With Friends Like These

[Leviticus]

"They're on my left!"

"Enemy reinforcements on the horizon!"​

"Look out! Behind you!"​

A hundred different voices roar above the clamor of battle. Lightsabers, red to blue, flicker across the sprawling battlefield. Fire gnaws the shattered homes and bloodied fields, threatening to consume them all. But nobody cares, nobody stops to look at the carnage that stretched as far as the eye could see— nobody but a stilted boy. His blade, a mix of clear-cut sapphire and crystalline ice, hovered at his side. Both of his eyes were burrowed into each socket. His lips were chapped and throat dry from the constant fighting. His robes were tattered and armor littered with burn marks and wide clefts. A trail of blood trickled down in the middle, but it was not his own.

His face twisted around, searching for an end or an escape. Except, there was nothing. Nothing but the battle that seemed to rage on without time nor care. At his feet, a familiar Jedi Knight laid lifeless on the ground. Her hair draped over the dirt, blood dripping from her lips. Next to her, an Exile likewise sat lifelessly. His mask torn in two, and face marred with a single, cauterized slash. Each led their own life, upheld their own beliefs, concocted their own dreams. But in the end, the war destroyed them. They would become just another statistic, just another casualty, in this century-long conflict.

The boy, barely a man, unfastened his attention from the two bodies. He turned to face his closest friend, a younger woman, who now reeled back from an attack by a vagrant Exile. Fear swelled within her, and she glanced back to the boy, one last time. He stumbled ahead, desperate to save her. Running now, his armored boots struggled through the mud, but he is too slow, and the Exile is too fast. As he reached out with his own blade, the Exile drove their seething blade forward. Red light pierced the girl's chest, and the boy screamed:

"—No!" Leviticus lurched out from under the sheets. Sweat crawled down the side of his head, and rank heat stifled his throat. He clung to his chest before rising out from the bed. Above him, the faint hum of the fan mirrored his short-winded breath. Outside, through the slender crack of a window, flashes of light seeped through, either from passing city speeders or neighboring advertisements. Nar Shaddaa was a world of activity, always in perpetual motion. The world was just like Coruscant, just with shittier air and crime. But that didn't faze the former Knight.

He had slept on worlds far deadlier, and far filthier, than the likes of Nar Shaddaa. If anything, Leviticus was only glad to have an actual bed to sleep in, even if it was lush with termites. Although he hadn't just settled on the planet simply to rest— as always, there was business to attend to. Numerous gangs and organizations were stippled across the surface. Organizations with enough credits and weapons to overthrow a planetary government. If the Exiles, or at least Leviticus himself, wanted to properly combat the Jedi Order, they would first need the support of the Cartel.

For now, though, all he wanted was a drink. Something to wash away the nightmares that still chewed at his mind. Even if it was just for one night, it was relief regardless. So, slipping on some regular civilian clothes and tucking away the darkness within, Leviticus drifted out from his shoddy apartment complex and toward the nearest cantina. The Nag's Head, as it was called, was like any ordinary bar on Nar Shaddaa: rancid and remarkably shabby. But, it was close, and their drinks didn't taste like complete piss, so it would make due.

Slipping into the shoddy establishment, he took a seat and flagged down the bartender. Voice cracked, he beckoned, "Whiskey. Straight up." The bartender grunted with a nod and poured him a shot, which he unsurprisingly downed within the following moment. Although Leviticus was not depressed, nor despondent. In fact, he was upset. No— angry. Not at himself, but at the Jedi. What they did to him, what they allowed to happen... was something he could never forgive. And he wasn't going to rest until every last one of them was wiped clean from the galaxy.

@Incubus​

 

[Elias]

"Worthwhile? No," the woman declared.

"Armless, destitute. Not worthwhile by any means. The force is an equalizer, if anything. It's substituted your despondent, metal sleeves - the fingers that feel nothing. You have no claim to superiority over anyone else - least of all my people. The slum dwellers of the Narboretum laugh at you, and your attempt to worm your way into our ranks, and into my chair. I suggest you leave," she commanded, her messy black hair nearly shrouding the entirety of her eyes - she was far from professional, but then, she didn't need to be.

