Jabba and the Union
The break room was buzzing with chatter as the bounty hunters shuffled in, still in their worn combat gear, stained with the grime of distant worlds. The cracked leather couches sagged under their weight as they discussed the latest news circulating through the palace: job reclassifications. A change was coming, and for the first time in ages, it seemed like management might actually care about them.
“Can you believe it?” muttered Brakk, a grizzled Rodian whose ship’s engine growled louder than a Wookiee when it was low on fuel. “General transporters. No more chasing after slippery targets, no more dealing with bounties who think they can talk their way out of a stun bolt.”
His companion, a hulking Trandoshan named Sskel, nodded thoughtfully. “I heard it means steadier work. Less wear on ships, maybe some actual fuel stipends.” His voice carried a flicker of hope, one that had been missing from their conversations for months.
Across the room, a trio of younger bounty hunters, still new enough to believe in camaraderie, excitedly whispered among themselves. Their union’s presence had emboldened them, even if communication from the organizers was sporadic at best. The whispers promised that better pay and conditions were just around the corner, and the hunters were hungry for change.
“Finally, management’s listening to us,” said one of the newer recruits, her lekku twitching with excitement. “Reclassification might be their way of showing they’re taking our needs into account.”
Little did they know, Jabba had other reasons for the sudden generosity. Watching from her private viewing chamber, she monitored her workforce with that same calculating expression, still baffled by the lack of loyalty despite her many “checks and balances.” The reclassification wasn’t just a gesture—it was a strategic maneuver, advised by Salacious B. Crumb, who now held a dubious title as “morale consultant.” Rebranding bounty hunters as transporters? It was a masterstroke of cost-cutting, and it would keep the union just placated enough not to revolt.
The Gamorrean, now training liaison extraordinaire, huffed into the break room, tight uniform straining as she balanced a datapad in one hand and her favorite stylus in the other. “Hunters, or should I say, transporters! Exciting times, eh?” she snorted, eyes scanning for signs of dissent.
Brakk leaned back, exhaling a long, relieved sigh. “Look at that, Sskel. Maybe we’ll finally get some credits to spare for more than just fuel and bandages.”
The room was filled with a tentative sense of optimism as the day wore on. Murmurs about pay increases floated around, bolstered by a leaked message about step raises tied to years of service. Sskel caught the scent of hope and ran with it. “You hear that, Brakk? All these years in the service, we’ll be getting more than pocket change soon.”
But the air shifted as the day drew to a close. A sharp message pinged into their inboxes—a union update marked URGENT. Brakk opened his datapad, brows furrowing as he read the announcement aloud.
“To all members: recent negotiations have secured step raises based on years of service for all active bounty hunters.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Confused glances were exchanged, hopeful expressions dimming. Sskel’s eyes darted to the Gamorrean liaison, who looked up with mild annoyance.
“But we’re not bounty hunters anymore,” whispered one of the younger recruits, voice barely more than a breath.
The realization swept through the room like a cold wind. The reclassification had stripped them of their eligibility for the new pay structure. Jabba’s plan was cunning in its simplicity: rebrand them as something new, sidestep the union’s negotiations, and keep costs low without breaking any deals on paper.
Brakk slammed his fist on the table, the datapad shaking under his hand. “So this is it, huh? All those promises, and we’re left with nothing but new titles.”
The Gamorrean liaison raised her head, confusion and a hint of embarrassment crossing her features. “I… didn’t know,” she admitted quietly.
But it didn’t matter now. The hunters knew the game had been played, and they’d been outmaneuvered. The optimism evaporated, replaced by the same weary resignation that had settled in the cracks of the old leather couches long ago.