"Is this seriously all I have left?" Cimozjen's eyes flitted across the scant objects on him. Had he know how bad this would be, he would have packed a bag. He had come, as expected with aught but the clothes on his back. Well, he had a bit of pocket lint as well, but that was hardly worth mentioning.
"A Nerf Towel, a banged up Radiation Detector, a standard-issue industrial glowrod, some dice, a fancy ring, a recording rod, somebody's lost keys, a half-empty container of dental floss (evergreen flavor, ew) and a Blastech DL-21." He shook his head. The blaster might be kind of useful. He was used to the heft of a slugthrower, but in a pinch he might be able to make do.
He checked the energy cell of the blaster. It had enough for maybe three shots.
"Well, I am not going to be shooting my way out of this." Still, he knew that Darkhawk wasn't likely to be thrilled if he returned home empty handed. Closing his eyes, the Sith reached out in the Force. When all else failed, he normally had a dream or vision to help guide him. Yet, too much drinking and a late night playing Pazaak with his fellow Rotworms had robbed him of much sleep, and with it the dreams which guided his actions. No, he would have to plumb the Force.
He closed his eyes and focused on the ebbs and flows of the pirate moon. Danger was all around him, yet he tried to focus. He felt a slippery mind which seemed to run counter-current to everyone else around him. He opened his eyes as a cloak-wrapped figure approached him. He might have taken them for a vagrant or a homeless drug addiction, but for the sharp glance in their eyes.
A knife was up before Cimozjen knew what was happening. Up he cracked the towel, snapping it in the face of his attacker. The man's eyes widened in surprise, allowing Cimozjen to raise the blaster.
Time seemed to move in slow motion as the cloaked assailant rounded on him again. He grabbed the glowrod, wielding it like an off-hand lightsaber. Muscle memory took over as he whipped it up and around, clobbering his attacker upside the head.
The man fell like a pile of bricks. He did not protest, he barely moved, as the Sith searched over his person. He had a bottle of booze, the knife was barely suited to cut flimsiplast, and he had only a note on him. He had been promised more booze for dealing with "the chap in the robes." Had this been bad luck, or was this part of the deception?
He didn't have time to worry about all that now though. If the man had been a credible threat, he was certainly not at this moment. Little could be served by rousing him when he had an opening.
He would have to rub. Tossing aside the bottle of cheap booze, Cimozjen paused to consider the rest of the pile of junk. Would he be able to make a run of it before he had to try to make use of the rest of it. Force only knew.