Short Change Hero

[Zay]

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"Solace is only available to the man that reveres introspection."​

Damon Kross sat on a bar stool in a dive bar on some nameless planet staring at the slowly melting whisky rocks in his glass. He was dressed in a three piece suit. Nothing overly flashy, just a navy suit, with a canary yellow button down and a thin navy tie. Beside his glass oh whisky sat his datapad which lay unlocked and open to a screen that simply read:

TRANSACTION COMPLETE

It had taken months for him to work up the money to finally seal the deal, but he'd done it. Kross Transporting Incorporated was now an officially recognized company. For Damon that wasn't really the surprising part. For him the most shocking detail about creating and then running his own business was that it was completely legal. He'd painstakingly played the game and he'd come out on top. He'd hoped to feel accomplished, or satisfied, or maybe kind of happy about his win, but as he looked around the bar he had no one to celebrate with.

Kross had never been much for making friends. His current substance abuse problem saw to that. Even now as he sat he wanted spice. He could feel his desire for the drug slowly creeping through his veins. His skin crawled and sweat beaded across his brow. Reaching out with a shaking hand he firmly grasped the rocks glass in front of him and brought it to his lips. He took a long swig of vintage scotch and felt his need recede.

Damon hated his weakness. He hated the sithspit that got him hooked on the synthetic. He was currently two weeks sober and everyday was a struggle. Damon was always one comm transmission away from getting a hit. That knowledge constantly threatened to break him. He shook the need from his mind, but it didn't fully leave, it never did. He forced another long swig the cup and signaled the server droid for another.

While he waited on his next drink he pulled his custom cigarette case from his jacket pocket and pulled a perfectly hand rolled cigara from the metallic container. In an effortless motion he pulled his durateel lighter from his pocket, ignited it, lit the cigara, and returned it to his pocket. A thin tendril of smoke wafted carelessly from the end of the cylinder. Damon took a drag and held it. He loved the taste of the tabac plant. It was smooth and robust. Nothing like the dried out mass produced Shab sold in stores.

Kross took a moment to observe his surroundings. The bar was exactly what one would expect. A narrow hole in the wall that was home to seedy patrons looking to tie one on after a long day at work. The bar was sparsely populated and there wasn't a woman in sight. Normally, this would be a breaking point for the former pirate, but today Damon didn't feel up to the chase. He wanted to sulk and drink until he had trouble standing. Of course he wouldn't fight off any advance should they come his way.

Damon's attention returned to front and center as the server droid dropped off his drink. He lifted the glass and held it up to the hazy light above in a mock cheers then took a drink. It was going to be a boring night.

 

[Deviant]

e wanders the streets of Corellia. From infinite towers and overhead ships, city lights and muddled noise inundate his senses. It is surreal, like a memory of the past. Strangers speak in indistinct whispers, ceding wayward glares in passing steps. He feels exposed and unclean, as if he had sullied his hands with blood. His gaze wavers. He looks to his right and recognizes the soft features of a young woman. Dark locks of hair roll off the sides of her head and toward a tender smile. Her hands drift forward, tiny fingers twining inside his own. Her eyelids flutter, before she leans forward and whispers into his ear.

“You killed me, Adrián. You let me die.” He blinks, just as her nails dig into his hand and blood pours from her mouth.

He wakes in his apartment room. Sweat dribbles from the side of his forehead. Slipping out from under a blanket, he crawls to the end of the bed and presses his bare feet against the carpet floor. Night spills through the curtains, bathing the room in silver. An occasional flash of light flickers through the curtains in a scattered rhythm. The whir of an air-conditioner hums in an exhausted staccato. Adrián squeezes the edge of his mattress, grunts, and shuffles to the bathroom. For weeks, these nightmares have haunted him. Visions of a patient he personally attended, only to watch her helplessly and viciously succumb to an unknown, untraceable virus in minutes.

