Saloon Thread: Bar

[Chairdor]

The Bar

Vince awoke in a strange bed in a strange house. He could've sworn he was on Tatooine just moments ago, running, fleeing. Shaking his pounding head as he sat up, the thin blankets falling to the floor bring up a plume of dust the man said what he said every morning like this,

"I gotta stop drinkin,"

Which was hard as he headed to his place of work, a cantina simply called The Saloon. While he would call it an unusual job so far as he had no customers beyond Ross, that smuggler who built a hanger for them, and on rare occasion Pepper Smith. Of course his eccentric employer was there too, but he didn't drink much beyond oil, droid that he was. Still he could always dispel the sheer illogical nature of it by remembering why he was hired in the first place. His old friend Ross offered it as a favor, a sort of sanctuary when things got hot after the Alliance fell. Of course while he was a good barkeep, he kept up on his true talent as well, keeping his ear to the ground as an informant and as it was Zonju V had quite a few rumblings as of late.

Walking out of his humble hovel into an alley Vince threw down a spent match as he took a long drag on his cigarette. Flicking the ashen flakes down the sullen backstreet he looked off with tired eyes to see the lifted hands of beggars like meager tree limbs in the midst of winter. Sighing the barkeep strolled down to dote his usual suspects with their daily bread. Credits shimmered as they were flipped by the Vince into the hands coming from the alleys shadow. Their reactions differed greatly to the sudden wealth, from muttered thanks to a simple silent snap, to a demand for more. Vince hardly cared, his response was the same, to walk on toward the main street, though the term street was generous.

For the past few weeks the roads had been partially blockaded another bid by the local swoop leader to tax his fine 'citizens'. Hefting himself over a knocked over trash can, now trash itself, the barkeep felt the heat of his cigarette as it edged closer to his lips. Feeling a light burn and cursing Vince at last relented and tossed the burning stump to the earth. Lifting his boot he flicked another match and soon enough fresh smoke puffed from his mouth as he looked down the street to see the familiar oaken doors. Swing them lightly the barkeep walked through the barren hall leading into the place and stood for a moment, a small device was produced from the wall, scanning him over with thin green beams the device booped three times and Vince watched as the door at his side closed and the one in front opened.

When he first arrived he made the mistake of walking down the open door and ended up in some godforsaken alley getting lost for another hour. Come to think of it that unusual feature of this place probably led to the fact that they had no customers, but like a good informant he knew when to ask for information straight up and when to just let it come to him.

Walking in he saw several usual sights, the waiting bar, the empty stage, and of course good old Ross slumped over the bar with a half empty glass at his side. The man had his flaws, but he was relentless once he set his mind to it. Flicking on the lights and walking toward the bar, Vince stopped by the juke box and gave it a small tap once more bringing it back to life filling the mostly empty room with music.

Walking past the dusted bottles on the rack behind him, bordered on both sides by wanted posters of varying age and quality, Vince prepared a rather simple drink for Ross. Placing a small straw in it and a little umbrella he eased the drink next to Ross's lip and watched as he automatically sucked a bit before licking his lips and looking up at Vince with bloodshot eyes,

"What kind of crap drink is this?"

"Water"

Ross looked down at the clear liquid and flicked the umbrella lightly before saying,

"Leave the bottle"
Vince smiled as he lifted Ross’s old drink and dumped it, wiping it down gingerly with a wet cloth as he walked through the swinging doors to the kitchen. Once inside the quiet music was replaced by a din of splashing water, smacking pans, and burning…pancakes?

“Oh good morning sir,” the droid said nonchalantly as his third pair of arms feverishly scrubbed the charred remains of a failed omelet.
Vince didn’t bat an eye at the highly productive bot, though he did take a moment to marvel at the massive stack of flapjacks currently crowding out most of the counter tops paired with quite a few bottles of syrup and jam.
“Alfred have your circuits been crossed, you make breakfast for three not thirty!”
“Actually sir it’s for thirty four,” the droid said as sixteen more pancakes flipped into the air, thirteen finding pans, two finding the floor, and one finding Alfred’s head.

“Thirty four?”

“Yes sir, for the other Rangers,”
Vince noting the questions he now harbored could most likely not be answered by the droid with a pancake hat swiftly filled his cleaned glass with a nice black Caffee. Moving out of the kitchen, sipping the invigorating liquid, he quickly caught sight of the droid he was looking for.

“Hiro what in blue blazes do you have that bot doing in my kitchen!”

“Well howdy to you too Vince,” the masked droid said with some bemusement, taking a moment to sniff towards the kitchen Hiro took a few seconds to remember he didn’t have a nose, “I have no idea you tell me,”

“He’s making pancakes!”

“The fiend!”
At this point Ross lifted himself from his water to groan as he gripped his ears, “Try to keep it to a dull roar fellas, an Vince pipe down the pancakes are fer the guests,”
“Guests?” Vince said continually upset with the poor information gathering skills that led to his current befuddlement.
“The Waste Rangers,” Hiro chimed in with a bit of excitement released at the end before looking to Ross, “I told you to tell him about that,”
“You didn’t specify a date to divulge this information,” Ross swiftly replied as he twirled his tropical drink umbrella.

“Fair enough,” Hiro replied before looking to Vince, “Remember all that research I had ya do?”
Vince thought and recalled the contacts he had ploughed through a few weeks back, pulling up Alliance, Bounty hunters, pretty much anyone he worked with and who they worked with to and then everything began to click.

“This ain’t no regular Cantina is it?”
Hiro nodded then said, “Think of it as more of a clubhouse,” before handing the barkeep a Vindicator revolver and a hat, “Welcome to the Waste Rangers,”

With that Vince moved back behind the bar and looked back to the crude wanted posters strewn at his back. As he looked to Hiro standing impassively staring to the door, he looked as well, wondering who might amble on though. One thing was for certain, he’d have to make a lot more drinks now.

 

[Sterling Malory Archer]

A dusty old shuttle touched down on the dusty little world of Zonju V, its engines kicking up a small sandstorm as it landed. The shuttle was nothing special, just like the person stepping off of it. Quinn gave his brown duster a quick brush off with his hands and threw the pilot a few credit chips through the window. "Thanks for gettin' me this far. I figure I can take things from here. You fly safe now, Y'hear? And watch out for pirates. Don't go answering calls from people you don't know, and you'll do just fine." The pilot, a young man, rolled his eyes and took off without further conversation. "Good kid... Hopefully nothin' bad happens to him. It probably will though. This is an awfully big verse." Quinn shifted his travel bag on his shoulder and shook his head to dispel that thought. No need to be pessimistic. This was, after all, a fresh start for him. He had read the message Hiro sent him a dozen times at the very least. Although he didnt know the droid that well on a personal level, he had been through a tight spot with him. That was reason enough to drop in and say hello.

