Unlikely Buddies

[Prudence]

These things always did tend to start in a Cantina, didn't they? That was the thought running through Terrant Kast's mind as he approached the seedy joint before him. The building seemed to have been more carved into the city, rather than constructed in any sort. It's walls were stained with the wear of time, and was patched together with an assortment of different materials including various stones, durasteel, & plastoid. The door looked like it'd been made of a repurposed starfighter hull, and the sign had blaster marks in it. The Mandalorian simply shook his head and ducked through the doorway, careful not to hit his head on the frame, and looked around the establishment. The music playing from the nearby Bith & Human band was a popular tune that he'd heard in most establishments through the Mid & Outer Rim. Kast reached for his head and popped his helmet off, its seal letting forth an audible hiss as it slid off his head. Blinking a few times to adjust his eyes to the unfiltered light, he clipped the battered helmet to his belt.

Slowly he waded through the crowd, his helmet bouncing against his thigh-plate with an audible clinking as he took each step, and occasionally battering the legs of passersbys. His square stature, and the amount of weapons strapped to him discouraged any complaints greater than an ugly look, however. He approached the bar where he'd been told to meet his contact, and soon found the sleazy character he'd been communicating with. The man was a Devaronian, one horn half cut off, wearing a greasy calf-length overcoat and a grungy tunic. Sliding onto the stool next to him, Terrant began to wave the bartender over to take his order, but the Devaronian cut him off "Don't wa-wa-waste your time partner, I'm not going to stick around long enough for you to get your drink. I do-do-don't really like dealing with mercenaries, and I don't like this establishment."

Terrant slowly lowered the hand that had been flagging the bartender down, and turned his head to cast an annoyed expression, "Alright then, I don't particularly enjoy sleazy patrons so why don't you begin telling me what you'd like to hire my services for before I go ahead and leave?"

The man squinted his eyes and took a puff of an electro-vapor-cigarra, letting the vapor out of his mouth edgily, as if he relied upon it to breathe. "It's a simple snatch and grab op-op-operation," the Devaronian stuttered out, "You'll be af-af-afforded a partner, who's already been briefed with information as to where you're going. He-he-here is a datadisk with more information... I'll be going now." With that, the alien stood and left, weaving through the crowd and becoming indistinguishable from the other patrons in the establishment. Terrant blinked a few times, clearly annoyed with what he'd been dealt, but he then swiveled his body to face the direction that the Devaronian had motioned when he'd been speaking. His eyes came to rest on a fresh faced flyboy, and he let out an audible sigh - this would be one of those missions. Sliding off his stool he wove through the crowd, sliding onto the booth across from the pilot, "I suppose you're my partner on this then?"

@TAC

 

[TAC]

Some world probably in the outer-rim.

"What an absolutely dreary place," Willi said to himself. The starship captain walked leisurely through the colorful streets of the backwater planet, taking in the sights, smells, and sounds - the good, the bad, and the ugly. William Prescott walked at a leisure pace, taking care to experience the unique characteristics of the world. The market stalls along the busy street offered food and trinkets, the bustle and ambiance interchangeable with market streets from here to Coruscant. Every world had their cultural nuances and flavors, but Willi was blown away by the similarities sentients shared - those developed independently and learned.

The ace pilot was to meet his contact at a local cantina, Mr. and Mrs. Wuf, a mom & pop sorta place. The run-down shops and homes, about three stories high and made of whatever salvage the locals had stripped off of travelers, matched the decor of the Wuf. What made the "architecture" even more striking beyond its composition was the colors - some roof sidings a light salmon, others a deep beige, while most were the traditional manufacturer's grey. Willi noted that the sign above the door was actually the same color as his skin, minus the blaster marks which had scorched the first few letters of 'cantina' away. Not a good sign, the Zeltron mused to himself as he ambled in the front door.

The crowded, smoked filled room was noisy enough to be alive, but at a respectable low-din that was appropriate for the cantina atmosphere. Willi had read many a holonovel that had tried and desperately failed to capture the novelty of this cantina's ambiance. His contact said he would meet him at the bar, which had been fine for the Zeltron. A good drink was always the best way to start a mission.

"R-r-ripping debate in the House today. Old Basil spoke for th-th-three hours. D-d-dropped dead at the end of it. Haaahhh," came a humanoid's voice from the end of the bar. Willi winced as he took his alcohol - something Corellian, something with quite a kick, but exactly what he did not know. The contact had a stutter when Willi had spoken to him, and so he assumed that was him. He walked over to the man, tapping his shoulder with a quick and none-too-serious 'one, two, three.' The human man whipped around, blaster out and aimed at Willi's stomach, and the Zeltron could do little more than greet him with a grin and a somewhat surprised expression.

