His new slugthrower safely concealed under his jacket, Fenrir walks with renewed vigour. The swelling in his knuckles has subsided somewhat, thanks to the antibiotics of the dead doc, but the constant stream of sticky white and yellow fluid from under the spiked implants still has him a bit worried. Well, at least now he could call himself the proud owner of a firearm. Not that he'd really needed one before now, and ammunition was hard to come by, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

A few forlorn figures cross his path here and there, but he lets them go by their business unmolested for a change. He knows full and well that, although he is one of the predators in these hunting grounds, a wounded hunter will draw carrion eaters like a heap of dung draws flies. Instead of stealing from the poor, he decides to call it a day. He was seen up and about, and that's all the folks here need to know until he collects his monthly protection fee.

A few more quick strides put him inside his "family"'s current homestead: an assembly of four large cargo containers grafted together to form a somewhat sizable four-room apartment.

"Honey, I'm home!"

"Shut up, wiseguy. Boss want you. Now."

He flips the back of the retreating Gammorean the bird, rolls his eyes and grabs some Correalian brandy to soothe the ache in his fists and another shot for the one in his throat before he heads towards the back room.

"Sit down, compadre, we have much to discuss."

In compliance with what was not really a request, Fenrir sits down on one of the upturned crates which populate El Capitan's part of the homestead. Sitting across from him is the familiar sight of his employer: squint-eyed and perpetually tanned as always, El Capitan would seem right at home on a farm in some backwater planet. He even has the leathery face and wrinkles of any lower class serf. Still, his gaze is steely as always, despite the wrinkles which are slowly beginning to creep into the corners of his eyes.

Fenrir returns his leader's hard gaze with seemingly stone cold indifference, a look he has practised for quite a large part of his life.

"What's the deal, captain?", he inquires, careful to use El Capitans preferred title.

"I have a little wetwork for you to do, hombré. The boss of the cursed Moshaboyz is out for blood, and I need you to scare him into backing down. We can't afford a war with the piglets, it's bad for profits, so I'm charging you with finding some leverage, cause the bastard is too dumb to get scared by brute force. Clear?"

"Crystal clear, captain. I already got an idea of where to start..."

"Then stop polluting my air, hombré."

"Sir."

With a nod, Fenrir leaves and bumps into Grobold just outside the door.

"Soooo, the boss has work for you, yes?", the Rodian asks nonchalently.

"Yeah, guess you heard the whole deal. You in?"

"Sure, sounds like fun..."

"Read ya, come on."

Fenrir and Grobold head out again.

Damn, I need something to eat right about now...

OOC: lol I'm not sure they speak spanish in the star wars galaxy...just seems a little weird...the language known they speak in star wars is known as galactic basic (which sounds very similar to our English lol)

OOC:Hey, if Jar Jar has a pseudo-jamaican accent...

Don't worry about it, in my criminal masterplan, the boss ain't stayin alive for too long. Either Fenrir usurps him, or the backlash from the other gang explodes in his face. I'm not entirely sure how it'll play out yet, I tend to rely heavily on improvisation anyway :)