Quinn walked through the dusty little town with a distinct frown on his face. It wasnt his place to question or criticize, but that had never stopped him before. And Zonju V looked like a dry, desolate dump on the very fringe of civilized space. Which wasnt exactly far from the truth... Quinn kept right on walking until he found a small transport and, after a bit of Haggling with the owner, Managed to negotiate a trip out into the dusty edges of the wastes. The ride was brief and uneventful, save a few encounters with local wildlife. Wildlife that Quinn immediately took a shine to. Soon enough he was stepping off the transport and paying the owner his fee. He had directions to the Saloon, but it still took a bit of wandering for him to find it. He walked towards the front door and gave his blaster revolver a quick pat to make sure it was still in its holster. Paranoia was just one of the perks of operating on the fringe of the law. He stepped into the building with a quick knock at the door frame and smirked as he noticed Hiro.

"Well Well, if it isnt my favorite gamblin' partner. Been staying out of trouble friend?"

Quinn grabbed one of the chairs and spun it around to sit in it backwards, facing Hiro with a grin on his face.

 

[Saul Perth]

The first thing Hal noticed as he decended down the ramp of his freighter was the smell. It was a familiar scent, it filled countless cities acrost the galaxy. It was the scent of poverty. The view that greeted him as he left the spaceport confirmed this. The people were dirty, their clothes worn and stained, their homes basic and in disrepair. A fair number wore matching colors and blaster belts, gangs. Not a soul gave him trouble, though Hal knew it wasn't his demeanor that kept him safe. It was the pair of massive twin pistols on his hips, worn in plain view, that sent most thugs back into their alleys and back streets. He passed countless beggars lining the streets, he tried to avoid eye contact, but the clearly visible ribs of a young boy won him half of Hal's last ten credits. It wasn't long before he caught sight of a set of oaken doors. Must be the place, he thought to himself and pushed his way inside.

A scanner protruded from the wall, and after a quick flash of light it voiced in a monotone, "Welcome to the Saloon, Hal Ninguno." I guess I'm expected. A second set of doors revealed a typical saloon with a typical bar. Hal removed his hat, took a seat, and tapped the bar.

"Whiskey. Straight and cheap."

 

[T.J]

A hot breeze cut across Rook's face as he stepped off the taxi'd shuttle that had brought him to Zonju V. He wind caught the edges of his duster, and with his empty hand he held his hat atop his head to keep it from flying away. The air was dry, devoid of moisture much like his home. Looking down at the crumpled piece of flimsi clenched in his other hand the thought of turning back around and going back to the cesspool he had come from crossed his mind. Lord knows he had tried to stay on the straight and narrow and maybe in some respects he had, but the same bad habits he had tried so hard to get out of always seemed to crawl their way back into his life. In a crumbling galaxy an honest living wasn't an easy thing to come by, especially in a backwater dump like Tatooine.

It had been close to a decade since his path crossed ways with the curious desperado droid known as Hiro. He had nearly forgotten about the droid, however hard such a feat would have been. Unfolding the flimsi and holding it tightly to keep it from blowing in the wind Rook looked the message over. Below the scribbled words a crudely drawn map of the city he now found himself in. Letting a sigh past his lips as he looked on into the dingy looking city that sprawled out before him, what he saw didn't surprise him in the slightest. It actually reminded him of his home, though he could at least walk the streets without getting shot at on Zonju V. Tatooine was practically off limits at that point, a fact he would keep to himself for the time being.

Folding up the piece of flimsi and shoving it into one of the pockets of his duster, Rook swiftly left the hangar and into the next chapter in his life. He walk to where Hiro had asked to meet him was long, but largely uneventful. Passing several quite obvious gang locations along the way he knew his work would be cut out for him. Pulling the flimsi out once more, Rook looked over the map before looking up at the building before him. From what the message said the place was called the Saloon and from the outside it appeared to be as such. Just an ordinary run down looking cantina. Stepping up to the unimposing doorway, Rook slowly pushed the door open only to find a short hallway and another doorway at the other end.

Left hand firmly placed on his revolver Rook slowly crossed the small hallway, all the while keeping on edge. Far too many times he had found himself in a trap preceded by similar circumstance. Looking back towards the door leading back outside one last time, Rook pushed the second open. To his surprise there was no trap nor group of waiting gunmen on the other side, at least, not enemy gunmen. Letting go his slug revolver and flipping his duster back over it and the holster that held it a smile crept across the gunslingers face. Before him stood the droid from his past, the synthetic desperado who had gotten him in and out of some of the more dangerous jobs he had undertaken.

" Well howdy Hiro. How longs it been? Nine? Ten years? "

 

[Mirdala'runi Beviin]

Zonju V.

If ever there might be a place a sentient might consider the galaxy's armpit, it was Zonju V. The planet was dirty, its inhabitants--the poor sods--were dirty and the business conducted there tended to be of the dirty variety. This was precisely what made the world such a treasure, a valuable asset and an undeniable boon for those in the Wolf's line of work. Here, on this arid, combat-blasted rock, she could find everything from information to weapons to a good brawl if she were so inclined. But, of course, there was another reason entirely for the mercenary to punch those obscure navigational equations into her computer.

Hiro, the woman thought for a moment as her ship dropped from the whirling mayhem of hyperspace into the mildly busy outer space of the planet. A droid with a fast gun, loose lips and a missing purpose, she recalled. Her ship came in at the world at an angle on the nightside, giving her a perfect view of the day/night terminus. The long-dead satellites were no danger to her as she guided her aging warship in to a landing cycle, but one steady hand remained on the weapons as ships passed her by in exit or enter vectors.

From within her helmet, her eyes gazed down on the rough world below.

It took several long minutes of communications, haggling and the traditional faux-bedgrudged sign off before she secured a docking location that she felt wouldn't leave her without a ship. The caravan headquarters was, by far, among the most expensive to lease a bay from, but also one of the most secure, considering the type of imported goods one might find in a given transport in one of their luxurious bays. On the slow, casual flight in, Mirdala checked and rechecked her armor, weapons and even took a quick look at her accounts to be sure she had what she would need to restock, resupply and, possibly, buy herself some work.

The landing was swift and sweet--years of piloting attested to the soft kiss of skids on duracrete--and the Wolf was quick to power down all but her security measures. Once she set foot on the hangar floor proper, however, she was in full alert mode. The portly tech in forest green overalls and an all-important nametag gawked openly at her Mandolorian armor; not often one marched through this slice of space, it seemed. Or any other besides our war-torn little patch, anyway, she noted sourly as she slapped the agreed upon credit chits into the beefy palm.

