He couldn't have been a much more than 20. A pilot, not a fighter. He probably hadn't even held a pistol before, much less used one. There was sweat on his brow and panic, fear, in his eyes. Gannon had killed many men in the war, but he'd rarely seen their eyes; obscured as they generally were behind the visor of a stormtrooper helmet. This one was different. Gannon could see that he had something to live for. A family, maybe, or a girlfriend. Gannon had nothing to live for and, thus, in this particular contest of life or death, he won—the kid couldn't pull the trigger, and both of them knew it. Gannon simply reached for the blaster pistol, slowly, carefully, and took it from his grasp. There was a long moment of relief, on both sides.

Then, Gannon turned the pistol on the kid and pulled the trigger.

"You should have killed him," said Rahm, the Trandoshan, in his deep and distinct voice. He stood with his brow furrowed and his long, scaly arms folded across his chest as the kid began to rouse himself from unconsciousness some hours later. Rahm wasn't terribly smart, but he was good at what he did; shooting, killing, and complaining. It wasn't hard to guess his profession, either, with a bandolier slung over his shoulder, a blaster at one hip, a knife at the other and, of course, a mean glare.

"No disrespect, Rahm. I love you, but I don't pay you for your advice," Gannon said. He prodded the kid with his boot, gently at first and then more insistently, until he awoke with a start. The kid's eyes were distant for a moment, but then returned to the hangar bay of the Desdemona where he, Gannon, and Rahm stood beside the cargo crates that had been lifted from the kid's ship. "You," Gannon said to him, "caused me all kinds of trouble this afternoon."

"I caused you trouble?" the kid said, incredulous. "You board my ship, steal my cargo and shoot me, and I'm the one who caused you trouble?"

"Sorry about shooting you," Gannon shrugged, "But yes, you caused me trouble. Ruined my day, in fact. It just so happens that I don't like having a blaster pulled on me either. So what I want to know is why? I mean, no offense, but you're not exactly the last action hero, now are you? You should know that pulling a piece on a bunch of dangerous pirates such as ourselves is just going to make us angry."

"If I'm going to die anyway, I'd rather put up a fight. I've heard about what you pirates do, just for money. Like the Ithorian Peace."

Damn Lucian Alliance, Gannon thought to himself, shaking his head. His competitor, Netan, and his pirates ("the Lucian Alliance") were giving piracy a bad name. Well, a worse name than usual. The Ithorian Peace was a passenger liner that the Lucian Alliance hijacked some months ago and killed everyone aboard. Men, women, children. Then Netan picked the corpses clean of valuables, like a vulture. Scum. For Gannon and the Desdemona, it had been nothing but trouble ever since; the New Republic was arming more of its ships, sending them in convoys, using escorts, and even independent pilots like this kid were suddenly more inclined to shoot than cooperate. "We're not the damn Lucian Alliance," Gannon said, a moment later, "and we're not going to kill you."

Rahm cleared his throat conspicuously. Gannon shot him an admonishing glare. "We're not," he reiterated. "You tell your friends, Milo Gannon doesn't kill people unless they're lookin' to kill me. I'm out for credits, pal, not blood. Rahm—" he glanced at the Trandoshan "—we're done here. Get him back on his ship and on his way. And don't kill him."

"I'll try real hard," Rahm said, "But you know sometimes I just can't help myself." He lifted the kid to his feet with his formidable strength and prodded him across the hangar toward where his captured ship was docked, absent its cargo and most of its fuel. Gannon watched them for a few more moments, his hands resting pensively on his hips as he thought to himself. He wasn't sure why this had bothered him so much. Sure, the Lucian Alliance had cost him a lot of credits and a lot of friends, but there was more to it than that. Maybe the kid reminded him of the fresh recruits he used to see during the war. Defiant, full of conviction. But scared. It was one thing being scared of the Empire, but a part of Gannon still wasn't used to the idea of people like those recruits and that kid being scared of him.

He shook his head, turned, and made his way through a door on his way, eventually, to the bridge. On his way there, he encountered Titian, his ever sultry first mate, passing by him in the corridor in the opposite direction. She didn't look at him. "Hey, Tits," he said, stopping abruptly, spinning about on one heel, and trotting to keep up with her, "No hello? I could have used you on this job, you know. What's wrong, too many bad emotions?"

"Hello, Milo," she said, disingenuously, "And as a matter of fact, yes." Titian was a Zeltron, a species that was essentially human except for three, major differences; 1.) Zeltrons had rose colored skin and, typically, red or pink hair, 2.) they had powerful pheromones and 3.) powerful empathetic abilities with which they could sense the emotions of other beings. Zeltrons experienced these emotions as if they were their own, which meant they were eager to be surrounded with pleasure, satisfaction, happiness. The pheromones helped, of course. They were strong enough to make a man, or woman, compliant and open to suggestion—something that came in handy when dealing with other pirates and would have been useful for this afternoon's raid, too.

(( Time to sleep! I'll finish this post tomorrow. ))