The Planet Zeltron
In an urban center
Before Firrerre.
Loud.
Even out in the streets, away from the casinos, the raves, the private clubs where people could just pile up into a mound of twisting, moaning flesh, Zeltros was loud. Traffic sped by, roaring between lanes between the towering buildings around him. The booming sounds of advertisements for clubs, brothels, and bars rang in his ears. He hadn't bothered to rent a hotel room yet, so the only place left to retreat to would be his ship. However, it was in the middle of a renovation, performed by his most loathed mechanical assistants-- Pit Droids.
The bright lights, the smell of smoke from his spice-laced cigarra, the taste that came with it, the burning sensation under his skin. For him, these were familiar feelings, and they helped take the focus away from the booming sound in his ears. Laeonas Tannaras spent most of his free time doing three things-- meditating, drinking, or partying (sometimes, the last two at once.) This world should've been his home away from home, the place he dipped to constantly to indulge in all the behaviors middle class coreward moms detested.
So... why did he feel so out of place?
He'd come here a number of times before, and every single time, he'd loved it. What was better than non-stop partying? What could be more fun than access to the widest number of liquors in the galaxy? Where else could one line up a twi'lek, togruta, and miralian, and sniff spice right off each of th-
The force pulled at him, a warning-- moments before it happened. The honk of a speeder werving onto the side rails he was leaning off. He barely had time to gather the force, throw himself backwards, and slam into a nearbye wall, all in order to avoid the speeder slamming into him. The front slammed into holocinema he'd been loitering outside of, posters for holos like "The Germinator 3" and "Wohn Jick" phasing through the crumpled hood of the speeder. Laeonas, meanwhile, sat sprawled backwards, staring in absolute shock.
The cigarra hung out of his mouth for a few moments, before promptly falling to the wayside. Civilians around him simply glanced at the wreck, and moved past. They had better things to do; credits to be gambled, clubs to be clubbed in, hookers to be hooked up with. All the while, the makeup wearing man was caught halfway between shock, and simply hyperventilating. Close calls with death, sensory overload, spice, drinks, partying-- this was who he was. This was what he was used to.
What the hell was going on?