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Night Of The Lepi

Story and Illustration by: DankeDonuts

https://dankedonuts.sofurry.com/

The Works doesn't care if the pretty folk sitting in their sparkling towers on the other side of the world want to call themselves the masters of a Republic, an Empire, a New this or a First that. Coruscant is always hungry, and the Works is its mouth. It eats endlessly. Metals. Rocks. Woods. Sands. Gasses. People. More raw resources than some planets can produce in a year disappear down its gullet every day. I should know. I'm one of the many who sort and shovels its meals.

Even down here, in the Five-Tens, you can feel it chewing. A regular pulse that moves through all of you at once and then back out, like a rush of blood that isn't timed to your heart. They say folk with better ears than mine can hear the planet's teeth grinding away, even down here. Maybe I could too, once. The sound-dampening helmets they give us at work aren't exactly top of the line for humans, and I have to make custom models from them. Whoever the boss contracts their gear from, no one ever thought they'd have to accommodate forty-centimeter high ears.

I step into Olmoch's, and the cantina's sonic shields reduce the gnawing to something I can almost ignore. The juke-droid, sitting on a little platform in one corner playing some kind of blues, helps a little more. But still, the chewing is there. The Works plodding away against starvation.

The walls are blue-grey and dingy. Bare of paint in some spaces. Not a bad match for my fur. The place smells like the factory where I work half of every day away. I don't care which table I sit at, so long as I can get off my feet. There's a spot along the back, an empty seat next to a Gungan. I make the bare minimum effort to hand-signal for the House Special on the way.

The Gungan tips his glass toward me, slightly. I nod, slightly, and sit. He's drinking some of the same stuff I'm about to down, so she probably just got off her shift, too. Wherever that is. I don't ask. We don't say anything. He looks tired. I feel tired. I just want to feel like a Lepi again and then go home to my holos.

The bartender's kid, a pink-skinned boy with three eyes and even more ears, comes over with my drink. It's only a step or two up from speeder fuel, but it cleans you out. From the nose on. Just bringing the blackish brew to my mouth is enough to set my whiskers twitching and send harsh fumes up into my nose. I set the rim of the cup between my lower lip and buck-teeth, then jog my head back. I can barely taste anything by the burn. Which washes away a layer of dust from my tongue and the roof of my mouth. The rebreathers they give us are pretty good, but still.

A second sip down, and I can start to smell the cantina. It smells like it needs to be washed, but it's waiting for a reason to go through the effort. A third sip, and I can taste what I'm drinking. Nothing much to say about that. The House Special does what it needs to, and little else.

The place is pretty full. Fifty or more. Usually is. There's always a shift letting out somewhere around here. There's a blaster rifle above the bar, but I've never seen old Olmoch use it. Everyone who comes here is tired. Trouble would be too much work for too little reward. Conversations, what there are of them, are usually of low volume. Nothing ever changes here. I like that. I know what I'm getting when I walk in.

The music from the juke-droid suddenly stops.

I look over to the platform. The droid clumsily side-steps to one edge on its thick legs. A woman is stepping up onto it. She's dressed in all the wrong things. Too gaudy, too clean. A flashy body-glove, dark red decked out with coils and stars of pale gold. Shimmering metallic cloth wrapped over her chest and forearms. I've never seen any alien like this before. With bright blue hair and horns on the side of her head. Lavender-white skin with dark purple spots all across her shoulders, and up the neck and sides of her head. A painted face that smiles politely as a hover-mic floats up from behind her.

I look to the Gungan. He shrugs, slightly. I look to the Bar. The Gran is simply washing a cup. Olmoch hired someone to sing? Must be a holiday, somewhere.

I look back to the woman. She addresses the house through that flying amplifier. "Nzuri jioni, wote. Jina langu ni porsha kwai, na mwenyeji wa aina yako ameniwezesha kukuvutia." I can't understand a word of it, but at least it isn't Huttese. And she placed a hand on herself when she said 'Porsha Kwai.' I can take a hint. She turns to the droid, which apparently can make sense of her, because it starts up an upbeat collection of strings, horns, keys, and snares.

"Mahali pokuna muziki,

Jinsi ya kukata tamaa,

Mahali pokuna binguni,

Jinsi ya joo m'wangaa!"

Her voice fills the room effortlessly. Starting in the middle of what tones I'd expect a female can do. But switching around from high to low notes with ease, and carrying them out as long as she pleased.

"Ukosefu ni m'wanga joo,

Wakai upendo haupo,

Hadi wakati unakuja,

Kwamba unipenda hiyvo!"

She leaves the platform, walking among the barflies. Her steps keep the rhythm of her song, and invite others to start moving their legs in time with her. She stops at a table seating four Twi'Leks. Hips swaying, she focuses her act on the green one with black stripes in his head-tails.

"Mahali pokuna muziki,

Inatoka kwa wipali,"

Now she's singing for a yellow-haired human woman.

"Mahali pokuna inguini,

Junsi karibu aw mali!"

Her eye moves to our table, mine and the Gungan's. I still have no idea what she's saying. But she's singing it only to me!

"Usiku giza utawaka,

Ikiwa ulikuja kwangaa,"

Moving on, she reaches for, but doesn't quite touch, a short Saurin on her way back to where she started.

"Moyo wangu unasubiri,

Jinsi ya joo m'wangaa!"

Her arms raise slowly to the ceiling and suddenly drop. It's over so soon? No, it isn't! After a swell of music from the droid, she repeats her performance. This time with even more vigor, even more movement through the crowd. At least I think she's repeating. Yes, those are exactly the words she gave to me! Only now, they are meant for a foot-taping Rodian. This time around, the music fades, and so do her voice.

You bet your ass I applaud Porsha Kwai! We all do!

The lady gifts us with another seven songs, and many more folk with her personal attention, before her time is done. Olmoch bleats that he's only paying out for so much. He shuts down any protest from the floor by pointing to his blaster rifle on the wall. She makes several indecipherable thank yous, heavy on the bows, and steps down from the platform. The droid switches itself back on. Working solo once more.

When the entertainer comes around, bag in her hand for tips, I find a coin for her. The Gungan doubles my contribution. He smiles at me, and I at him. Time to go home.

It's a long walk to my apartment. Up six levels and across half a kilometer of city walkways. But I hike it happy, for the first time in I don't know how long.