All Sales Are Final

The market is noisy, full of the sounds of peddling, haggling, busking. Through her training, Ngona has learned how to dampen a cacophony of sound using the Force, and she’s grateful for it now: while the chatter is overall cheerful, the combined volume of so many voices would normally overwhelm her before long. Anyway, she needs to focus; there’s one specific thing she’s here to look for, and she doesn’t want to let herself get distracted by trinkets or fruits before she finds an astromech droid.

Though the market is large and sprawling, there does seem to be some semblance of order to its stalls. Ngona finds her way to what generally seems to be the droid district, which seems to have been fairly well picked over already – the market has been open for hours. Nevertheless, the selection of droids seems adequate for her needs. She pauses in front of one stall, then the next, standing just far back enough to avoid awkward engagement with would-be sellers while mentally comparing the prices between the vendors. Near the end of the line, one stall catches her eye; the tent poles are draped with vibrant bunting, and the droids inside are just as colorful – some of the paint jobs look aftermarket.

Ngona ducks into the tent, grateful for the shelter it offers against the sun. The stall owner, a jovial Besalisk, waves at her with three of his hands. The fourth is holding something in his mouth – a smoking apparatus or perhaps a root vegetable; Ngona can’t tell.

“What’re you lookin’ for, friend?” the owner asks, smiling around his cigar or tuber. “I hope it’s a droid, because that’s pretty much all I’ve got. But I do have a lot of those.”

“Ah – an astromech,” Ngona says, tearing her eyes away from what appears to be a huge snake draped lazily over one of the tent’s support beams. “Nothing too fancy. Maybe something purple.”

The owner beams, shuffling to one corner of the stall. “All right…we got a few options here. Maybe a classic R-series droid, those are always reliable.” He pats an R2 unit’s domed head, his prosthetic hand clanking on the metal. “Or I have a Q7 that I just got in,” he adds, gesturing to a spherical droid hanging in a sling from the ceiling to save its repulsorlift charge. “And there’s also, uh, this guy. A T1 model, according to his documentation.” The shopkeeper leans down to move a few boxes, revealing an unusually shaped astromech droid.

Ngona cannot contain her gasp of delight. The droid, awoken from power-saving mode by the daylight touching his huge black sensor, has a slim oval body and a rounded-rectangle head that almost seems to float thanks to its thin connector bars. A rubbery tread wraps around his body. And, best of all, he’s purple.

“I’ll take him,” Ngona says immediately, well aware of her impulsiveness, but also aware that no power in the galaxy can prevent her from walking away without this droid, who is now chirping a melody as he surveys her curiously. The seller seems a little surprised – she can tell he was expecting to have to push the sale a bit more.

“I gotta be honest with ya,” the Besalisk says. “I can’t make any guarantees on this guy. I got him third or fourth hand, you know, not really familiar with his manufacturer. Been tryin’ to sell him for several cycles now, so no returns. But I got his papers, he’s genuine.” He digs around in a folder and produces a crinkled cerfiticate, and Ngona pulls out her credits. The droid is the only one in the stall with a price tag – only a thousand credits – which speaks to the owner’s desperation to offload the unpopular model. Ngona hands over her credits, and the shopkeeper stamps the droid’s certificate and presents it to her.

“One T1-P0 astromech droid,” he says. “And please, stop by next time you come to the market. I love seein’ my droids again after I sell ‘em.”

Ngona smiles and nods, shaking one of the shopkeeper’s hands, and then she turns to walk out of the tent, with a quick look back to make sure her new droid is following.

The afternoon sun is sweltering by the time Ngona gets back to her Delta-7 parked on the outskirts of the town, and she can’t wait to get into the air-conditioned cockpit. First, though, she needs to get her new droid settled in. He’s able to get into the astromech socket easily enough, but once he’s in there, he rattles around considerably – the socket isn’t really made for a droid of his shape. Ngona ponders the issue for a moment before digging around in her spare parts bin and coming out with some hook straps.

“Just this once, and then we’ll get some modifications done so you fit properly,” she promises as she wraps the straps around the droid and secures him carefully in the socket. Satisfied with the fastening method, she tries to hook him into her starship’s nav system, but to no avail – his connector won’t fit into the port.

“It’s okay,” Ngona says quickly as the droid’s chirps tend toward melancholy. “We’ll figure something out, okay? Let’s just get back to the Temple and we’ll go from there.” Reassured, the droid resumes a playful tune. Ngona rubs a smudge off his head with her sleeve. “You’re mine for good, little buddy,” she adds, and he beeps cheerfully.

“I think I’ll name you Tipo,” Ngona continues as she steps onto the wing of her starfighter to get into the cockpit. Judging from the droid’s agreeable beeping, she figures she may not be the first one to call him that; after all, it seems natural, with his designation. She finishes her pre-flight checks, takes off, and heads for home, thanking the Force that she can see Tipo from the cockpit to make sure he’s still there.