"I don't believe in arms," the Exile stated, sarcastically. "Who's to say I didn't remove them myself in protest? Perhaps as part of my sexual explo--"

"Leave," she demanded once more. "I don't wish to maintain poor relations with Kaylar Dro, so I shan't slay his prized tauntaun. But I have no need of your... negotiations. They're meaningless. You have nothing to offer but words, and the Exiles have nothing to offer but subterfuge. I imagine your methods and theirs don't stray too far from one another. No one will invest into their future usurper, dear," she stated, as she fiddled with a thin metal tube, sending shocks through her fingers and wrists as she clicked the gears back and forth. It was a nervous thing - she was restless.

But so was he. There was no need to risk death so early in his inquiries on this moon. Elias left the woman's presence, and hastily fled from the Narboretum, the eyes of slumlords and criminals on his back all the way through. It was... not pleasant. Being born something of an aristocrat of Alderaan, he did not find these streets the most familiar, or welcoming.

"Damn," he swore beneath his breath as he left gang territory. "Shit-eating... bantha arse lickers..." he muttered with a grimace, clearly upset. He'd been threatened and demeaned. Him - an Exile. A force wielder. By... a nothing. She had nothing more than her shoddy upbringing to show, and a vile tongue.

"About face, about face," he whispered, but not literally - he did not turn around. Rather, his expression cleared, and he calmed. He recollected his composure, he sought out the suave front he'd always presented. It was what kept him 'worthwhile', despite the woman's protestations. He would be a Master, a Warlord. He would succeed.

"The Nag's Head," he whispered to himself. It wasn't far from the decrepit shithole he'd just been threatened out of - it would be well to go there, and drink, and watch the dancers. Even if they were all bloody Twi'leks.

Stepping through the doors, which opened before him and closed after, he was consumed by the atmosphere and stench of the club. Drinks, people, yelling in all manner of language. There were, of course, the abominations - essentially most species that went as far as the Outer Rim. But then there were other humans, men and women, and he decided he'd seat himself among them. There was nothing like conversation to inspire his calm, and remind him of the greatness that Anarsynthesism had inspired in his life. He only needed direction. It had been too long without it.

The Exile seated himself beside another man, with whiskey settled before him on the countertop. Looking to the bartender, he beckoned, "I'll have the same," he stated, sliding his finger over his other palm as a few credits drained from his account. Looking to Leviticus, he tilted his head up and nodded approvingly. "Charming beard."

 

[Leviticus]

Shitty music and muffled voices continued to clamor together as Leviticus downed another shot of whiskey. However, once he smacked the glass into the countertop and nodded to the bartender for another, this time he was no longer alone. Beside him, a strange man called up for the same drink, no doubt smirking as he transferred the necessary credits. Already, Leviticus knew what was about to come next. Some seemingly suave compliment, followed by a terribly cliché pick-up line. Since staking out on Nar Shaddaa, in fact, it had always been like that. Shady old creeps looking for manikin to smash, or drunk young women desperate for a little “light in their life,” as ironic as that was, given his whole dark side getup. In the end, he was just a puppet for them, like the Jedi. And he hated it.

So, the second the man let loose some flattery, Leviticus just about rolled his eyes into the back of his skull. At least, until he glanced over at the other man. To his own surprise, he wasn’t that bad to look at. Sharp nose, clean stubble, trimmed hair. In fact, in comparison to most anyone on the godforsaken rock that was Nar Shaddaa, one could say he was the best-looking among the bunch (though that wasn’t saying much). Although looks could be deceiving, and he had learned that the hard way a long time ago. Already he can remember the young woman, clad in nothing but remarkably slim lingerie, goading him back to her place. And being the self-absorbed rascal that he was, he just couldn’t refuse. Next thing he knew? All his shit was gone. Clothes included. And let’s just say, the walk back home wasn't exactly a fun one.