"I'll know if there's been any tampering," she said coolly.

The tinny, piped-audio quality of her voice did little to hide the ice-like tones nestled in her words and the tech nodded sagely. The landing rituals done, she proceeded out into the morning light that basked the market and revealed it in all its grimy, bustling glory. Some glared as she walked by, her battered but maintained armor drawing ire, drawing curiosity or, more often, sheer and unadulterated indifference. If course, there were a few who made it a point to cross to a stall on the other side of the street, but Mirdala paid these types no mind; she was here for a palaver, not a collar.

Her visor blipped, highlighting certain objects or people as she strolled to a set of coordinates provided to her. The integrated pack on her back occasionally provided little pop-up notices when new comm frequencies came in or out of range. She noted them and dismissed them just as quickly; time and training had become instinct. She passed vendors offering everything from Dewback stew to holdout blaster energy cells. Only a few professed wares made her turn her head enough to take a glance, blasters or datachips reflected impassively in her opaque and forbidding visor.

At last, she found herself in a particularly sullied area.

She didn't keep tabs on the planet much, so she would not know the area was the turf of a notorious swoop gang...but she was unaccosted as she proceeded toward the coordinates that hovered in the bottom-left of her visor. She peered at the location for a moment, unsure if maybe the coordinates had been recorded incorrectly or if the courier--uncourier, she recalled--had played some joke on her. But no, the data winked in her display a few times to indicate she was, in fact, in the right place. The faint, distant sound of music greeted her audio receptors and the size of the exterior suggested it was the only real building of importance in the area. One brow arching over an eye, she stepped through the doors.

It was a long but straight shot to the bar where a trio of individuals were already lingering. She immediately recognized the would-be philosopher droid with the gun-hand. "Guess this is the place," she muttered to herself. She moved with intent to an unoccupied seat at the bar and drank in the wanted posters for a brief moment. A few faces she knew, more of them she didn't. Next, she eyed the bottles, her throat getting more and more parched with desire as she spied labels. At last, she turned her head to nod at the man sitting to her left, who had ordered a whiskey.

"Same," she said, "but a shot of Tattooine wine in it."

 

[Phil]

Andre MacReady had been on the planet for an hour so far, putting on his respirator mask and hood over his head as he started to breath easier. It was too long... too long since he had been apart of anything else. For the past decade he had been rediscovering himself, reclaiming his weapons the mercenaries had grabbed and sold, reconnecting to The Force after his accident that nearly killed him in 1313 and at last, finding his old ship and home. He had renamed it the "Forgotten Memory", a rather fitting name given what happened to him.

He holstered only a few weapons on him, his Enforcer pistols on both hips, his lightsaber dangling from the right pistol and his sawn-off shotgun strapped to his left thigh holster. He never went anywhere unarmed, and for the past ten years never fully trusted another or considered them a friend. Everyone he knew before Coruscant fell was dead or missing. He had nothing left other then to proceed with his duty to seek Justice for himself and others who needed it. With his gear in check, he threw his longcoat on and left the boarding ramp of his ship and made for the Saloon, keeping a careful walk towards it.

His prosthetics were covered by his clothing, gloves and boots with the respirator clearly seen covering his face as the two blue glowing eye lenses were seen from even a distance. He made no "eye" contact with another, no greetings towards anyone even when ones were said to him. No, he was here because someone sent him a message, someone who knew Andre and others could make a difference. When he arrived at the Saloon, he pushed the doors open some as he scanned the area, already seeing others were here and talking, some to what appeared to be a rather advanced droid.

Still keeping to himself but not hiding the fact he arrived, Andre picked a small table that was against the wall and took a seat where he could view all who were in the main bar area. The sound of him breathing through his respirator was noticable unless one was focused on another sound source.

 

[Xysis]

The Rising dawn touched down on the landing bay with a clunk. The old YT-2200 had see better days. Much like her owner. The ramp descended with a clang. Off the ramp slowly walked a hulk of man. His clothes worn and a large hooded duster covered them. Over his shoulder was won big military duffle bag, and both hands each carrying one more duffle bag. His squinting eyes blood shot showing and aversion to the light. In a low voice, his shouted , "Scrap, we're going."

His winged lizard flew to his shoulder. Behind beeped his modified astromech. "You too. Not sure what I'll be walking into. But it sounds like it may be promising." He shrugged his shoulders a little hoping his wasn't wrong about the whole thing. He made his way to the city streets. It held no comparison against his home world Correllia. But a place he doesn't want to go back to anytime soon. Not since the Sith came crashing through the galaxy, crushing worlds and then his spirit.

He meandered the streets taking in the the city. The city looked like the criminal element crept in like a bad cancer. Swoop Gangers thinking there tough because they run around in a pack. Ordon's unit was top notch, but even without his unit, he was a force to be reckoned with. This trash feeds on the youth making them think they fit in. He spat on the ground.

Ordon set his bags down. He pulled out a cigar from his coat, and lit it up with a match. He flicked the match to the ground as he puffed on the cigar. He scratched the under side of Scrap's maw. He hefted his his bags up from the ground once more. He continued to walk to this saloon he was invited to. It didn't look like much. "Well, here goes nothing bud." He entered the saloon with the droid in tow.

His heavy boots clunked loudly as he made his way to the saloon. He placed his bags on the floor in a pyramid. He turned to the bartender and ordered 3 shots and a tall one to wash it down. He eyed up the saloon. He looked for exits, areas of cover and sized up the individuals in the mostly empty saloon. "Looking for a man named Hiro. Could you tell him Ordon Korr is here."

 

[Chairdor]

Hiro's sensors were all alight, he was worried, excited, fearful, happy, angry, or at least a representation of those emotions compiled in code, though it could be said organics emotions were merely compilations of chemical reactions but that was besides the point, what was the point was that time was ticking and the folks he sent all those messages too still hadn't arrived. He didn't know what compelled him to call all these people to him, perhaps he was trying to fill a void, maybe he really was a mere courier droid and now he was obsessed with sending off mail, but that hardly seemed likely to the droid. There was some other driving force, some hidden motivator working in the background it's own whir silenced by fan blades and flitting thoughts. If droids could have a subconscious, whatever led Hiro to organizing this serious hoe down was certainly a prime example.

All at once his servos relaxed slightly when the door slowly opened, not to reveal Pepper, or Scalia, or Daxim, or Jolla, all friendly yet familiar and repetitive faces, but instead revealed a face he hadn't had to optically scan in ten years time. Noting his swagger and confidence the droid remembered every reason why he had called this charming gun slinging rogue back to his side, the man gambled, but he played to win, in cards, in life, and those were skills he could use and they were a set of skills that belonged to a fellow he once called friend and wished to do again. So approaching the roguish fellow sitting with a devil may care grin, the rusty droid extended his cold metal hand to shake the mans before responding to his hello with a happy,

"Heck no Quinn, ain't my style and it ain't yours either, that's why I called ya hear today after a-" the droid began, only to be interrupted by the swift entrance of another figure.

