[HUTT BOUNTY] Lola Rhysati

[Mesa]

CIRCUMTORE, CIRCUMTORE SYSTEM CIRCUMTORE TERMINAL AND DIPLOMATIC RECEPTION AREA ​

EARLY MORNING​

Circumtore. The ring-shaped planetoid had a history for attracting the wrong type of people to its refuge, much like the rest of Hutt Space. Pirates, smugglers, murderers, all manner of scum could be found prowling its markets and hangars, all vying to land their next big score or satisfy some kind of bloodlust. They were all the same in the end: criminals. Not one of them was better than the last, no matter what crimes they committed. One day they would all feel Death's cold embrace, whether it be by their own doing or another's. Harmin found himself in the midst of the Terminal and Diplomatic Reception Area of the planetoid, weaving through the densely-packed crowd of one of the many markets scattered about. All around him was the bustle of thieves, gangers, and worse, going about their business in whatever way they chose. He could barely hear himself think, let alone speak aloud. He wasn't like this scum; he was a lawman for several decades, now fallen from glory for his "crimes." He knew he had done no wrong, only exacted the vengeance that was due. It was no matter now, though, for it had been years since that fateful day transpired. He was headed towards the first place that came to mind when considering places to search for information: a local watering hole called the Gin Inn. Not the most clever name, but Harmin wasn't here to question the owner's naming habits. Harmin approached the door, jabbing a thumb into a nearby keypad, sending the door sliding open with a slight hiss. The first thing that hit him upon entry was the smell; the building smelled of a pungent mix of alcohol, sex, and blood. Within, a myriad of aliens and humans mingled, circulating around the bar in a drunken stupor. At the counter, the barkeep - a Falleen - was kept busy receiving empty glasses and replacing them with watered-down drinks filled only three-quarters of the way. His inebriated patrons paid no mind to it, they simply kept the credits flowing without any regard for just how much alcohol they actually received. Harmin shouldered past those in his way, one hand kept close to his Enforcer pistol, headed directly for the barkeep, Morellian oilcoat undulating gently behind him. He sat down near the end of the counter, drawing his hat further down on his head as the Falleen approached during a temporary lull in activity. "What'll it be, cowboy?" The alien's tone was pleasant-sounding, but concealed a derisive meaning. Harmin eyed him for a moment, wary of the alien's mind tricks, before speaking up over the ruckus of the bar. "Information." The Falleen flashed a roguish grin, looking around the bar in mock solemnity. "We don't serve information to just any no-good pirate out here. On Circumtore, you either pay with credits or blood." Harmin continued to eye the man, chewing the inside of his cheek slightly as his hand drifted to his holster. Deciding against shooting the owner of what looked to be a rather popular den of debauchery, violence, and sin, Harmin merely replied in a hoarse voice. "I 'spose the Cartel can come and remind this pretty little tavern who really owns this system. Though I reckon they'd be a bit less civil than I am. I'll order again, though. One hot serving of some information." Harmin and the Falleen shared a tense moment of silence, staring daggers at each other, before the barkeep finally relented. With an exasperated sigh, he leaned in close and spoke to the Morellian. "I... Guess we do have some of that in stock. What unfortunate soul is deserving of the Cartel's dreadful gaze?" "Corellian spice runner by the name of Lola Rhysati. Pretty little brown-haired dame, flies a YT-4200. Should be here to pick up a shipment of spice anytime soon. I want her whereabouts the next time I come back, or a certain bar's going to look real good when it goes up in flames." The Falleen didn't say anything, he simply nodded and backed up a bit, watching Harmin with loathing. The bounty hunter knew that a barman's most prized possession was his establishment, and that sometimes a little coercion involving said establishment was all it took to make them speak. He tossed a fifty-credit chip on the counter before standing up, checking to make sure he still had everything. It would've been a damn shame to have come all this way in an attempt to prove himself only to have his possessions stolen by some street urchin. Harmin picked his way through the drunken crowd, kicking aside the occasional unkempt lout who had passed out on the floor. After approaching the door, he turned and shared a look with the barkeep, tilting his head forward slightly. The barkeep sighed once more and moved to his backroom, disappearing from the front counter. Satisfied, Harmin left the Gin Inn for nicer quarters while he awaited word on Rhysati's location.