn't have surprised Amos if beneath her numerous layers of clothes and rags, her physique was barely larger than the skeleton that supported it. Even so, help was help, he supposed.

"Yeah, sure," he said eventually gesturing towards the far side of the cargo lift. "The unmarked containers aren't so heavy, uh -" Another pause, this time accompanied by a frown, as he dragged a large container clear of the cargo elevator to find better purchase on the handles. He dropped into a crouch, aiming his eyes in her direction. "What's your name, kid?"

"Me? 'm Cleo."

A few quick steps were taken, well more like scampered over to the set of boxes. Felt good to move quick, she hadn't been able to do so in a long time. Ships didn't give a lot of room for any good runnabouts. Felt even better to come to that fun sudden halt where your feet stopped moving and the rest of your body kept wanting to go on like it knew better.

She couldn't help but wiggle her toes inside of her shoes, just a little, as much as she could manage, as she thought everything over.

"Anna....who migh' you be?"

Seemed only right to ask that question in response to the one he'd gone and asked. Fair was fair and name for a name and all. As she waited for his answer she scooped up one of the smaller boxes, one that probably could have been held easily in two hands, but she clutched it to her like it was something overly valuable.

"Amos," the man grunted, heaving another container up into his arms. "Amos Iakona."

He halted for a moment, watching as Cléo clutched her lightweight cargo to her chest. Once again, he felt that tug of mild amusement; the same one that had sparked in his stomach when he'd encountered that blonde kid back on Bespin. He guessed it was some paternal instinct sparking in him, and supposed that should probably make him uncomfortable, but he shrugged it off. It wasn't that the sensation didn't bother him: he did. Fortunately, he was totally convinced that before long, the kid would manage to frustrate him enough to blow his patience out of the water, and the universe would be back to normal.

Lugging the crate across the bay, Amos followed in the footsteps of Cléo, who seemed to be moving painfully slowly, to avoid dropping the container she'd been assigned - which, given that the box contained a few bottles of particularly pricy alcohol, he was greatful for. As soon as the container was shed however, her movement turned into an enthusiastic scamper, rushing back to grab the next box. Amos sighed and shook his head, dumping down the crate of blaster packs in the designated zone.

Clapping his hands together to wipe off a little of the sweaty moisture, he scratched at his beard, and frowned. "So," he said, curiosity getting the better of him; forced to increase his volume a little to be heard over the distance. "What's a kid like you doing on a middle-of-nowhere convoy like this?" He hesitated, reluctantly. "Are you one of those... you know -" He winced. "- Jedi?"

First thing that went on through her mind with his name was that he was no fun. No fun at all. Didn't make with any fancy titles or phrases or anything to make it so he had a good nickname. Everyone had to have a good nickname, it was just about the only law of the universe she'd go and make any sort of attempt to follow.

That sort of thought almost caused her to stop and forget all about the boxes...except there was another smaller one that had a funny sort of shape to it. As she picked it up and began examining the thing the guy went and asked a question again, which she did manage to hear despite the whole internal dialogue regarding how one would create a box that well...wasn't a cube.

"Well 'Mos-'Mos..." The "A" in his name didn't sound right to her. "Firs'ly, 'm nah a kid. 'M a grown-up just like every one else roun' 'ere. Age says so, 'least on most planet-type-places...the funny ones dun count."

Giving in that the box' shape would always be a mystery she began to walk, even slightly skip, back to where they were placing the others...after all, wasn't nice to hold onto the box too long...might get lonely.

"An' inna secon' place... 'm no Jedi. Leas' nah yet. Though Da said iffin I was right proper smart-like I wouldn't go bouts tryin to ever be one since they jus' go an cause a'lotta trouble-bits."

The odd-shaped box was set down with an overuse of care and she put her hands on her hips before looking back to Amos, regardless of whatever he was in the process of moving.

"But...he was all kinna wrong ya know? Aint trouble-causers. Aint trouble-do-ers neither. Jus' kinna hopin they can go 'bouts solvin problems I gots anna maybe then I can go and help solve prob lems other peoples gots. Seems all well and good and shiny, yeah?"

Whatever planet this Cléo had come from, they apparently didn't have schools. Or rather, if they did, she'd clearly flunked out of Basic class, if her total non-comprehension of the rules of grammar were anything to go by. So okay, Amos wasn't exactly a novellist; but you didn't need to take notes and spend time deciphering every damn sentence he said.

With a low grumble, Amos heaved up one of the heavier containers, and lugged it across the bay to the increasing pile for Rebel consumption. He double-took when his eyes focussed on Cléo, standing much closer than he'd realised and directly in his path, apparently looking expectantly at him, awaiting some kind of answer. He frowned, not really having paid attention to what she'd been saying; his biceps grumbled a protest at him having stopped, extending the time they needed to carry the weighty container.

"Uhh -" he mumbled, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "- yes?"

"Ai ya..." Cleo let out a small huff of frustration before moving out of the man's way. "Yer jus' like alla tha res' uvum."

It was a cross between a glare and a pout that she gave him as Mos-Mos went and moved the crate to where he seemed to think it needed to go, but Cleo still wasn't so sure.

"Keel-ee calleya ku kah, peedunky. Though' you'd go anna be betters. Lookeded like it, but nah, jus' pickin on mez li' everabodie else."

Her hands came to her hips and she tried to make herself look as imposing as possible, which wasn't an easy thing but Cleo went for it anyway.

"You kin go anna move tha resta the boxes all on yer onsies." A sharp nod of her head and another huff followed.