"The name's Prescott. You looking for me?" he asked, carefully yet warmly, allowing his pheromones to embrace the human. The man gave him a look up and down, and Willi noted the 'Bottomely' named tag sewn into the mechanics overalls. "N-n-n-no," the man replied. Willi nodded as if agreeing, his eyebrows high, and with arms still out but relaxed he turned and walked back his place at the bar. He didn't look back at Bottomely.

"Ca-ca-ca-captain Prescott?" asked a Devaronian, flashing his yellow and nastily sharp teeth at the Zeltron. Grinning back menacingly back, Willi responded with a quick chortle and said, "Quite right." The alien nodded fiercely and then twitched a bit at the end. Willi found his eyebrows raising once more, and then took another drag at the Corellian ale. He was already feeling it? Wow. "Wa-wa-wait for me over there," the alien commanded, and pointed a long arm tipped by too-long, yellowing fingernails towards an empty booth. Willi realized his eyebrows had never descended, and after momentarily considering taking his drink for the road, he concluded that he honestly had nothing better to do.

Throwing a few credits at the bartender, he grabbed two more of the same drink - the way you grab three glasses with your thumbs and first two fingers of both hands, as he had not yet finished the first drink - and happily carried them off to the booth. He polished the first off, and he realized he had a buzz. William Lathia Prescott drank a lot of alcohol, and so whatever the hell this must be had quite a kick. Working his way through the second drink as diligently as a Twi'lek dancer works through the second of a set, he nonchalantly surveyed the cantina. The Devaronian with the speech impediment - maybe his contact, maybe a front for his contact - sat unmoving at the bar while he watched the front door. Roughly two dozen patrons enjoyed the cantina with varying degrees of enjoyment, volume, and arm movement. Some of the aliens lacked obvious arms, which on the whole brought the general average-arm-movement-per-patron down. But that didn't bother Willi.

Eventually, about a half-hour later and into Willi's fifth drink of the particularly strong ale, a Mandalorian walked in. Willi had a good view of the bloke, along with the rest of those assembled, and his alien friend seemed especially intent on watching the entrance of the newcomer. The hiss of the rough-and-gruff type caught the attention of the patrons who hadn't first seen him come in, but most went back to their own business. No good messing with the Mandalorian type. As he walked in and sat down, Willi noticed that a pack of street rats - four thugs including one human, one Twi'lek, one Gamorrean, and one Codru-Ji - seemed especially intent on their interaction. It was an odd pairing, the four of them, and immediately something in the back of the now drunk Zeltron's mind went off like fireworks. But he did astoundingly little to show.

Within a few minutes, the Devaronian peeled out of the bar, leaving the Mandalorian after pointing Willi out. The Zeltron's allusive contact? A hitman sent to kill poor Willi? The supposed partner for the venture, as previously discussed? An accomplice to the four ruffians? Willi had no idea, and while he figured it was probably the first or the third, he was particularly interested in the potential of the second and fourth.

The Mandalorian, visibly annoyed - which further worried the Zeltron - slipped into the stuffy booth across from Willi. The latter was relaxed back into the booth's back corner, one leg up on the booth-seat with his left arm drapped over it, his right arm and hand out of view as they hovered close - but not too close - to the blaster strapped to his right leg. The Mandalorian said something about partners, Willi couldn't be too sure exactly what, but it nonetheless called for a nice, short sigh of relief. At least the Mandalorian wouldn't be trying to kill him. Willi's eyes flicked over to the four brutes seated across the cantina. One of them made eye contact with him while they furiously spoke amongst themselves. Willi let out another sigh, this one a little longer and more pained, before sitting up straight and looking to his new partner.

"Do you know the rules of a barfight?" he asked simply. His words were clear and spoken pointedly, he was confident, blissfully unaware of how much he had drank and how it slowed down how quickly he spoke. His pheromones were radiating wildly, although he doubted he could turn on the big, tough Mandalorian too much. He allowed a few seconds for the Mandalorian to respond, but had never really planned to listen. "They are simple. Don't break the tables. Chairs are fair game. Don't involve the bartender. Don't involve other patrons. Don't break the front glass." Willi leaned to the side drunkenly, looking past the Mando before sitting erect ocne more. "There's no front window, so put that one in your fancy man pocket for later." Every 'p' was very forcefully dictated when he spoke. He was surely drunk.

"But the most important rule," Willi said, his voice whispering to a hush as he leaned in, "Never be the amateur who pulls his blaster first."

With that, Willi practically threw himself to his feet, launching himself clear of the booth and flat on to the nearest table. Everyone gasped and the patrons sitting there shouted loud, profane words at the Zeltron as the rest looked on. From his position lying on his stomach, Willi flicked the hair from his face and looked around. "Oh good! The Jizz band is still jizzing! What great showmanship!" The attention of the bar turned quickly to the four ruffians, however, as they simultaneously and very eerily stood, lining up horizontally across from Willi and his new friend. Many of the patrons took that as a cue to leave, including those who had their drinks spilled by Willi. Others simply moved to clear a path between the four and the two, but wanting to stay and watch. Looked like quite a show was abut to commence.