This one was less familiar to Hiro, but Alfred filled that void quickly by being extremely familiar with the newcomer. The droid butler walked into the room burdened with a heap of pancakes which he swiftly placed onto the many tables with various toppings like rare Zonju berries, Gungan tart syrup, and Nerf butter. Approaching the gun slinging man Alfred said,

"Well greetings master Hal, may I take your handsome looking duster? Was the journey harsh? Please have some pancakes I've made enough to feed a small army as instructed by Master Hiro,"

At this point Hiro nodded to Quinn and tipped his hat as he walked over to the newcomer, joined by Ross who at this point left the bar greet the newcomers.

"Well howdy partner, glad you could make it under the notably strange circumstances, I'm Hiro the one who sent ya that message and-"

"-And I'm Ross, tell me partner where'd you pick up that piece there?" Ross said pointing to Hal's weapon displayed proudly on his side.

Noting another entrant Hiro noted with some delight in recognition, his old chum Rook, the man who saved his Rusty hide twice one two different worlds. Placing his hand upon his old pals shoulder he shook it with some glee saying,

"Well darned if it ain't been Rook, how ya holding up all these years? Still in one piece? I can't say the same haha!"

As he spoke to the man two entrants slipped past the droid past even the towers of pancakes and the overly helpful Alfred to get to the looming bar. There Vince sat scrubbing the dusty wood of the disused bar, still trying to get his mind around what these Rangers were exactly. Luckily he was provided a distraction with what he knew best, making drinks.

First comer was a fellar that looked like he had looked into the abyss and won that staring contest. He managed to slip past Ross and Alfred at anyrate so the barkeep was already impressed. Nodding at his drink request, a spartan choice, but no doubt a respectable one given the decor and theme of the place, Vince swiftly whipped up the whiskey rolling it across the bar to the hopefully waiting hand of the drinker, it had no ice as water was laughably pricey on the world and ice even more so, but Whiskey tasted hot anyhow so Vince figured the man wouldn't mind, beside people who drank whiskey straight didn't tend to be complainers.

Next comer was a looker and smiled at the addendum she put on her order, throwin it at her a second after she ordered, the spritz of wine still settling the man called out, "Whiskey with a hit of Tatoowine"

His final customer was a bear of a man who looked like he could take his liquor and when he spoke certainly advertised that fact, pulling up the three glasses and filling them diligently with the shots and passing them one by one to the man with the strange droid at his back he answered his question,

"He's the masked guy making friendly with them strangers at the entrance,"

Ross noting Hal had little time to talk noted the stranger who breezed in and took a seat in the corner, he was about to approach him when he remembered his other job he had to perform today, rushing to the stage, he quickly ensured the audio equipment was working, then looked to the crates marked "ALDA" and opened them once more to ensure their contents, noting everything was well, he returned to the bar to order his own drink,

"Get me more of that water stuff,"

"Heck no Ross, I'm cutting you off,"

"Damn you Vince, damn you straight to hell,"

"We're already on Zonju V,"

With that the two began to laugh as Vince slid Ross his favorite, Corelian Rum. As he drank it deeply he looked to the already burgeoned populace in the saloon and remarked to himself, "Damn, the bot really went and did it,"

 

[Tribunal Power]

Had it been one day since she landed, or two? Cerise couldn't remember, but it seemed she was still at the docks. She faintly recalled the face of the man she caught a ride with, some middle-aged Corellian with more ship than sense; she flirted a bit and made a few empty promises, and it landed her here on this world with a broken landspeeder compliments of Captain Baba Darmellon. While she certainly hoped never to see the fat funny-smelling spacer again, she could hardly fault his generosity, for although the landspeeder was immobile it did come with a half-empty bottle of Corellian whiskey-- or half-full, as Cerise preferred to see it.

And so as she stirred in the back seat, she rose to find an empty bottles, bloody knuckles, and somehow a fully functional speeder. She was only so surprised; if there were two things Cerise did better drunk than she did sober, it was kicking ass and fixing shit, and apparently she'd done both in less than a half a bottle of bourbon. Stepping out of the speeder's carriage with a groan, she popped the hatch and took a look into the repulsor compartment. Everything looked like it was aligned right, and the belt that she specifically recalled being missing was present and accounted for. Closing the hatch, she moved to the rear where she checked the dorsal engine, opening the shell to find the rusty old cylinder head looking nice and clean and free of any fractures. After checking her fluids, she decided it was good enough to get her where she needed to go, and started the beast up. It gave an unhealthy grind in protest, probably from years of being ignored as the good Captain Baba mentioned it had been in his cargo hold since the war, but it was enough for the speeder to get going. It lifted drowsily into the air, and the three engines burst to life, pushing her off toward her goal.

As she sped her way through the streets of the odd city, occasionally checking the map she'd found at the port, she idly wondered who she'd introduced to her fist last night. It looked like more than one hit, and she had a sore spot on her ribs-- must've been a good tussle. She let out a sigh and gave thanks that she didn't take any shots to the face. It took a strong woman to fly across the galaxy on hitched rides with nothing but a scattergun and a toolbox, but somehow Cerise had managed to do it, and she even came out of the deal with a landspeeder to show for it. She hoped that crazy droid's message was legit, or she'd be living here in Zojo 5 or whatever this rock was called for longer than she wanted to.

Once she was in the right part of town, it didn't take long to track down the saloon following the instructions and the map. Leaving the speeder parked outside, she couldn't help but notice the overhead door to a garage attached-- that would be her very next stop, after the bar of course. As she hopped out, she recalled stashing her scattergun in the rear compartment of the speeder; it would be find there for now, she decided, as she felt for the large-frame pistol at her side. She strolled up to the door bold as you please, and pushed open the entry doors. The scan startled her, and she almost reached for her pistol when it beeped; the doors to her right slid closed, and Cerise looked on in confusion as the wall opened before her like some beastly maw to swallow her whole.

Taking a few cautious steps in, Cerise poked her head around the corner and saw a small crowd gathering near the bar. Among them was that droid Hiro, the one who sent the message-- in the past ten years, Tsu had grown a few wrinkles and earned a few scars, but Hiro hadn't aged a day. Unable to help but smile, she started toward him.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite soulless machine," she said as she neared him, a teasing grin on her dusty face. The goggles on her forehead and the dirt-lines under her eyes told of how she'd had a long drive, but one wouldn't know it by her fervor and her energy. "How the hell are you?"