Even still, Levi couldn’t help but tarry a little. And it wasn’t like he’d be caught off guard again, not after what happened. If the stranger made even the slightest attempt against him, then he wouldn’t hesitate crushing his esophagus like a sack of goddamn noodles. Or, maybe he’d end up giving him a new set of legs, too. Perhaps to match his arms? No— what was he thinking? Not everyone on Nar Shaddaa is a two-faced, backstabbing, double-dealing asshole. Well, almost everyone.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Leviticus quipped as the bartender brought in another glass of whiskey. He guzzled it down in the next moment, before eying the other man up and down. He chuckled. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

 

[Elias]

You're not so bad yourself, the other man declared, to which Elias replied with a nod. "I'm not," he said rather humbly, a chuckle escaping his lips. He gathered a closer look at the other fellow. He was rugged, certainly, but he had smooth skin and charming features. He wasn't stubby or short, nor the most lanky. He was just right, though the assessment resulted in Elias feeling like a vile lecher. Just right, he remarked internally, trying to withdraw a laugh at his own... well. Creepiness.

"No," he changed the subject. "I'm from Alderaan, originally. There were lots of beards there, too, but none so discerning as yours," he continued to tease, seemingly obsessed with the man's beard, at least for humor's sake. But, as he realized the situation he'd settled into, the jokes and teases did not feel entirely right. Something else -- something else began to pull at him, averting his eyes, cornering his thoughts.

Tapping at the table with infrequent beats, and guzzling at his whiskey, the man stared quietly at the other as he carefully constructed his speech. A lingering thought had surfaced, the longer he looked. This man was pretty clearly one of them, the mainline Exiles. Wasn't he? He looked like one. Dressed like one would. Felt like one. But he wasn't sure.

If he was, he knew he needed to be careful. He could sneer and jeer at the people of the Outer Rim endlessly, because from his own perception at least, they were beneath him. They could not contest him, nor match him in his games. But another Exile - that was a different story altogether. As handsome as he was, Elias was not so interested as he was disconcerted. The force pulled him into that seat without apprehension, and now seemed to revel in the fact that he eagerly wished to escape it.

Sod it, he told himself. He resolved to test the waters, even if they were murky, or prone to flood. Leaning his side onto the counter, he glanced to the other male, and began to assert... a pressure. The force, drilling into his mind, a creeping intrusion. Elias kept his hand upon his waist, and the long handle of Calderon. If this man was one of his own after all, then surely such a glance would not be appreciated.

 

[Leviticus]

“Well, I’m almost flattered,” Leviticus answered, fingers raking through the light beard that clung to his jaw before returning back to another shot of hard whiskey. Again, he downed it in a single, foul swoop. He wasn’t much of a talker, not since he had abandoned the tenants of the Jedi Order. Before then, he was always smiling, always chatting among friends. Then? His friends died, his smile faded, and there was no one in the galaxy left to fill the void that the war had allotted. And while drinking hard liquor or flirting with strangers did little to fill the space, it damn sure was better than staying sprawled in his shitshow apartment, desperate to find sleep only instead to stumble into another fear-driven nightmare.

Letting the fourth shot glass sit empty on the countertop, he fixed his attention back to the man at his side. Even as his mind teetered on the brink of intoxication, and the taste of alcohol just about saturated his lips, he couldn’t help but feel unusually… estranged. As if he was being watched, observed, analyzed. Like the other man’s gaze was taking him apart and piecing him back together again. And it wasn’t just that, but he could the force bridle inside of him, calling him out. Was it a warning, or signal to continue? Or was the alcohol already taking hold of his mind, driving him into faint paranoia and vague suspicions? At least, that was what Levi thought, until he felt something press against his temple. Someone was trying to get inside his head.

His right eye twitched, but Leviticus made no other indication of his realization. Rather, his mind exploded with a hundred different thoughts, questions, and answers. Then, he took a longer look at the other man, and in an instant, connected the dots. Fear, anger, and frustration swelled up inside him, but again, he hid it all beneath the surface of a blank grimace. He would allow the man, Jedi or Exile, to drill deep enough into his mind so as not to alarm him, but at the same time, not to uncover anything Levi would want revealed— like Prakith, like Valerian, like his own whereabouts. No, by the time he would reach that far, Leviticus would have the man tied at the end of a string.

