“Cherisse! I’m sorry, I didn’t have a choice!” the man begged. “I didn’t mean to, I swear! They would’ve— Cherisse, please!”
His words must not have had the desired effect, because not a second after uttering them he turned around and ran for his life, shooting occasional looks over his shoulder in panic. A good distance away, Cherisse walked after him with angry steps and murder in her eyes. She could probably outrun the fat, two-faced Devaronian, or drop him twice over in a contest of endurance, but instead she stopped and watched him flee. Several seconds later, he was about halfway to the buildings that would provide him with cover, and Cherisse aimed the old rifle she was holding in both her hands.
The long barrel of her weapon had to be a good meter, even more, following the man running in the distance. It moved wildly up and down, for even the slightest movement on Cherisse’s part sent the edge of the barrel flying an inch off-target. But when she armed the weapon, breathed in, and pressed the wooden stock tightly against her shoulder, the barrel became agreeable as an old friend, still as the desert around her.
She fired.
There was a loud crack in place of a high-pitched roar; no dazzling bolt of light went flying straight at her target, but a hundred meters away, the running Devaronian collapsed into the sand like his legs had been cut from under him.
“HA! I hit him!” she exclaimed, equal parts mockery, delight, and amazement. “You see that!?”
The question went unanswered. Anoon had stayed with the ship, and none of the few passerby seemed to feel very concerned. Cherisse jogged towards her downed quarry, still wielding her gun.
“Now, you slimy, no-good, pathetic, double-crossing scum!” she spat out every word. “My money back, now!”
At her feet, the Devaronian groaned. Her slug had strayed right a bit, hitting him just below the shoulder. He’d live, she figured. Not that she knew much about medicine or Devaronian anatomy.
“Come on, you heard me, you worthless lying piece of poodoo! I don’t pay for fake intel. Where is it?”
She armed another slug.
The curled-up figure of the Devaronian started to shake, and for a moment Cherisse wondered if his injury was worse than she thought. But then he turned over to look at her, lying on his back, and he was wincing in pain, but laughing. Laughing at her.
“You’re funny, you know that?” he said before laughing another round of his stupid, hearty laugh. “Haven’t seen a circus like you in the five years I’ve been on this planet. Your credits back, who do you think I work for? The Tatooine charity brothers?”
“I don’t care which lowlife with an inflated ego is yours, Lora, they have credits, whoever they are. They’ll pay me back, or else.”
“Or else what? Your credits are gone, put that through your thick skull if you can.” Lora laughed again until he choked on it, his laugh turning into a coughing fit. “Kriff, woman, you’re even stupider than you look, and that’s saying something because you look like a cheap Twi’lek whor—”
The stock of Cherisse’s rifle caught him in the mouth, hard. This was an insult she would not take. She aimed for him again, this time at point blank, straight at his forehead. She held the position for a few seconds before a sigh escaped her lips. Lowering her slugthrower, Cherisse shook her head. Anoon was right. What a pointless venture this was. She’d never see those credits again.
At least she’d made Lora stop laughing.
“You’re lucky you’re worth less than that second slug in my chamber,” she threatened him for good measure. “Just the one for your dirty hide was already pushing it.”
With that, Cherisse turned to leave. Tired, so tired of being played by seemingly everyone she ever tried to deal with.
“Credit a dozen!” Lora shouted from behind her.
Cherisse whipped around and fired that second slug, after all, before she turned back and resumed her walk towards the spaceport.
His words must not have had the desired effect, because not a second after uttering them he turned around and ran for his life, shooting occasional looks over his shoulder in panic. A good distance away, Cherisse walked after him with angry steps and murder in her eyes. She could probably outrun the fat, two-faced Devaronian, or drop him twice over in a contest of endurance, but instead she stopped and watched him flee. Several seconds later, he was about halfway to the buildings that would provide him with cover, and Cherisse aimed the old rifle she was holding in both her hands.
The long barrel of her weapon had to be a good meter, even more, following the man running in the distance. It moved wildly up and down, for even the slightest movement on Cherisse’s part sent the edge of the barrel flying an inch off-target. But when she armed the weapon, breathed in, and pressed the wooden stock tightly against her shoulder, the barrel became agreeable as an old friend, still as the desert around her.
She fired.
There was a loud crack in place of a high-pitched roar; no dazzling bolt of light went flying straight at her target, but a hundred meters away, the running Devaronian collapsed into the sand like his legs had been cut from under him.
“HA! I hit him!” she exclaimed, equal parts mockery, delight, and amazement. “You see that!?”
The question went unanswered. Anoon had stayed with the ship, and none of the few passerby seemed to feel very concerned. Cherisse jogged towards her downed quarry, still wielding her gun.
“Now, you slimy, no-good, pathetic, double-crossing scum!” she spat out every word. “My money back, now!”
At her feet, the Devaronian groaned. Her slug had strayed right a bit, hitting him just below the shoulder. He’d live, she figured. Not that she knew much about medicine or Devaronian anatomy.
“Come on, you heard me, you worthless lying piece of poodoo! I don’t pay for fake intel. Where is it?”
She armed another slug.
The curled-up figure of the Devaronian started to shake, and for a moment Cherisse wondered if his injury was worse than she thought. But then he turned over to look at her, lying on his back, and he was wincing in pain, but laughing. Laughing at her.
“You’re funny, you know that?” he said before laughing another round of his stupid, hearty laugh. “Haven’t seen a circus like you in the five years I’ve been on this planet. Your credits back, who do you think I work for? The Tatooine charity brothers?”
“I don’t care which lowlife with an inflated ego is yours, Lora, they have credits, whoever they are. They’ll pay me back, or else.”
“Or else what? Your credits are gone, put that through your thick skull if you can.” Lora laughed again until he choked on it, his laugh turning into a coughing fit. “Kriff, woman, you’re even stupider than you look, and that’s saying something because you look like a cheap Twi’lek whor—”
The stock of Cherisse’s rifle caught him in the mouth, hard. This was an insult she would not take. She aimed for him again, this time at point blank, straight at his forehead. She held the position for a few seconds before a sigh escaped her lips. Lowering her slugthrower, Cherisse shook her head. Anoon was right. What a pointless venture this was. She’d never see those credits again.
At least she’d made Lora stop laughing.
“You’re lucky you’re worth less than that second slug in my chamber,” she threatened him for good measure. “Just the one for your dirty hide was already pushing it.”
With that, Cherisse turned to leave. Tired, so tired of being played by seemingly everyone she ever tried to deal with.
“Credit a dozen!” Lora shouted from behind her.
Cherisse whipped around and fired that second slug, after all, before she turned back and resumed her walk towards the spaceport.