The images of her death still rack his mind, but fortunately, he has his own temporary cure for this particular "disease" which plagues him: hard liquor.

Adrián is neither addict nor alcoholic, having abandoned die-hard habits for his profession, but that does not stop him from coasting into the streets for a bar. Jacket snug against his frame, he moves like a sail in the ocean, strange and aimless, seeking safe harbor in the shape of a drink. Across the street, a woman views him curiously, her face mottled in make-up and arms sewn with tattoos. Their quiet glares lock on one another. He is the first to look away.

Eyes forward, he can recognize the polished sheen of a pub— "The Smelly Logan." Inside, several strangers dot tables and bar stools, pouring their hearts out with every sip of liquor. He sidesteps a pool of vomit by the exit, left behind from a shitfaced dipsomaniac who barely missed the waste bin by four inches to the left. So, with another sigh, Adrián shuffles to the bar and slips into a seat, glancing at another man as he toasts to the air and imbibes in some alcohol. Probably a sad case of loneliness. Or just hallucinations and substance-induced psychosis.

"Just get me whatever he's having," he says, waving down a mechanical bartender.

He was too lazy to bother nitpicking a drink of his own. And whatever the stranger seemed to be drowning himself in, he didn't doubt it'd be enough to do him the same.

@Zay​

 

[Logan]

The harsh vibrations of heels clacking rhythmically on the duracrete was the only sound echoing down the alleyway besides a woman’s subtle humming, every once in a while a short line of words escaping her mouth to match the beat. You wouldn’t think that some backwater hellhole with less entertaining things to do than a Tatooinian moisture farm would be where you’d find a person like Vesper Almec, but there wasn’t much about the Mandalorian that most would find typical anyway.

Rinky-dink pisswater worlds was were Vesper found most of her sparks of creativity. Bright and loud places like Coruscant or Nar Shaddaa were fine for a good time, but your brain never really worked there. Too many distractions, too many drinks and too many drugs. No, Vesper needed quiet places like this to find her muse. She kept walking, no real destination in mind, contemplating the lyrics for one of her next songs.

[color=#aeb3ff ]“We were staying on Taris,”[/color] she said quietly, bobbing her head a little to find the right inflections. [color=#aeb3ff ]“To get away from your parents. You look so proud,”[/color] she let her brain just flow with what came naturally, her mouth forming and speaking the words with little time to actually process. She preferred thinking this way, everything sounded more natural. [color=#aeb3ff ]“Standing there with a frown and a cigarette, posting pics of yourself on the holonet..”[/color]

The alley she’d been walking came to an abrupt end, teeing off on some main drag. A quick glance left and right offered nothing of particular interest outside of a bar, and now that she came face to face with a source of drink it occurred to her that she was incredibly thirsty. Shrugging her shoulders, Vesper made for the entrance not paying much attention to anything going on inside when she crossed the threshold.

There were two men seated at the bar proper, both good looking. Vesper had a bad habit of assessing someone’s looks to assess their worth, it was something she tried working on but vanity just came naturally to her. Cozying up to the bar, putting a few seats between her and the two men, Vesper caught the attention of the bar tender and held up two fingers.

[color=#aeb3ff ]“Double Correlian whisky, neat.”[/color]

The beat from before came back to her head, and before she realized it Vesper found herself whispering lyrics as her drink came sliding across the faded bar-top. ”On our own cuttin' class for the thrill of it, getting drunk on the past we were livin' in..”

Hopefully no one heard her, that might be embarrassing. She took a long swig from her glass, giving sideways glances and a raise for a toast to her fellow patrons.

@Zay @Deviant

 

[Zay]

Damon sipped at the expensive scotch in his hand and relished the dry smokey taste. The Devil's Cut scotch was Corellia's finest. it also held a steep price per pour landing anywhere between, 35 and 60 credits a glass. As the forlorn man took a seat and ordered Damon raised an eyebrow in surprise. It wasn't often he found another in a bar like this that appreciated alcohol the way he did. That, or he had money and didn't care what he was drinking. Upon closer inspection Damon noted the look of pain in his eyes and decided it was the latter.