As the bartender brought him another final shot of whiskey, he guzzled it down and sighed. “And here I thought someone actually cared— I shouldn’t be surprised.” Then, suddenly, he smashed the small glass cup into the side of the counter and pressed it on the side of the man’s throat, just below his jugular vein. At the same time, the force building within him would rupture outward, blocking the intrusion but ultimately revealing his presence as an Exile. “Who the flying f*ck are you and what the hell do you want?”

 

[Elias]

Resistance. So there the answer laid. As the tendrils plunged into the foreign mindscape, they were repelled, but not immediately. For a time, he could see. Feel. He caught glances, whispers of broken words, images of worlds in turmoil. A battle. One... that Elias had seen before. For so long, the Anarsynthetic had fought for the Jedi, and this mind was not isolated in the depravity it had known. He found himself sympathetic. The images surely evoked different feelings in each of them, but - the pain was the same. A memory of the past. Somehow, the shots and sabers and screams almost played into a sort of loyalty. When he remembered the battles, he remembered his comrades. The ones who protected him. Who he cared about.

Even as an Exile, it was hard to forget. And this man - perhaps he knew that. But the images faded. Finally, he was repelled, and Elias was exposed to the grimace and the snarl that escaped as the glass broke against the counter-top, before a fragment was pressed jaggedly against his skin. "Ugh-" he sounded, gulping. It happened quickly. There was danger in exploring one's mind - being forcefully removed was a disorienting thing. He had yet to recollect himself, yet already the advantage was clear.

His hands still pressed lightly into the switch that would ignite Calderon, but he didn't imagine it mattered. A mutual death was not something he aspired to, and even though the blade was long and positioned to spear through the other, it would not save his, admittedly sensitive, neck.

"Never said I didn't care. If I wasn't interested, I wouldn't have looked, obviously," he stated, eyes narrowing slightly as he attempted to feign composure. He really wasn't looking to die, but... begging and pleading wasn't the right way to go, either.

"I wanted to know the source of the oddity. The feeling. I knew that if you were... like me, sensitive to the force, you would know about my... loose curiosity. My prying. But don't conflate it with spying. If I'd been sent to gather information on you, I would know who you are. And if I knew that, I wouldn't poke into your brain in the middle of a cantina in Nar Shaddaa. I'd at least have waited for you to get a lot more drunk," he explained, and impressively honestly, he noted to himself.

He closed his eyes, as if surrendering. Submitting. "If you take the bloody shot glass from my throat, I'll tell you who I am. And you'll say, wow, trivial. I should've killed you for being so irrelevant. Just don't be unkind, please? I'm really a harmless man."

 

[Leviticus]

He pressed the sharpened glass closer into his throat, almost enough to draw out blood, but Levi stopped himself short. “Smartass,” he murmured, before pulling the makeshift weapon away from his throat. As much as he hated the thought of his mind being meddled with by another, and as much as he craved retribution, the man had a fair point. If he was a prying spy, or an agent of the Order, he wouldn’t have so brazenly met him face-to-face, especially when he was still sober. Well, semi-sober. A real threat would lay in wait, and pounce onto its prey when the opportunity ever presented itself. Leviticus knew this, because he himself had done this many times. And the fact that he could have befallen a similar fate unnerved him. Fortunately, this man was not an enemy. But that didn’t mean he could trust him any more or less than before.

Placing the smashed piece of glass back on the counter, he glanced back to the other patrons in the bar. They had grown deathly silent, eyes peeled toward the pair, just waiting for someone to die— as was seemingly custom on Nar Shaddaa. Except, nobody died, so as Levi waved his hand around dismissively, the cantina returned to its typical bustle as if nothing had ever happened. The terrible music replayed, the clink of liquor returned, and the muffled voices harked back. Leviticus, meanwhile, returned his focus to the stranger beside him. “A harmless man wouldn’t have tried to worm their way into someone else’s head,” he jabbed. “If you really wanted to find out who the shit I was, you could have just bloody asked.” He rolled his eyes. While, in truth, Levi would have never answered any such question, he didn’t care to admit it. He was the victim here, not the random prig making senseless jokes or an attempt at some half-baked flirting. Then again, it wasn’t like Levi rebuffed his advances…

Oh, what was he thinking? This whole ordeal— no, this whole night, was just a bizarre rollercoaster of mishaps. Why couldn’t he get drunk in peace, or at least wake up in any way but startled and soaked in sweat? One second he was slipping into a state of content, only to be ripped back into sobriety (and ultimately reality) by some presumptuous Exile. If he was one, that is, which he’d yet to confirm. Even if he was with the Exiles, again, there was no way he could trust him. Levi had fought with more than a handful of Exiles beforehand, usually for the most unexpected reasons. For example: threatening to cut open someone's throat for trying to peek into his head. Ten seconds ago. He supposed this night was just all sorts of crazy, and he had only just woke up.

