Qrylo Qykkâ€™s Holorecordings #2 - â€™Hokey Religions, Part 2â€™
ORD MANTELL - ORBIT
Qryloâ€™s mind raced.
The Jedi was running his own outfit? He couldnâ€™t help but shake his head at the thought. There were enough Force users outside of his line of work, never mind within it. He shouldâ€™ve seen it coming. Why else was there was a mark on a padawan, of all things; even the Sith didnâ€™t take that much of an interest, not these days. And among those Gran- heâ€™d be a god in his own right if he knew so much as which end to point a blaster with. More importantly, however- how Quayâ€™s name was he going to kill him now?
He listened as their tense words devolved into rabid shouts, wild demands, the Bith howling, spilling his guts for another chance. They didnâ€™t sound convinced. Probably just wanted blood, all things given. A rush. But that Jedi- what did he want? What could he possibly have to gain? With narrowed eyes Qrylo waited for a shot that never came. He peeked back for a moment. Gone.
Cries from the distance- they were taking the doctor into the settlement. He was half surprised they hadnâ€™t killed him on the spot. They didnâ€™t look the type to do anything the complicated way. Then again, neither was he- but he didnâ€™t have a Jedi calling the shots. The Bith howled again. Making an example of him, or worse? Qrylo drew the blaster, closing from shack to shack. The howl of wind and swirling dust was deafening now. Temples were burning.
But this was the best part.
When the world itself became a dark, thunderous tunnel. All things extraneous were null and void. Life itself distilled to a single brutal sequence. It could change, yes, in particulars; places and people were liquid. But the essence, that was always the same.They said killing never got any easier.
But Qrylo knew it just never got boring.
He was in low now, sweating in the brush. One hand scrambled across the dry soil as the other held a blaster close. Had to be ready, to be fast. Quick-draws didnâ€™t mean a damned thing if the other person was already zeroed. The dull ache of a scar between his ribs was a cold reminder. He stalled for a moment.
Theyâ€™d drawn to a stop outside the cantina, forming a half-circle around the Bith. He lay face down, still begging. It had the look an execution-to-be, and yet- where was the Jedi? Gone in for a drink? Somehow the idea seemed unnatural, until he considered the rest of the situation. For that matter, could he even drink? Qrylo slid the blaster away with a murmur. Seemed the best move was to join him for a drink- why hadnâ€™t more jobs gone this way?
He took a brisk pace passing the Gran. Didnâ€™t need to start trouble yet, even if odds were by noon theyâ€™d be hitting something. No eye contact. They really were animals. The Weequay clattered with each step, mass of guns and tools. Triplicate eyes shot him glares. Still moving though. He could hear the band now. No shortage of Bith on Ord Mantell meant no shortage of good Jizz.
He could hear the doctor softly groaning, but there was no time. Sun at his back. His shadow swallowed the Cantina in darkness for a moment, long silhouette slipping across the length of the bar. Nasty place. Just about dried up, by the look of it. Ithorian behind the bar, a couple of Chadra-fan propping it up. Kid was in the back. Sullustan by the window, off-worlder by the looks. The ramshackle floor groaned with each of the Weequayâ€™s heavy steps. More looks his way- now he matched them. No one hear, besides that Jedi, was going to cause trouble. Some caveat. He took a seat opposite.
The Weequay had a voice like a Rancor pit. Low in the throat. Too many cigarras. The Jedi hadnâ€™t looked up from his drink. Qrylo grumbled and sat back. Never easy. He overacted a peek at the Jediâ€™s lightsaber, eyebrows raising in mock surprise. â€œNice glowstick.â€ Nothing. Nothing verbal, at least. Knuckles tightened on the table. Kid was itching for something. Had to work out what. Talk it through, at least till he could just shoot him.
â€œListen. Letâ€™s get you a drink. Weâ€™ll talk.â€ Qyrlo gave a leathery impression of a smile. Somehow, still not charmed. But the air had gone cold. All his senses, a degree off. Jedi trickery. â€œWatch it.â€ He growled. The Jedi looked up with a grin of his own. Pulled a bottle over without touching it. Qryloâ€™s eyes widened in disgust, more than surprise. Kidâ€™s hands were still flat on the table. Heâ€™d poured two shots.
â€œStill want a drink?â€
If Qrylo was going to die here, he might as well do it drunk. With a twitch of his cheek, some semblance of acknowledgement, he swept the glass off the table. Burned like a Twiâ€™lek on Nal Hutta- nevermind. He didnâ€™t drink his. Poison? Maybe. â€œI donâ€™t think you quite understand what youâ€™ve walked into here.â€ Hard stare, for his age. Fingers crept to his gun. Had best do this quick. â€œTurn and go, old man. Youâ€™re outnumbered; outgunned; and frankly, out of your-â€œ Qrylo gave a sigh of exasperation.
â€œTalkâ€™s over, then.â€ The Jedi raised an eyebrow. Qrylo pulled the trigger.
The crimson flash was an old friend. But the Jedi hadnâ€™t moved. Wasnâ€™t fazed. Missed? Impossible. He gasped as an invisible hand siezed his weapon, as the very air tore it from his fingers. No time. He leapt forward into a right hook, and yet ground to a halt mid-swing; every muscle, stopped. Even the Jedi seemed bewildered.
â€œWhatâ€¦?" The human looked over his palms for a moment, then shook his head, as if to dismiss the idea, and seemed to recollect himself. Now his stare was steady again. Qrylo strained with all his might, and yet was still frozen. The Chadra-fan, the Sullustan; they all had their blasters drawn. Pointed at him.
â€œWrong cantina at the wrong time. Weâ€™re due a formal introduction, don't you think?â€