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[OOC: This thread will be the first chronological step for my character Vernon, where he begins as a fugitive on Nar Shaddaa. I thought it could be a good opportunity for any Republica or Bounty Hunter characters to attempt to hunt him down, or other characters to help him. I want to disable death in this thread though since it is literally his first step.]
Somewhere on Nar Shaddaa...
Nar Shaddaa was a place of a trillion eyes. They said any man could come here to get lost, but what happened when your face was being shown all over the holonet? projecting on bulletin boards, playing on the news in the centre square, or in cantinas like this one… Vernon hid beneath the folds of his chaperon, letting the cloth obscure his face while he leaned over his drink, looking like a common drunk, watching the Imperial bounty play on the holoprojector in the corner of the bar. Conspiracy, murder, treason—all true.
It was getting too dangerous. He disappeared (he thought) deep into the lower levels of the city moon but even here—especially here, probably—his crime followed him on every wall. He chain-smoked from the long, thin pipe which extended from a compartment in the armrest in order to shroud his booth.
A way off. A way off. A way off. He looked at the clientele in the bar. He would be a fool to look for help here; easier to take him to the Republica in an instant than harbor a fugitive. He needed to blend in with the refugees, but that would be the first place they were looking. His old commander would be gone by now… safe and hopefully far away. For a moment he flashed back to the refugees on the freighter he had been on. He was gunning them all down. There was a wound in him, he could feel it. The roar of the bar dulled in his ears like submerging beneath water.
He had to get out. He had to go further down, down into the slums, to the damned floor of the moon if he needed, somewhere away from his own face. He made a brisk pace across the cantina, paid for his drinks, and left out the front door into a swarm of tattered ponchos, moving through the crowd away from any eyes that met his, casually or intentionally.
Somewhere on Nar Shaddaa...
Nar Shaddaa was a place of a trillion eyes. They said any man could come here to get lost, but what happened when your face was being shown all over the holonet? projecting on bulletin boards, playing on the news in the centre square, or in cantinas like this one… Vernon hid beneath the folds of his chaperon, letting the cloth obscure his face while he leaned over his drink, looking like a common drunk, watching the Imperial bounty play on the holoprojector in the corner of the bar. Conspiracy, murder, treason—all true.
It was getting too dangerous. He disappeared (he thought) deep into the lower levels of the city moon but even here—especially here, probably—his crime followed him on every wall. He chain-smoked from the long, thin pipe which extended from a compartment in the armrest in order to shroud his booth.
A way off. A way off. A way off. He looked at the clientele in the bar. He would be a fool to look for help here; easier to take him to the Republica in an instant than harbor a fugitive. He needed to blend in with the refugees, but that would be the first place they were looking. His old commander would be gone by now… safe and hopefully far away. For a moment he flashed back to the refugees on the freighter he had been on. He was gunning them all down. There was a wound in him, he could feel it. The roar of the bar dulled in his ears like submerging beneath water.
He had to get out. He had to go further down, down into the slums, to the damned floor of the moon if he needed, somewhere away from his own face. He made a brisk pace across the cantina, paid for his drinks, and left out the front door into a swarm of tattered ponchos, moving through the crowd away from any eyes that met his, casually or intentionally.