Clank. Clank. Clank.Clementine plodded down lower Providencetown’s broad central street, his big, round feet throwing up a little dust with each fall. He stood off to the side of the road, between the faster speeder traffic and the proper pedestrian walkway, in the lane usually reserved for muscle-powered vehicles and beasts of burden. Several metal kegs, belted firmly together in two sets, were cradled (and magnetically clamped) in his huge, curved loading arms. They rose to either side of the black dome of his single large photoreceptor, which jutted forward of his central chassis on an elongated housing.
This blocked his peripheral vision only a little, a common problem with loadlifters, and occasionally an instinctual warning beep in Binary would go off as a speeder-bike-pulled travois or a early drunk crossed paths with the big droid. Clementine was used to people making way, and so let things take care of themselves. He did offer the occasional “‘scuse me!” “comin’ through!” or even “sorry, buddy,” all delivered in his usual overloud, drawn-out Basic -- the last, in this case, to a disgruntled pack-Blurrg whose toes he had stepped on.
He was coming from the warehouse district near the broken cruiser, where some out-of-town suppliers flew in their goods by ship or speeder under the cover of the better grade of security offered there. He himself didn’t spare much thought for thieves. Despite its reputation, there wasn’t a lot of daylight blaster-point robbery in Providencetown. And besides, if he knew one thing, it was that people weren’t likely to kriff with a droid the size of a small walker. If he knew two, it was that people didn’t kriff with you if you had connections.
Unfortunately, such respect only went so far when it came to parking. Clementine stared at the shiny, modded XP-38 whose owner had placed it carefully out of the way of getting its housing scratched by passing traffic -- and right in the Codpiece’s loading zone. Not that such things were municipally enforced, or anything, but Clementine had laboriously used up several canister of aerosolized red paint marking off an area with red cross-hatching and stenciling a warning in Aurebesh in the middle:
DO NOT BLOCK
VIOLATORS WILL BE LIFTEDWith a sighing of pneumatics, he bent his lower extremities to lay his burden aside, careful not to shake the merchandise. Then, he approached the XP-38 with a considered air, warming up the repulsorlift-assist generators he so rarely used nowadays.
He wasn’t purposefully rough. His ordnance-lifting days were long behind him, but old programming died hard, and it didn’t do to jostle a proton torpedo.
Vikki wrote: "is it always so quiet early on?"
CLANG.But missile casings are also built with rather stronger tolerances than civilian airspeeders, so if the XP-38’s owner had to wonder both if they’d been mistaken where they’d parked and when it had started making that funny noise as it powered up, well, maybe they'd keep an eye out for red paint next time.
Clementine picked up a set of kegs and began easing his way through the loading entrance.