The server droid's head twitched and it repeated, "One, double Devil's Cut Corellian Scotch, That will be 45 credits, would you like to start a tab?"

Damon took another sip and watched the sad sack for a moment attempting to decide if he was a threat to himself or, more importantly, to Damon. After a moment the smuggler decided he was harmless, and returned his attention to his datapad. He cleared the screen and switched the device off. He returned it to his jacket pocket and then took a drag on his cirgarra.

The door opened and a breath of fresh air entered the room. A stunningly beautiful woman stepped through the threshold and took a seat at the bar. His previous inclination to lay low and avoid the "chase" disappeared immediately.

He listened as she ordered her drink. The server droid replied, "Would you prefer the bourbon or the rye?" Damon put his interest into the hands of fate. If she chose bourbon, he'd start a conversation, if she chose rye, she could just keep talking to herself. Satisfied with his decision he patiently awaited her reply.

[color=#aeb3ff ]"Bourbon."[/color]

Her answer caught him by surprise. Well, fate had ordained their meeting and who was he to impede the will of the force?

Placing his cigarra lazily in his lip and standing from his current seat Damon straightened his jacket and then walked over to the woman who was quietly whispering to herself. Damon quickly checked the hotness to crazy scale and she landed in the safe zone. So, long as she wasn't talking about all of the people she was planning to murder of course.

Kross confidently sauntered over to her and casually asked, "Mind if I join you?"

If she allowed it he'd take the seat on her right side placing her in the middle of him and the really sad dude. If she declined, he'd probably take a seat anyway. As he waited for her answer he began to get a feeling of familiarity about the woman. It felt like he'd seen her before somewhere. Panic started to rise in his mind as he thought, Have we done this before?

@Deviant @Relent

 

[Deviant]

drián stares blankly to the droid. "One, double Devil's Cut Corellian Scotch, That will be 45 credits, would you like to start a tab?" He lingers in thought. There was no doubt his stay on this backwater world of obnoxious bounty hunters and sex-hungry smugglers would last very long, but how else can he manage the strain on his mind? Genuinely confront it, or seek legitimate, therapeutic help? No— too much work, too little time. Inundating himself with liquor would be faster; more satisfying. And perhaps a tad more expensive. Nonetheless, having made his mind, his head dips forward into a nod. “Go ahead,” he says, “No reason I shouldn’t.”

The droid flutters behind the bar, produces a fine glass of the drink, and coasts it into his hands. Crisp, cold. His fingers latch onto its ringed cusp, yet as he raises a toast to himself, a young lady slips inside. Polished blonde tendrils of hair, eyes vivid with sapphire, lips red enough to think she just drank his clinic’s blood bank— and enjoyed it. He eyes her, fixed onto her beautifully unblemished features, before retreating back to his liquor. After all, he is engaged, bound to one for the rest of his life. (Or for a solid few years, given his experience)

Not that it mattered, in the end. The younger man beside him was already clambering out of his seat, making his way down on her like a hawk to a mouse. But he had a feeling it was the other way around. Beautiful women this far from the Core always meant trouble. Always. Regardless, his aging gaze could never resist some eye candy, and his longing stares at the wall shifted into periodic glances to the woman. Though with every peek, he could feel a sense of familiarity, as if he had seen her many times before.

He takes another sip of his drink, and an epiphany instantly slams into him like a bus. Holy shit.

"My god, you're the Vesper Almec," he exclaims, leaning across the counter in her direction. "The pop star from Mandalore." An inescapable laugh careens out of his mouth. "My fiancé plays your music all the time. Hell, even dragged me to one of your concerts on Corellia." He takes a handkerchief from his pocket. "Don't mean to bother you, but— can I get an autograph?"

As a gift, of course, he tells himself. A "gift." @Zay @Relent