“Alright, alright, alright,” he echoed, once again waving his hand dismissively. He didn’t even bother to look the man in the eye, already succumbing to exhaustion. The drinks, and the night, was already starting to take its toll on him. All he wanted now was some relief and some answers, so he questioned again, this time without a knife to the man's throat: “Just tell me who you are and what the f*ck you want, alright?” As always, Leviticus was straight to the point. He had never been one for small talk, or pleasantries, unless there was something to gain out of it. But now? There was nothing more the stranger could offer but some peace and quiet, because it was clear he wasn't here to pay for his drinks, or to shag.

 

[Elias]

"A harmless man wouldn't have tried to worm their way into someone else's head," the man retorted, a statement which Elias could only defeatedly agree with. "True," he responded, exhaling. At least the glass was gone from his throat, and the people weren't all... staring. The Exile could only lament just how poorly the night had been for his reputation. First, he'd been threatened out of a whole district of the metro, and now -- he was resorting to sarcasm to save his life. That was certainly an uncommon weapon of war.

"Well, fair enough, sweetheart," he nodded sagely, rocking his head back and forth as his arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed nearly to the point of closing. And then, they did close, and he took one last breath of relief - yeah, he wasn't going to die. Thank f*ck.

"Alright," his eyes slowly reopened, though his expression remained rather stoic, if not for the slightest glimmer of what appeared to be amusement. Somehow. "I'll ask, then. What's your name? Didn't quite catch that one while I was... exploring you. Some other things, but not that," he stated. As he did, the Anarsynthetic determined something -- why not delve into the things he had seen? This was where they had common ground.

"I saw a nasty battle, though - it consumed almost everything that I could see. A vast conflict, one that I have known. I must have known - we must've landed on the same fields, and fought for the same falsehoods. You can't be much older, or younger, than I am. And I was a Jedi for so long, until so recently," he whispered, bringing his fingers together, only for them to nervously shuffle about.

"I'm Elias," he finally answered. "Elias Canaan, once Knight of the Republic. I cover that fact well with my long sleeves, but," he peeled back his black leather gloves, revealing a synthetic hand. It looked similar in shape and proportion to a real one, but rather than skin, it was a grey synthetic weave. Metallic, though the palms held a smooth texture - his only recourse for the skin he lost.

The man lowered his eyes. "I was punished when my service ended. So now I'm no one - armless. Mocked. An Exile, but barely. I'm just a curious... thing. And I want nothing. At least, I wanted nothing from your mind. It was just my way of catching your interest, I guess. And it worked," he laughed, noting that - actually - it really did work. They were talking, for real - he wasn't just... anonymous cantina suitor number four sixty three. No, he was Elias, a fellow Exile, someone who had braved the same fields of battle. Someone who knew.

Hopefully, that mattered. Because somehow, he felt the force had led him here for more than just an embarrassment. Maybe this man meant... 'something,' as vague as that was.

 

[Leviticus]

The battle, the war. The very mentioned made his eye twitch with disgust, and for a moment, he felt violated. Here, he had thought to shut out all the most vital fragments of his mind when the man was combing through his memories, but he had forgot to shut out the worst— the nightmare. Even when he was awake, he could not stop it from surfacing into the front of his mind. He could not keep it hidden away, or tucked into the farthest, darkest corner of his soul. Instead, it would always be there. Lurking around his thoughts, just waiting to haunt the reality of now. But this man? This Elias Canaan? Who was he to think he had the right to delve into his thoughts, or so openly reveal them? He didn’t truly understand the war, as Levi knew it. He didn’t understand him.

