The outcast has been watching the dunes for a few hours now. He's seen his people and their rivals travel across it but not crossing paths. They're careful not to. They prefer a war of proxies these days. Despite their inexhaustible energy, they've grown tired of fighting each other directly.
The sun murders his skin. Even those who have never been the victim of a Jawa attack wear the traditional attire at this point, but the outcast was certainly attacked. It was a long time ago. Jawas wear their robes for the same reasons. Such a horrible conflict. What's the point? He knows all too well, but he can still ask the question.
Some years ago one side or the other contracted a would-be galactic tyrant with too many resources for some assistance. The relationship proved to be the impetus for an empire. The details bore the outcast, but they're there for anyone to see, if they'd bother. Except nobody bothers with Tatooine. Why would they? Only the Hutts, but the Hutts have no scruples. Such are the conditions that breed nothing but corruptive opportunity.
There's an old hermit the outcast knows about. Every now and then he gives the hermit a helping hand. What could it hurt? Today the hermit's young friend seems to have run into some trouble and needs a speedy escape. The outcast is once again happy to oblige. He's got nothing but time on his hands.
Some day peace will come to this world. Well, maybe.