Core Worlds . . .
Night on Coruscant came and went like nights on other worlds, though some were shorter than others. Cas’ night was definitely a short one. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, nor going to bed, but she did remember meeting a fellow Mandalorian in the cantina.
That one had hardly touched her drink but this one had guzzled it. Fortunately her poison of choice was not beer or wine or whiskey like it was for so many di’kuts, rather it was vodka. That one was so pure it rarely caused a hangover, assuming the kind that Cas drank was the galactic standard.
The galaxy was funny like that. What was common for one planet was uncommon for another. What is right for one people is wrong for another. Dwelling on such thoughts would give its own kind of headache so Cas climbed out of bed to be greeted by the night sky outside her window.
Though, in space it was always night. It was no motel bed that had cradled an Anvil but a freighter’s. It was not named to Casany Praxor—her Winged Pike was more banged up than she thought—but it was a cheap enough rent-a-ship and a lot more spacious for the journey ahead. Like a caravan with wings instead of wheels.
In the cockpit, Cas had since traded her ex-endeavor’s T-Shirt that hung to her thighs for a T-Shirt that hung to her hips and a pair of jeans to go with. Breakfast was pot noodle on account of a broken refrigerator.
As dubstep drifted from overhead speakers, Cas propped her boots on a console, sipped hot black coffee from a thermos and gazed as stars glittered in the endless night.
“Morning, Miss Mando,” the captain called over comm. “It’s another beautiful day in the cosmos. Come find me in the cockpit when you’re ready. Let’s catch up.”
That one had hardly touched her drink but this one had guzzled it. Fortunately her poison of choice was not beer or wine or whiskey like it was for so many di’kuts, rather it was vodka. That one was so pure it rarely caused a hangover, assuming the kind that Cas drank was the galactic standard.
The galaxy was funny like that. What was common for one planet was uncommon for another. What is right for one people is wrong for another. Dwelling on such thoughts would give its own kind of headache so Cas climbed out of bed to be greeted by the night sky outside her window.
Though, in space it was always night. It was no motel bed that had cradled an Anvil but a freighter’s. It was not named to Casany Praxor—her Winged Pike was more banged up than she thought—but it was a cheap enough rent-a-ship and a lot more spacious for the journey ahead. Like a caravan with wings instead of wheels.
In the cockpit, Cas had since traded her ex-endeavor’s T-Shirt that hung to her thighs for a T-Shirt that hung to her hips and a pair of jeans to go with. Breakfast was pot noodle on account of a broken refrigerator.
As dubstep drifted from overhead speakers, Cas propped her boots on a console, sipped hot black coffee from a thermos and gazed as stars glittered in the endless night.
“Morning, Miss Mando,” the captain called over comm. “It’s another beautiful day in the cosmos. Come find me in the cockpit when you’re ready. Let’s catch up.”
@Sicadorito