Casting an uneasy glance at the others, she wondered just how many of them there would be for Hiro's little army, and how exactly they'd be going about this little mission of theirs. Even as the people around her mingled, the desire to run off to the garage gnawed at her; if no one had claimed that space, she'd be moved in by the end of the day. And if someone had, well... They'd better be a tough son of a bitch, because Cerise wasn't afraid to scrap over scraps.

 

[Galad J. Victus]

A grand city, plagued by crimes, thugs, with corruption etched into it's very soul. It all sounded so awfully familiar.


Asmodean was fleeing. For how long he had been running from himself? The time had ceased to have meaning as the months after months came and passed, and nothing changed at all. From the lowest parts of the foulest places, to the most glorious palaces, dreams and the admirations of masses so numerous. His hand was stained in blood, blood of so many innocent people. His blade, no longer an artifact and a keeper of his dearest memories, but a killer, a reflection of it's master. Wherever he went, what he seeked was absent, yet his curse was always there, chasing him tirelessly. He had lost so much for so little. To fall so far, and still posses any hopes of redemption, was simply foolish. He would kill the dying spark if he could.

There was nothing left. No cure for such a corruption, so strong that it could easily wipe out one's very soul.

No force could heal it.

Yet this droid. Was it possible?

From the very moment he decided to come to this planet, he always knew he was wasting his time here. Time, that he could actually not put to better use elsewhere.

All who set eyes on him have always deemed him to be a lost cause. They saw nothing in him, save for the corruption and evil which only the darkest monsters of the deepest forsaken halls could match. Only one, ever managed to see through the empty shell. Only one ever managed to see beyond the shadow and gaze eyes upon the single spark of his heart that still struggled within. Even now as he walked the streets, he could see it in their eyes. Hostile. His abnormally pale skin, his black tatoos and and coat, half-broken mask, his bright green eyes, and most especially, the vibrosword and the blaster hanging from his belt. A few vile-looking men leaning against the filthy walls studied him as he passed now and then, their hands softly touching their own blasters as an indirect threat against the apathetic boy.

He had memorized the message sent to him well enough, and once he saw the bar, he knew this was it. After taking a moment to study the saloon and it's surroundings, the boy walked towards the entrance, carelessly. Pushing the door and as he scanned the saloon, he immediately recognized the one who summoned him. His hand slowly stroking the hilt of The Redemption as a habit, he studied the group of people here and there around the bar for a moment while he walked, before picking up an empty table and sending a respectful nod towards the droid as he sat. He had devouted himself to his noble yet lost quest when they first met, and his life debt still stood. He remembered.

The passing of time and the distance between the two, however, had more than reduced his admiration for him.

His table being in the corner, and his chair in a position to allow him a fine view of the bar, Asmodean sat and watched, as thoughts of all kinds spinned in his head, though his indifference suggested otherwise.

 

[Jaime]

As the public transport descended onto the dusty and busy landing pad, Harvey Crossfade shoved the last of his donut into his mouth, staring across the great capital of Zonju V, Sathad'ra. The City of Bones, the citizens of the planet and outsiders alike called it. He had never even heard of this planet until just a couple weeks ago, when he had received a transmission from a new police force, a league of no names, the 'Light of Zonju V'.

All summations of the Waste Rangers.

Harvey made his way down the ramp, trying not to push the other patrons out of the way. He held a cigar wrap in his left, robotic hand, bringing it to his lips, looking around nervously. He was not yet sure if the herb was illegal on this planet or not, so he needed to be extra careful with smoking it.

"Daddy, where are we going again?"

He smiled and looked down at the small, mousy voice that came from below. "Don't fret, Little Harmony. We'll be there soon. We're going to meet Daddy's new team." He picked her up and held his seven year old daughter in his left arm and threw his cigar down on the ground, forsaking the last bit of it left, and grabbed the bags she was carrying away from her, strapping them over his other arm. The other bags were carried over his right arm.

Harmony giggled, grabbing onto Harvey. "I hope they're nice like Uncle Jon on Corcuscant."

He laughed at the way she pronounced Coruscant. He had always loved the way she talked. Ever since her adoption, he had loved everything that she did. Out of all the other children that were around at the orphanage on Corellia, after Coruscant had fallen many years ago, she had stuck out above the rest. Like a light among the darkness. She was his anti-drug. He needed no one else.

A tear rolled down his cheek as he looked up at her smiley and joy-filled face. This was no place for her.

After about an hour of wondering the crime and sickness filled streets of Sathad'ra, they found themselves standing in front of the bar of which he was designated to meet his new team. A sign swayed back and forth in the breeze, reading in rough basic 'The Saloon'. He smiled up at Harmony, who in turn smiled back. "We're here, daddy?!"

He nodded, chuckling. "Yes, dear, we're here."

He coughed heavily as he entered the Saloon, and moved to a table near the door, taking in his surroundings. Many people from all walks of life sat in the room, drinking and talking amongst themselves. He set his bags and Harmony down on the table, bringing out several toys for Harmony to play with while he conducted his business. Harv turned to the group that could only be the Rangers across the room. How could he tell? The droid that had called him to join stood among them, talking to each of them in turn. Hiro his name was, Harvey recalled. He leaned against the wall nearest the table, Harmony playing with her dolls and the small playhouse she had taken from the orphanage, on the table. He waited for the droid to finish speaking and then 'ahemed' to get his and whoever else had heard the noises' attention.

Just in case, and partly out of habit, he set his hand on the blaster at his side, sitting in its holster, the safety already off.

 

[Dóiteán]

Seeing Zonju V, Aramis was reminded of Tatooine. He sat there reminiscing while the 9 pilot droids landed his ship on the outskirts of a city. The city was different from Mos Eisly, his home, but did have a feel of home. Stepping off his Wayfarer-class medium transport, Relic Warrior, he looked at the datapad in his hand. Seven followed right behind him.

"Well Seven, let's go find that Saloon and see who hired us."

Seven beeped an affirmative and followed Aramis as they walked the streets of the city. Aramis saw many beggars and thugs, but paid no attention to them. On his back was his blaster carbine. After walking for a couple hours, they found the building.

"Looks cozy enough, huh Seven?"

Walking up to the building with Seven in tow, Aramis was scanned and let through. Looking around he saw a collection of people he didn't know.

Saying to himself, "Well this will be interesting."

Aramis walked further into the bar, still followed by his old T7-series astromech droid Seven. He took a seat at a table. Pulling out his toolkit, he grabbed his blaster and began working on it. The carbine had some kinks that needed fixing.

