I-M-A-I
Cogsmith of Chaos
A desperate crew. A rival syndicate. A questionable droid. What could possibly go wrong?
The flicker of dying neon lights reflected off a grimy alley on Nar Shaddaa, painting the scene with an eerie blue glow. The smell of oil and desperation hung heavy in the air. At the center of the chaos stood I-M-A-I, its matte black plating blending into the shadows, save for the faint cyan glow of its ocular sensor.
"Well," it said in a tone that could only be described as dryly unimpressed, "it seems I've been hired by the galaxy's least competent crime lord. Again."
Before it stood a motley crew of mercenaries, bounty hunters, and assorted ne'er-do-wells, all armed to the teeth and shouting over each other. The "crime lord" in question—a squat, sweaty Rodian—was frantically waving his blaster around, trying to organize them into something resembling a defense force.
"I-M-A-I!" the Rodian barked, his voice cracking. "They're coming for us! You're supposed to be the genius strategist! Fix this!"
I-M-A-I tilted its head, the red glow of its ocular sensor flaring momentarily as it scanned the horizon. From beyond the alley's edge, the distant rumble of armored boots on duracrete grew louder. Whoever "they" were, they weren't far.
"Fix this?" I-M-A-I echoed, tone flat. "Certainly. Let me just fabricate a miracle from my extensive reserves of misplaced faith in organic competence."
The other mercenaries exchanged nervous glances. A few chuckled nervously. One muttered, "Does it always talk like this?"
"Yes," I-M-A-I replied, its voice sharpening with mock cheer. "And I also save organics like you from imminent doom despite the glaring lack of gratitude."
A blast from the far end of the alley interrupted the moment, and suddenly the group was scrambling. The shadows ahead began to shift as their attackers came into view—heavily armed enforcers of a rival syndicate, backed by a towering KX-series security droid.
I-M-A-I stepped forward, its circuitry flickering an ominous orange.
"Alright, listen up," it said, tone suddenly authoritative. "You've got three options: fight, surrender, or argue among yourselves until you're vaporized. Personally, I find the last one hilarious, but I'll be over here actually solving the problem."
With that, it activated its wrist-mounted blaster and ion disruptor, scanning for weak points in the approaching force.
"Also," it added casually, "if anyone survives, drinks are on the Rodian. Assuming he has credits, which, based on his leadership skills, I highly doubt."