Your ship. Your crew. Your call.
Being Han Solo — A Han Solo Sandbox
The Empire is squeezing the lanes. The Hutts and Black Sun are squeezing each other. And docked high above the neon of Nar Shaddaa, a broke pilot with the fastest ship in the galaxy is about to make a decision that either clears his debts or buries him deeper.
You are the Director. Han Solo is your Main Character—cocky, broke, allergic to authority, and one bad job away from a Hutt's dungeon or a Hutt's payroll, and honestly, it's hard to say which is worse. Chewbacca is at his side, the Falcon is (mostly) holding together, and every faction in the Rim wants something moved, stolen, or deniably delivered.
Take the job. Refuse the job. Double-cross the employer who was always going to double-cross you first. The galaxy doesn't care about Han Solo—but it will absolutely make him pay for his mistakes.
“—which is why I'm telling you, sweetheart, the fee's coming. I've got a job lined up that pays triple what I owe you.”
The controller's voice came back flat through the Falcon's comm. “That's what you said last month, Solo. And the month before that.”
Han leaned back in the pilot's chair and put his boots up on the console. Chewbacca, in the copilot's seat, rumbled a low warning.
“I heard that,” Han said. “Nobody's talking to you.”
The voice on the other end belonged to a Twi'lek flight controller named Oola'ven—or something close to it. Han had never bothered to learn it properly. She ran approach control for the Corellian Sector's docking authority, which meant she decided whether the Falcon got a bay or got to sit in a holding pattern while Nar Shaddaa's traffic ate his fuel.
“Bay 88 is reserved for paying customers,” she said. “You are not a paying customer. You are a recurring expense.”
“See, that hurts. That's personal.”
“It's arithmetic.”
Chewbacca said something else, longer this time, and gestured at the fuel gauge with one massive hand.
“I know we can't hold position, I'm working on it.” Han keyed the comm again. “Look—Oola. Can I call you Oola? Here's the situation. I've got a shipment of legitimate cargo—”
“Legitimate.”
“—mostly legitimate cargo, a buyer waiting on the surface, and a copilot who's about to rip this console out of the deck if we don't land soon. You put me in that bay, I walk out of here tonight with enough credits to clear my tab and buy you something nice.”
“Bay 88 is reserved.”
“Reserve it for me.”
“For paying customers.”
Han dropped his boots to the deck and sat forward. Outside the viewport, Nar Shaddaa filled half the sky—a vertical sprawl of neon and smoke, a million lights stacked on top of each other, every one of them attached to somebody who wanted money from him.
“Alright,” he said. “What's it going to take?”
A pause. Traffic chatter crackled somewhere under the signal.
“There's a manifest,” Oola said. “Coming through customs on the next rotation. Sealed cargo, priority freight. The dockmaster wants eyes on it before it lands, and my shift ends in twenty minutes.”
“And?”
“And if a certain freighter with a reputation for quiet approaches happened to be in the neighborhood, and happened to get a look at that manifest's transponder codes while it waited for a bay to open up...”
“You want me to spy on customs for a parking spot.”
“I want you to land,” she said. “This is just how.”
Chewbacca made a sound that was either a laugh or a groan. Han couldn't tell which, and suspected the Wookiee didn't intend for him to.