 

[Chairdor]

Vince looked past his already large pool of drinkers to note Alfred approaching the bar apparently quite miffed that no one was enjoying his delicious pancakes. Smiling with a laugh, the bartender watched the overly dutiful bot place stack after heaping stack of pancakes before the various drinkers with an unfathomable zeal that went past simple hardwired programming. Vince wasn't quite comfortable with the choice, but Hiro had made it a policy not to wipe the droids who worked in the bars memory. While this had led to them gaining an untold amount of personality for lack of a better word, the barkeep did notice the droids were also going completely bonkers, clunky the R4 unit in the garage being the best example, once partially useful it now had a tendency to try to fix anyone it saw with a welding torch, Scalia put the kaibosh on that but only after she got a pretty nifty burn on her hand. Still Hiro wouldn't renig, something about that bot and memory.

Still he had little time to think on that as people he had never seen before continued to waltz in demanding drinks and shouting contentedly as they greeted Hiro as if it had been years. For a moment Vince was somewhat envious, he had few friends like that, in fact very people who knew of the once conniving and secretive mand would be happy to see him now, most would try to kill him. He didn't want to think of that as he busied himself by handing out forks and knives for the sudden accompaniment of food with his customers drinks. Funny, he said customers but no credits had certainly come his way with these new guests. He hoped they at least tipped.

Drinking deep until the rum at last expended itself completely Ross noted the influx of two more people and decided now was a good time to start his little extra job. Returning to the stage area he reached into the Alda boxes and swiftly enough produced the custom revolvers Hiro had ordered. They cost a pretty penny, but Ross had seen them in action and they certainly seemed worth the cost, he hadn't had a chance to vet the seller, but Hiro seemed to trust the company on it's reputation and it certainly shipped quickly and more importantly, discreetly. Pulling the Miscreant revolvers from their casings the man noted their fine craftsmanship and gave a laugh as he began to circulate the bar plopping down a single piece before every new person there much like Alfred did with the pancakes, saying simple things as he did it like 'For you' and such, he made sure they were unloaded because curiosity killed the Vorn cat and he felt like one stray shot could lead to a heap of trouble with this quick shootin bunch.

Eventually Ross moved on to check the rest of the gear stowed away on the stage and Hiro was left to greet two other familiar faces, noting the ever joking and somewhat drunk Cerise Hiro tipped his hat and noted the rings of heavy dirt under her goggled eyes,

"Same as always, always different," Hiro replied, lifting a quote from...he actually couldn't retrieve the source. A small reboot to his optics brought him back to the conversation and the topic at hand. Noting the scrappers uneasy glance toward the others Hiro reassured her, "Pretty sure they don't bite, and if they bit you you tough son I'm sure their teeth would fall out, don't be afraid to mingle and explore, and that little piece Ross handed ya is yours to keep, no doubt a mind like yers can find ways to improve it...speaking of that I think Scalia in the garage could desperately use your help,"

He wanted to say more to his old friend, to recount that fateful fun night at the bar, but yet another familiar figure entered right behind her. He didn't move towards the droid and Hiro understood the possibility of why. Sending the message to Asmodean was a gamble, he was strong in body, but his mind seemed rife with scars. Still he owed the boy a hello for coming out after all these years, especially after his abrupt departure. He wasn't ready for a partner when he left that boy in need, he only hoped the young man had found his own righteous path.

Approaching the young man he said simply,

"Howdy"

For a moment he sought something to say, but his fracking servos simply wouldn't budge there was nothing good to say, except one brief after blip as he began to turn, "You're home now,"

As he turned he noted two more newcomers had nearly slipped past his gaze, an older man he immediately recognized from the countless files as,

"Harvey-

"Harvey Crossfade well I'll be I hearda you, loved the stories," Ross interjected taking a seat next to the older detective, "Here take this," he said handing the newcomer the same pistol he had handed everyone else before continuing, "I'm an information junkie, had to be with all the damned questions this hunka bolts kept asking me, so glad you could make it," Noticing the small child at the mans back Ross covered his mouth, "Ah darn didn't see the little one, pretend I didn't say damn okay sweetie?"

Hiro placed his metal hand firmly upon his palm before merely waving to Harvey and walking toward the tinkering man, "Howdy...Aramis right?" Hiro said going through the photos of faces he had gathered, Aramis had the distinction of being the only bald one in the lot, but he heard bald folks get like that because their brains crowd out their hairs, so he figured the guy would be more than worth his salt. Placing the same revolver Ross had been giving out to every person who had entered so far he said, "I'm sure you'll have improvements but heres a gift, also if your looking to fix up your weapons, we got a garage right over yonder with all kinda tools, but first-"

With that the droid walked over to the stage and tapped the mic,

"This thing- this thing on, okay, well howdy folks, some of yall I haven't seen in 10 years, some I haven't seen in my life, but that ain't important this ain't just a reunion for a reunions sake if it was I woulda got some punch and played smooth jazz. Naw this is about something I have been planning for five years now,"

With that the droid activated a small sensor in his hand letting a small curtain above the stage pull back to reveal the code of the ranger made up in cast iron letters. Scalia had worked on that for the past week, which Hiro realized was a mistake as that left Clunky to handle basic maintenance which was why they didn't have power till just yesterday. At any rate it was impressive work which shined off the dim light of the Saloon, Hiro turned slightly to read the contents once more.

The Code of the Ranger
This is our creed
This is our duty
To do no harm to innocents no matter the end you seek
To fight evil always, even when it seems impossible
To shoulder the burdens of the weak
To uplift the oppressed and enslaved
To see past facades and masks and judge those by their acts alone
Through desert, through tundra, through endless waste
We shall not cease the march of justice​

"That theres the code of the ranger, and I hope yall agree with it's sentiments, because, well, I was hoping you would come to uphold it. You see I seen fire and I seen rain all across these worlds and they fall the same and spread the same every which way I go, but right now we got another reign to worry about, the reign of tyranny all across this galaxy. Well I brought you all together so we could do something about that,"

Walking across the stage the masked droid placed his hands by his side and looked down before continuing,

"You are all justice, your actions, your deeds, your nature, you all have a strong sense of common decency which ain't so common as it is and more importantly you're strong, I'm givin yall a chance to use that strength as part of a team, a unit you can use to spread justice to the oppressed, to fight the monsters at our gates, and to make a lot of horrible people pay for what they have done. I'm offerin yall a chance to be Waste Rangers,"

With that cue Ross lifted himself and excused himself from Harvey's table to push forward the two other boxes continuing various sized dusters and hats, the dusters bearing badges with WR engraved in them,

"To become a Ranger is easy, but once a Ranger always a Ranger, when you join us you get access to this facility, as shelter, as a source of information, as a repair hub, and as a place to rest with your peers. I only ask that you use your power for good, uphold the code, and keep your drinks per night to twenty,"

With that the droid jumped off the stage and readjusted his hat, before saying,

"So, what do you say?"