“Sweetheart? Exploring me? Sifting through my memories?” Leviticus mirrored his words, voice drenched in sarcasm and contempt. “And you haven’t even bought me a drink yet. What’s next? A proposal? Are you going to start pouring out your whole life story to me? Offer me advice? Like I give a shit what you think.” He unhooked his gaze from the other man, instead turning his attention back to the countertop.

There, a line of liquor slid through the cracks in the wood, trailing out from the broken glass shot. His eyes, briefly, glanced to the other man again, this time to his metallic arms. He was a former Knight too, once stumbling through the war between Jedi and Exile. He suffered as he suffered, if not more so. He endured pain he could never explain in words. He had fought the same war, the same battles. Hell, he was armless, mocked. Did he really understand, then? Did he really care?

Leviticus paused, before eying to the bartender. “Another, but on the rocks.” The strange man nodded and placed the drink in front of him. Taking a small sip, he kept his eyes forward. Then, he sighed. “The name’s Leviticus. Or just Levi. Nothing more, nothing less.” He had abandoned his name when he left the Order, so it had become nothing but a memory forgotten. “I guess the Jedi kriff’d the both of us up, huh? Them and their stupid wars.”

For once, Levi was opening up. Slowly, but surely. For years, he allowed his emotions to build up inside him, using it to fuel his consumption of the dark side and its power. But for the first time, someone knows what has always been haunting him. Even if he barely knew the man, or seldom cared for them— they knew, and strangely, it consoled him. That someone understood, even if only to a certain degree. Perhaps that was why he felt so pulled to come to this godforsaken bar, or why he couldn’t bring himself to slashing open the other man’s throat. Because maybe this man could amount to something more than just a stranger.

He chuckled to himself. Yeah right. As bloody if.

 

[Elias]

Elias was fairly certain that, actually, through their tense exchange he'd lost his drink as well. As the other man bashed his against the counter, the impact sent Elias' little glass hurling towards the floor. It was a shame - though it only really meant that he'd be paying for another, and then some. The man glanced to the bartender, and half-reluctantly made a decision. "I'll cover his drinks as well, all the ones up 'til now," he told him. The bartender nodded, and Elias glanced at his wrist as his credits took something of a dip. This place didn't have the worst drinks, and in Nar Shaddaa, that meant they were fairly pricey.

"I'm not going to propose to you, no. Not yet anyway," he smirked, ordering - of course - another shot for himself, and downing it with a gulp and a sigh. "I would if I had the balls, though. You're a handsome man, and you've... you have a sheerness to you. Like the icy tundra, or the edge of a cliff. Dangerous, unforgiving, but exhilarating all the same. Threaten my life a few more times, and maybe I will propose. Perhaps as a part of the begging for my life bit," he stated, nodding his head with a face covered in a full grin. Clearly, Elias was a man of... unique preferences, but that was only if he wasn't being sarcastic, which was a strong possibility. One could never know.

Leaning more onto the counter, and fixing his view more directly on the other male, Elias found himself unable to break contact. Now that the ice - or glass - had been broken, he could only ponder upon the other Exile, thinking upon the battles and the guilt they surely both carried. And then, faintly, he felt a clench in his heart as he really delved into it, and thought of his own pains, and the people he dubiously longed for. He'd loathed the Jedi for so long, it was painful to remember that once, he loved them.

"Leviticus," he whispered, pushing his thoughts aside. "I love it -- it suits you. Closer and closer to proposing every moment," he grinned once more, determined to make the impending proposal bit a running gag between them. But as much as he could go on, and tease the man, and talk more on their somewhat mutual prehistory... he almost couldn't. The war, all of the suffering, it was best left far from his memory - at least while they were surrounded by bloodthirsty patrons, and a bar full of drinks. Instead, another thought surfaced, his cautious mind closing in on it.

"Levi--" he started. "I don't know what your motivation is for dwelling in Hutt Space, but I'm going to warn you of something. I forgot this through our rather public debacle, but the Hutt are gaining more and more of a grip on Nar Shaddaa, and they're openly placing bounties on all force wielders entering their domain. Based on our interaction earlier, others might label us as suspicious, and start encoding data on our persons, perhaps even following us. This is right outside of well established gang territory, so perchance we're safe, but... you can never know. Any of these people would sell their souls to the Hutt for the sort of credits they tend to offer," he explained.

