Cyborg Junk
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Summary
The guy was in a mechanic's jumpsuit, arms tied around his waist, and a white sleeveless tank streaked with grease. He was Chiss, Zero noted with surprise, his blue skin and red eyes pretty unmistakable. He pulled a stool across the floor toward Zero's pathetic, heaped self, and held out a hand. "Zevowc," he said, in an accent that was neither the standard Phindian drawl nor the clipped speech patterns of the unknown regions. “Found you on the floor of the hangar bay, so I dragged you back here.”
Zero shook his hand awkwardly from his half-curled position on the floor. “Why?”
"Looked like you were in pretty bad shape," Zevowc said, “and near enough machine for me to be some help with that.”
Zero raised his eyebrows, and then realized he couldn’t actually do that without being seen. “Out of the goodness of your heart?”
Zevowc gave him a sardonic look. “Sure, you could say that,” he said, “or you could say I got an appraiser’s eye, and you’re packing about a hundred thousand credits worth of custom work, and I figure you either have cash to throw around yourself, or someone invested enough in you being able to use your legs who will.”