“Hey you, ugly dog!”, snorts one of the Gammorian guards, “Get that stupid droid of yers to take a look at this bear here. Teemo will be fuming if it dies, he just paid good money for it. He don’t need no more of them stinking hairy rugs!”
The Gammorians drag the Wookiee into the room and throw him on the worktable.
“Master, I am transporting one of Teemo’s servants. He seems to be malfunctioning.”
Chi-Nath hears a voice in the background, “Am not malf… not broken, just in… ineb… I’m drunk!!”
“Well get back as soon as possible. Bring him with you, he can sleep it off in the workshop. Some of Teemo’s guards are here and require your assistance.”
“Do you hear something?”, Kale starts jerking his head back and forth as he scans the sky. Luckily for him Z3 maintains a grip on his arm to keep him from falling over.
“To avoid further malfunction, I recommend paying more attention to walking.”
“I’m walking just fine. Ouch!!!”, Kale falls flat on his face as Z3 loses his grip. He rolls over onto his back, “Damn straight! I knew I wasn’t imagining that. See right up there, that is a YT-1300 light freighter. Yeah, I know you can’t tell for sure at this distance by looking but if you listen for it you can tell by the sound of the engine.”
When Z3 arrives, he looks the Wookiee over.
“This unit is not in need of mechanical repairs, Master. It is in need of a medical droid.”
“This is a male Wookiee not a unit and yes, he is in need of a medical droid unfortunately from what the Gammorians say you are the closest we have to that right now.”
“Roger, roger.”, there is a pause.
“Well are you going to get to work?”
“Master, I am presently functioning at 99.7% efficiency with respect to factory settings. There is a slight misalignment of my…”
“I meant, are you going to start working on the Wookiee?”
“Yes master, I am working on that problem. I have scanned the planetary notices and there is a medical droid for sale in Mos Eisley which is located 2437 kilometers from here. It could be delivered in 24 hours with express delivery, 2-5 days with regular shipping.”
“And will the patient survive that long?”
He looks towards the patient, “The probability is 5.4% that the unit will still be functional at that time without medical attention.”
“So get to work and fix it… I mean assist the Wookiee with his medical needs.”
The droid’s arms both bend backward at the elbows, hands inserted into the bulky pack riding high on its back. After a moment of whirring and clicking, both arms emerge, bearing a pair of crimping pliers in place of the left hand and a small rotating biscuit joiner saw blade in place of the right. The high pitched whine of the spinning metal saw reaching full speed almost drowns out the low pitched, drug muffled moan from the injured Wookiee.