Somehow, he didn't think of this predicament earlier, and now that he did... he felt nauseous, rife with anxiety on the matter.

But that did bring him outside of the realm of personal ramblings, and into the sphere of business. Now was the right time to explain his presence on this moon. "I'm here because I want to gain my own grip on this planet. I want to take over the gangs, and force the Hutt to willingly open negotiations with me. I want the Cartels, because they're the great equalizer - whichever half of the pie gets the chunky slug merchants on their side will win," he explained, though in all likelihood he didn't expect Leviticus to be blind to that fact. Nar Shaddaa had been the entry point of a great deal of converging interests - everyone was looking to draw the Hutt to their side. And he couldn't have been the first Exile with such an idea.

"Are you here for the same?" he questioned, forwardly. "If you are, then seek it with me."

 

[Leviticus]

The more Elias teased him, the stranger Leviticus felt. He couldn’t tell whether or not the man was being purely sarcastic, mildly serious, or a mix of both. And in a way, the Exile enjoyed the thought of either approach. It had been a while since he found someone that wasn’t plagued with unnecessary formalities or an utterly sober air. At the same time, it had been a while since the idea of love or affection danced across his mind. He had been so focused on revenge, allowing it to tear him apart, that he had completely cast the thought aside. Instead, his nights were only plodding nightmares or aimless strangers, never to be seen nor spoken to again.

Elias, however, was different. He was able to turn Levi, a man who had distanced himself from reality and bottled up said nightmares, to open up. Although it was but a small crack, he’d done the impossible. If someone else had tried to have him “spill the beans” of his past, he’d have slashed them apart. Then again, he had almost done it with the other man. He was only lucky that he had caught him rash with intoxication. Well, that, and his general appearance. It had been a while since he’d seen something that wasn’t the ass end of some hulking alien, or smelled like the an ocean of bantha shit. So, at his latter offer, Leviticus was intrigued.

Elias was looking to further strengthen the Exiles, broken and scattered as they may be. Leviticus sought a similar approach, especially after a number of missions into Prakith, a potential new base world for the Exiles. After all, he couldn’t fight the Jedi Order on his own. No Exile could. If he wanted to achieve his vengeance completely, he would need more than just his own saber. Elias seemed to understand this. If the Exiles ever wanted to survive this endless war, they would need the help of the Cartels. And while Leviticus tried to hide under a stuffy roof, or sit around bars drinking into a stupor, Elias was out searching for a way to salvage what was left of the Exiles.

“So, you mean to tell me you’ve been wallowing around in this filth trying to get a hold of the Cartels?” He said as he looked at the other man, chin resting in his hand. “Admirable, but you have to realize how futile it is. I would just save your breath and forget this muddy rock. Better not to soil our hands with their kind.” He took another sip from his drink. “But, hard times call for desperate measures. And I do enjoy a challenge.” Out of nowhere, he smirked. “Alright, I’ll help you out. But first, let’s ditch this popsicle stand.” Finishing the last of his drink, he smacked it back onto the counter, but not before nodding to the bartender.

“No offense though, Giles,” he chuckled, then thumbed over to Elias. “But, hey, I just got engaged!” The bartender, staring blandly and not fully understanding his inebriated joke, only nodded back. “Congratulations.”

 

[Elias]

So you mean to tell me you've been wallowing around in this filth trying to get a hold of the Cartels? he opened with, incurring an instinctive nod from the Jedi Exile. "Yeah - and I know it's not pretty, but, that's our option," he explained. This was a matter that impassioned him, and in his mind, there was a great deal of nuance to it. More than he could easily describe. "Let me explain something --" he started, "I didn't leave the Jedi because I wanted to embrace the dark side for power and prestige. I left because I wanted to be free," Elias said, ordering a final drink, though this time he sipped it slowly as he peered at Leviticus with somewhat lowered eyes.

