- Joined
- Jan 5, 2012
- Messages
- 1,253
- Reaction score
- 93
Santiago
Entry 1 | Entry 2 | Entry 3 | Entry 4
Exit Settings User CP ........
Name's Santi. Charmed. Here's the deal: a score-odd years ago there's this guy, yeah? Some kid, fresh out of school. Had wine in his eyes, those wet, doey things. Soft around the edges, waif-thin. Thought he owned the place. Got into scuffles with the older kids before, came out on top. Thick fists, yeah? Sharp guy, but kriff if he didn't have a chip off his shoulder big enough to fill the sector.
Had the usual digs. Good, clean threads with those brand names that were all the rage. Listened to the right synth, stuck with the right crowd. Kept his hands in his pockets with this shiteating grin. Chin up, eyes always looking out across the dome. That's how you can tell them apart, the 'Scanti and the spacers. See, spacers keep their eyes level right? They're fresh or weary, taking in the sights and drinking it up like some exotic punch. Maybe they've seen the level before. These docks, those docks, whatever. It's all relative. They snub their noses and click their heels; their boots got those mag-locks with the flashing indicators. Red and green LED. Always step heel first with the loudest bang.
This kid wasn't one of those. Couldn't make the cut. He wore his slacks and coats and sweaters but never those nylon jumpsuits. He stuck on the lower levels. It's where he grew up what with the street rats and hopeful cadets. The lot of them never went anywhere. They hung around stalls, got sucked into the daily-grind, and watched spacers screw around in their lifted up ships on the HoloNet. Most of them grew fat and greasy, got nice, stable jobs helping out the local firms. Some were sent to the upper levels to work on the domes.
That always got me. Droids come cheap, cheap as piss, and yet the corps have to hire bodies. Big, meaty bodies that lack the finesse and capacity for more than simple tasks. Used to wonder why til I took a look around: droids don't eat, yeah? Flesh needs sustenance. Little water, little food, some pittance of a pension to keep them feeding the system. Planet-side, you've gotta push labor. When you cut the costs and buy droids, then those fleshy hands pick up blasters and fall in with the Suns. No one wants that, right? Few profit from crime. Might as well fatten them up, send them to school, and let them labor away in enviro-meshes while they complain about the pay. Give them raises every few years, play on group psychology to keep them... not happy, no, that's not it. You keep them wanting for more. Keep them down and impose little fees on the commute. Make it so the bottom dwellers don't get the chance to see the real sun. Make it so they have to spend your money to earn what you've been paying them.
It's all a game, see. Everyone's played it, far as I can see. No one wins, really. We're losers. You're a loser. Eventually, we're all stardust. The journey to that point? That's what we care about.
This kid didn't get all that. He was young, what can you say? You know how they are. The dreamers. They got all the right ideas, all the angst and desire to change. Then some schmuck comes by with a baton and cracks them in the nose. Then they bleed and struggle and realize for the first time that there's nothing they can do.
When you're lying on your back looking up at the dome—when the dome looks back at you and it slowly changes color after holographic color, and you smell the ruddy carbon and taste the copper on your tongue. That's when you get deathless. That's when you walk the same walk, talk your same talk, and lift the same smile you've seen a hundred times. It's all in the scope. The scale, yeah?
So this kid brushed himself off and forgot about dreaming. He joined Star Force, one of the fringe sectors that talked a big game about law enforcement in the deeps of the minor thousands. My head's saying his first assignment was on level 1234, maybe because it's easy to remember. Or maybe because my head's not what it used to be. Too many knocks. This kid's part of the force, gainfully employed now. A familiar face if you've stuck around long enough. Might see him at the bar one night, drinking on the clock. Might see him at the clinic the next, getting his stomach pumped and pumping plasma into the latest blaster-hole carved into his skin. Who can say, really.
NAME: Santiago Castelle · AGE: 34 · SPECIES: Human · FORCE SENSITIVE: No · LEVEL: 1 · HEIGHT: 6' · WEIGHT: 187lbs. · EYE COLOR: Brown · HAIR COLOR: Black
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The color of man is found in his affect: aloof. Shaded in blues, smelling the whisky-brown of regret, Santiago lives a dog's death. Blackened lungs and a gravelly voice sputter out platitudes and catechisms. A penchant for frittering away creds on a patron's dime; the man ambles through the lower levels of Coruscant, a vague disdain for the spacers and the arrogance they bring to his ports. These are 'Scanti grounds, they belong to folk who've never lifted foot off the plastisteel wakes and couldn't pay to see a natural sun. The dome's his home. He knows it, intimate and deep, and walks with it in his bones.
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N/A
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Assets = 0
Liabilities = 50,000
Equity = (50,000)
Net worth = 0, less net income prior year = (50,000)
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DH-7 Blaster Pistol
Lighter
Pack of cigs
Overalls
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to be added
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