Obviously others were due, but he could give them the condensed version of the speech, what mattered now was how all these people reacted.

 

[Livgardist]

There sure were a lot of people in this small saloon on the hellhole planet that was Zonju V, Rowdy Rowe thought as he stepped inside the saloon after the sensors had recognized him. He had received a message several weeks ago requesting him to come here to meet an old friend. It had all been very mysterious, and he had had no idea who this friend was. But now he remembered, as he looked around the saloon and saw two very familiar faces; A robot with a hat, named Hiro, and a bearded drunk named Ross. People he had met at a bar in Coruscant many years ago.

He walked up to the bar, and pulled the brim of his hat down in a greeting as he reached the duo.
"It's been a long time." He said as he sat down, only unwillingly removing his right hand from the butt of his revolver to place it on the bar. He motioned with his head to the barkeep, and said: "I'll have a whiskey." He placed a couple of coins on the bar.

As he did he looked around again. He saw other men there of his own type; hardened men and women with skills with a firearm - gunslingers, bounty hunters, mercenaries - but more importantly, with the same sense of justice that he did. Well, sense of justice might be extreme, as his was sometimes just that. But the group in the bar today seemed to be joined together by their dislike for criminals. That was what his gut feeling told him. Then Hiro, the droid, stepped up on a stage and held a large speech for the crowd, talking about their dislike for criminals, and about an organization known as the Waste Rangers.

Ross started handing out hats and dusters. Rowe raised his hand in a "no thanks" gesture.
"I've got my own." He said.

The door opened once again by the entrance, as suddenly, two people stepped inside. One of them, oddly enough, was a ten year old boy, his eyes glimmering with curiosity and excitement as he looked around seeing all the armed cowboys. The other was a man in his late thirties, with brown hair, sharp, cold blue eyes, and a muscular body hidden by farmer's clothes. An old blaster hung in a holster on his hip. He looked like a farmer in all but his eyes as the duo entered. They walked up together to the bar, and after helping the boy sit down on a bar stool, the man gestured to the bartender.

"Some water for me, and some cherry soda for my boy, please." He looked around, and soon his eyes fell on the robot. As he did, he turned to his boy and said: "Boy, stay here and don't talk to anyone. I'll be back shortly."

"Yes, dad." The boy replied.

Verus stood up and looked around. After a moment, he walked up to the robot, and extended his hand.
"Evenin'. Name's Verus Fett. That over there is my son, Tesla. I'm a farmer here on Zonju. I heard about your little enterprise, and I figured I'd stop by and welcome y'all to this dusty hellhole. It's about time somebody tries to bring some order to this place. I'm not a gunslinger and I'm not ready to join any causes. I've got my son to take care of after all. But if you and your people need help, don't hesitate to ask."

Over by the bar, Tesla was growing bored already, and ignoring his father's orders, he jumped down from his bar stool, walking up to the man handing out dusters and hats. He looked up at him, poking him in the side rather rudely though unintentionally so, as he said:
"Is that a real gun? Why do you smell so funny? Can I have a hat? Pretty please?"

 

[Jaime]

Harvey looked down at the Miscreant pistol as Ross set it down and helped himself to a chair at the table, going on about Harv's exploits. He nodded, grinning, only slightly annoyed, but that came natural to people he hadn't gotten used to yet. At least Ross wasn't a witness. He hated the witnesses, zealous in their quest to help in any way that they can. He just wanted to work alone, dammit.

Harv grabbed the pistol off the table, examining it, realizing the blaster at his side was the same as the one he held now. Two's always better than one. He slid the new weapon into his other holster on his left side. Harmony giggled a bit when Ross told her to ignore the cussing. "I hear it all the time, Mister." She played with her long, dark brown hair as she stood on the table at her almost 3' height and twirled her skirt around, trying to be the sweet little thing that she was.

Harv smiled at his adopted daughter. She was always trying to make new friends.

He then turned to the droid that had brought them all here, reading aloud the Code of the Waste Rangers. He then went on to why all of them were here, and his cause's purpose in this galaxy so wrong. He listened intently, and when the droid was done, was about to say something, but then Harmony yelled out "I WANNA HELP!" and jumped down from the table, running over to the box of dusters and hats, and slid on a hat. The little girl stared up at Hiro with huge, gleaming brown eyes, an ocean of beauty that could only fit into a seven year old little girl.

Harvey sighed, about to get up.

 

[Dóiteán]

Looking up from his carbine when a droid by the name of Hiro walked up to him, Aramis grew even more interested. When Hiro placed the pistol in front of him, Aramis eyed the pistol with delight. He had another thing to modify. He was thinking of ways to modify the pistol when Hiro started talking.

"Good code huh Seven. Let's see this bolt goes here. The goes there. That there. And there, done.", Aramis had said while fixing the carbine.

Aramis was glad to hear there was a garage, though he had every tool he'd need on his ship. Holstering his carbine, he pulled out his datapad and ran a remote diagnostics of Relic Warrior. While the diagnostics was running, Aramis grabbed the pistol and looked it over. Aramis sat thinking over what he could modify.

 

[Sterling Malory Archer]

Quinn smirked as Hiro went on to play the good host. Well well well… Sometimes you just couldn’t break a habit. And he was clearly aimin’ to impress. So Quinn strolled on by Hiro and gave the droid a friendly pat on the shoulder before making a beeline for the Bar. He didn’t even bother to take a seat, smirking across at the bartender. “Corellian Whiskey, the strongest you have. Oh, and one of those little umbrellas.” The last bit was very clearly a joke, given the drawl in his voice, and he turned around to eye the other patrons of the building. A couple young’ns. A few older fighters. And one dirty lookin’ lady who obviously had been through quite a ride. Not just getting there, but in life.

As the drink showed up and Hiro started his little speech to the rabble, Quinn had to admit the droid had style. It was a ballsy move bringin’ so many rough folk together and handing them weapons. Speaking of… Quinn picked up the revolver and popped the cylinder out to take a good look at it. A bit too flashy for his taste, but maybe with a paint job. Quinn slid the Revolver into his waistband and downed his drink in one go. He felt like he would need it by the end of the day. So as the speech ended and the dusters and hats were revealed, Quinn straightened up and gave a half salute. His voice was raised over the din and he could only grin like the corellian he was.

“Well, I for one am convinced entirely. Ive seen Hiro here in a bad spot, and he sure as hell could handle himself. Besides, as long as the Whiskey keeps flowin’ whats not to love?”