"Yet, despite this, I am to be hunted across the galaxy simply for the crime of abandoning their... virtuous cult. Being forced to leave, nonetheless. I am to find no safety, and enjoy no peace. I am to be hated and feared, and contrasted as being a purely malevolent force. I will never escape this mold, nor will I ever find that freedom I have craved - until the Jedi are eviscerated," he whispered, leaning forward as his expression grew stern, stoic, cold. It was clear enough: he hated the Order, and wanted them dead. All of them. Any who wouldn't abandon that repressive, heartless strata, could join in being culled.

Maybe he was a darksider, maybe he was evil. But he did not begin this way. The Order made him as such, by taking his arms, and punishing him... and forcing him to drudge through the dirt of the Outer Rim, licking the flab from Hutts and begging for his life. He despised what his life had become, and he knew the source of this depravity. It was them.

From all he could imagine, it was likely similar for Leviticus. He wasn't festering in darkness - he was just a man. There was no repulsive, evil energy encircling him, but rather a sort of bitterness, loneliness. The Jedi didn't understand men like him. But Elias did. If anything, he craved that sort of person, and surrounded himself with their like. It was comfortable, it was wild and beautiful.

They would have business, indeed. He was determined that Leviticus would become, if not more, a great friend and ally. So he held out his hand to shake on it, and grinned faintly. "Working with you will be far from a desperate measure, Leviticus. But yes, let's leave this drabness behind. I'm quite unfamiliar with this stench, and it's resulting in a variety of unsavory feelings," he laughed, his words returning to their normal theatrical, posh verbiage.

Collecting his bearings and stretching, he prepared to leave, alongside his new... fiance, apparently. Thinking on it, he supposed sweetheart would have to become the other Exile's new nickname. It would confuse the life out of Hesh, but - no matter.

"Alright, Levi," his palms weaved together behind his back, "where to?"

 

[Leviticus]

Elias was right.

While the Exiles had certainly ravaged a portion of the galaxy amid their war with the Jedi Order, the catastrophe at Ilum was not of their doing. And as a result, they were hunted in every corner of the galaxy. Even though Nar Shaddaa was rampant with bounty hunters, there was nothing that unnerved Leviticus more than Jedi attacking him in the night. While they had good reason to, given his personal vendetta against them, the fact that they never differentiated between the good and bad of any ordinary Exile was a testament in itself. The Jedi had grown ruthless, especially since the war, and Leviticus had to bring an end to their injustice. Not just for all Exiles, though, but also for himself. For his childhood.

He can remember the days when he was just a boy. Running his hands against the wheat and grain from the endless fields of Dantooine. The trees he climbed across, or dangled from, or wallowed beneath whenever he burned out. He even picked the strangest wildflowers from the edge of the field, offering it up to his nameless, seemingly faceless, mother. But the next thing he knew, robed men swept through their village, and picked him up along the way. It was the last time he saw his home and his mother. It was the last time he ever saw peace as it was. By then, he was thrust into an entirely new world. Constant instruction and discipline. But before his training was even over, they tossed him a blade and sent him to fight their battles.

Elias understood this. He knew the terrible lengths that the Jedi would go for survival or dominance. The Exiles were no example of faith and morality, but they sure made better company than that of the Order. At least here, his personal desires and emotions could be free, unfettered, and unchained. Had he stayed with the Jedi, there was no way he’d had ever met the likes of Elias, or even found himself relishing intoxication on some bar in Nar Shaddaa. In truth, he would be nothing but a shadow. A shell of his past, and a pawn to the Order. Just like every other Jedi Knight underneath their entanglement of strings and schemes.

“I have no idea, Elias,” he answered in stark reply, arms crossed once they exited the cantina. Speeders hummed and screeched above them, and the city continued to flash in its multicolored glory. “I might live down the street, but I don’t exactly know every gang or crime syndicate on Nar Shaddaa. Not that there’s just too many to count, but I haven’t really thought about their ilk. Not until now, at least. Been too busy drinking and shit, as I know you understand.” He smirked at the other man. “So, I leave that up to you. Just lead, and I’ll follow. If someone gets in your way, I’ll handle it. Nothing like a lightsaber to do the trick.”

@Incubus