@Prudence

 

[Prudence]

Terrant's senses were entirely too alert, having enjoyed no alcohol to dull them. While pushing through the sea of disgusting individuals lingering and 'dancing' in between the bar and the booths, something caught his eye. Having developed a penchant for fighting, and general violence, since a young age he had picked up a natural talent for spotting potential threats in his peripheral. As his eyes darted through the room, they settled upon a somewhat distant, but definitely together group of individuals lingering towards the walls of the bar. It was an unlikely group of thugs, two meager sized - one a human and one a Twi'lek - and two unfortunately large - a Gamorrean and a Codru-Ji. They seemed to be attempting to blend into the back of the bar, drawing little attention from the other patrons as the human pretended to nurse an empty drink, but Terrant tucked them away into the back of his mind. Reaching the booth he commented on the seeming nature of their relationship, which elicited an unexpected sigh from the flyboy. Terrant's seat was, unfortunately, with its back facing the thugs. The positioning left him feeling rather uncomfortable, as the tactical man in him didn't enjoy turning his back to a thread, but he kept his senses keen and remained upright.

He was all too aware of the shift in the pilot's posture as he let out the sigh, shifting away from what was likely a quick-draw posture on a thigh-holstered blaster, ready to fire on Terrant should he be a less-friendly visitor. How nice, my partner is trigger happy... He wasn't even able to finish the thought as the drunken man across from him began to speak. The new chatter drew Terrant's attention, and he cocked an eyebrow at the man's appearance. His eyes darted across the man- no the boy- 's appearance, and was very suddenly aware that he wasn't as entirely human as Terrant had thought. The slight purple/pink tint to his skin gave away Zeltronian genetics, which was quickly confirmed as he felt a stirring in his gut. The sensation was a familiar one that he had grown accustomed to when interacting with Zeltronians, a natural pheremonal defense mechanism to disarm, or seduce, the individuals they interacted with. As the man rattled on about the rules of a bar fight, he noted that the man's speech didn't sound entirely natural. It was slowed, as if he had to spend a second considering each word, leading Terrant to believe the man was very intoxicated. Fucking great, a trigger happy, drunk, partner. He began to wrap up his speech about bar-fight rules, and Terrant's eyes began to cut to the area adjacent to their small booth, carved into the cantina wall. With a quick snatch of his hand he retrieved a bottle from the tray of a nearby serving-droid, downing the Corellian beer that was likely meant for a patron several booths down, without alerting the droid to his sleight of hand. If he was going to get into a fight with a drunk Zeltronian pilot as his only partner, he was going to need a little bit of alcohol in his blood. "That's about the jist of it as I remember it."

As the last of the beer flooded his throat he could see his partner stagger to his feet, before planting himself on a nearby table. Terrant laid the bottle on the table, carefully pulling his helmet onto his head and sealing it with a click, before retrieving the bottle once more, and holding it upside down in his left hand. With his right he retrieved a stun baton that he used on more sensitive missions, and gracefully slid himself from the booth. Standing a couple inches taller than his partner, and holding himself significantly more sober, Terrant hoped to offset the advantage that they likely thought they had after his display. The crowd that Terrant had once had to push his way through parted like a religious sea, leaving a clear path between those who had deemed themselves combatants, surrounded by those who had deemed themselves spectators. It was squaring up to be 4-on-2, which were better odds than Terrant had found himself in before. Terrant began to twirl his baton in his right hand, drawing the attention of the Gamorrean towards the moving target, and away from the bottle in his left hand. Bringing it up, parallel to his helmet, he then brought it down in a fast downward-diagonal manner, smacking it against the side of the Gamorrean's head as he lunged forward, the beast let out a wail and took several steps backwards to recover himself. Terrant pressed on, his baton now coming down across the side of the beast's face, sending tendrils of arcing electricity into its face, before jabbing into its gut. This lead the alien to shriek and wail, writhing to its knees.

Terrant was preparing a strong downward blow to finish it off when a chair met him in the side, sending him tumbling into a roll. His vision became blurred as he rolled into the nearest wall, his journey ended abruptly by its hard surface. He made his way to his hands and knees, turning his head to look where the chair had come from, and he could see the Codru-Ji cracking the knuckles on his four hands as he approached Terrant with a quick and aggressive pace. "Oh this is great. This is just great." His mechanical voice hissed through the speakers on his helmet as he rolled into another booth devoid of patrons to take cover from the storming Codru-Ji. Finding himself now sitting upright on his rear, he slid himself with his legs under the table, toppling it onto its side to act as a shield, hoping the Codru-Ji would at least be slowed down by it during his approach. He hoped that his partner, a man entirely unintroduced, was fairing better than he.