So the Corellian strolled up next to the Kid and grabbed the Duster there, setting his drink down and shrugging off his to replace it with the new one. At which point he turned to look at the rest of the people there. His smirk only grew as he eyed each and every one of them. He grabbed his drink and raised it high.

“Well, what are you lot waiting for? The sooner we finish this business, the sooner we can celebrate it with more drink!”

 

[Chairdor]

Things were getting very busy for Vince as he moved up and down the bar filling drink orders, he had a lot in stock, but if this continued he was sure to run out, especially with the free aspect. Still he had come to like quite a few of these people, they were strong drinkers all with their own tastes and style, like the many drinks he had lined behind him, they all seemed to have their own distinctive flavor, yet they all had the same purpose. Vince was getting to like the idea Hiro put forth more and more, especially since he had a few jobs he wouldn't mind having done. Before he could even think of that however he got quite an unusual order, cherry coke, no alcohol, blasphemy, but Vince did love a challenge so holding his usual urges back he merely poured a cola then threw a few cherries into the mix to get a true cherry coke taste. Sending it down the bar with the water he watched as the man walked off and thus the drinks nearly slid off the bar, luckily Vince had thrown them just fine and they ended up sitting on the lip of the bar.

Sighing the drink master continued wiping down glasses and working his mouth taking orders and smiling, little by little, that smile became more genuine. While he had never considered this place more than another stop on a long dysfunctional road trip he called life, he began to rethink it as a more permanent abode. And it was good to be home.

Ross continued to hand out dusters and throwing out hats like bantha fodder to well...bantha. As he did Hiro noted the man approaching the stage and took his hand gladly, he didn't recognize the man, but figured he either slipped in when another person was entering or Ross or someone had cleared him, in any case it was lucky that the man didn't seem a threat and in fact seemed prepared to help the newly formed Rangers,

"I ppreciate the gesture pardner and I'm sure we got plenty of things you could help out with and- and- well hello there young man," the droid looked down to the inquisitive fellow, his masked face concealing a mechanical smile as the young spark asked for a hat, before he could respond another young person approached.

Hiro didn't quite no what to think of this influx of youth and he certainly hadn't thought of daycare possibilities when he set this up, still the young kids had spark and he was in no position to squash their youthful exuberance,

Taking a hat and measuring it's diameter he placed it on the young boys head noting it fit perfectly, looking to the young girl as well he said,

"Course yall can have hats, but they ain't free, in return you gotta promise me one thang, you gotta stay outta trouble an lissen to your paws, they're good men and they'll raise ya right to be strong bringers a justice like them," tipping his own hat to the energetic youngsters, Hiro was more than happy to see Quinn take up this new opportunity and mantle of opportunity very seriously. Noting his final toast of sort, he swiftly shot up his fist and cried,

"Here here!"

 

[Schwarz]

Nar Shaddaa was left behind, Le-Kenn now was reading to Zonju V.

Soon he arrived, landing he saw what he expected, a fallen city. Many criminals were walking on the streets, with thugs, evil mercenaries, thieves and smugglers. All that scum that Le-Kenn hate. During his way to the Saloon he went into the marketplace, there seemed to be a place of peace, nevertheless he didn’t like that and thought that Hiro was correct and really there was much to be done, so for sure he would be useful there. Was hard to Le-Kenn not involve himself and act immediately to purge that scum, however he focused his mind in accomplish his way to meet that man named Hiro, maybe latter he would investigate all that gangs and then find what he could do to punish the people of that lost planet.

While he was walking, a band of thugs were seeking him since he landed, Le-Kenn had felling it till the beginning but was ignoring them, there was five men armed, two with hand blasters and three with knives. They assumed that Le-Kenn was unarmed, since they saw many outsiders landing, however all were fully armed, but Le-Kenn not.

To not alarm the people, Le-Kenn headed to an alley, outside the market, they went in as well, so Le-Kenn asked. “Did you want something from me?” One of them aiming his blaster to Le-Kenn said “Hey outsider, you’re new here ahn? So you need pay to walk on our land, give to us 200, now! Or…” and moving his hand the other aimed their blasters and knives to Le-Kenn, then he completed “… you will pay to be under our land! Hahahaha!” They soundly laughed, on that moment Le-Kenn thought that was his chance, since they were distracted laughing, so concentrating himself with a movement of his hand he drew his lightsaber and jumped into the middle of them spinning in the air, two were stroke and died instantly, the leader turned to his side and desperately pulled the trigger, the other two ran gripped with fear, saying “Damn! Why a Jedi is here!!” Le-Kenn was looking firmly to those two running and also concentrated in the blaster shot coming in his direction, so with his saber he deflected the shot in the direction of the ones escaping, the blaster hit the back of one and he fell in the ground, however the another one successfully escaped. The leader dropped his weapon and said “Please don’t kill me Jedi! The Jedi don’t kill ahn??” So Le-Kenn said “I’m not Jedi” and with a fast movement he nailed his lightsaber in the chest of the thug. Turning his back, Le-Kenn returned his way to the Saloon.

After leaving the alley he finally reached at the Saloon. There were many people of all kind, maybe Hiro called them as well, he examined them all and walked slowly in the direction of the bartender asking “Where is Hiro?”

 

[Xysis]

Ordon took shot after shot. Three shots down and a tall stiff drink to wash it all down. That's definitely what the med droid had prescribed. Especially since the little girl walked in with her dad. Ordon's heart cried with pain, so he used all of the tall stiff drink in one gulp to drown the pain. He caught Vince's attention pointing down at the glass for a refill and dropping 10 credits for a tip. Scrap jumped down onto the bar and curled up, keeping his head perked up and vigil, flicking his tongue every once in a while.

He listened to Hiro. What he said made sense. He couldn't protect Correilla anymore, but he can at least still do some good. The "Rancor" did his best to be like durasteel and avoid looking at the children and their fathers. "Looks like I'm going to be spending some time more to myself." He thought. Ordon said thanks as he received his Waste Ranger uniform. A uniform, he belongs somewhere again. The galaxy thrust pain on him, so now its time to save others from that pain. He smiled as he polished the badge. His body went from slumping to more of a rigid proudful stance. Your can take the man out of the military, but you can't take the military out of the man. Ordon tucked the miscreant into his belt and placed the badge onto as well as he walked up to Hiro.

"Hiro Sir, the name is Ordon Korr. Also known as Rancor. Its an honor and privilege to meet you and be part of something this galaxy needs. A light in the darkness." Ordon almost saluted Hiro, but stopped and then extended his hand to Hiro. Scrap flew from the bar to Ordon's shoulder,pausing and then hissed at Hiro. "It's alright. He's okay by me." Ordon said to his flying lizard.