Private A Red Right Hand

[Jace Wester]

Melf's Outpost was a place of ill repute; a place of cigarette smoke and broken noses, where the floor was stained with equal parts alcohol and blood. It was a tavern where last night's brawl still hadn't been fully cleaned up, and where the swill being served from behind the counter laughed louder than the whores at the corner table. It was the place one went to spend the last credits to their name on death sticks; a haven for dancing neon beams and bad fever dreams. It was a place where nothing good could possibly happen, because no one good ever came here. On the other hand, it was most certainly a place to find people who were good at not being found. Among the hazy, smoke-filled crowd that called themselves patrons of Melf's Outpost on Nar Shaddaa that evening, one of those people was the stranger in the black duster.

The stranger saddled up to a bar stool, sandwiched between two different crowds speaking two completely different languages. Over the cacophony of foreign babble he ordered a spice beer and, when it was delivered, cradled his drink and took it to the only remaining corner seat in the place. It was a good vantage point from which he could observe the goings-on of the evening. Groups of aliens were still by the bar, where neon lights fanned out onto the ceiling and walls and cast geometric patterns of blue and purple. A few tables were being occupied by a sabacc tournament, where the players' masked expressions made it difficult to tell who was winning. On the other side of the sabacc tournament, human and Twi'Lek prostitutes congregated. And every so often, the shadow of an inebriated patron would stumble by and momentarily obscure his view of the bar, the sabacc game, and the women.

Yet, the stranger in the black duster wasn't here for any of that. He was just here for a drink. With his black, wide-brimmed hat set on the table after his matted brown hair cascaded out of it, he finally felt free enough to lean back and take a sip. Not the best spice beer he'd ever had, but also not the worst. It would do in a pinch, when all he needed was a beverage to warm his bones tonight and keep the shakes away. Everything else beyond the beer at his table was of no concern tonight. At least, that was the plan.

Helena Cross

 

[Helena Cross]

The door to Melf's Outpost slid open and a slim, hooded figure entered.

Helena Cross hated it immediately.

The smell. The hookers. The rowdy aliens.

Most of all she hated the way her boots stuck to the floor as she crossed to the bar. If she had her druthers this place would be cleansed at the molecular level, the waste of carbon and oxygen atoms returned to nature to see if it could arrange them in another, more useful way. At the bar she lowered her cloak hood. She was disguised, her hair dyed dark violet, near black, with streaks of iridescent purple, eyes shielded behind contacts that turned soulful black irises to red. Even her flesh had been disguised a subtle lavender, and peppered with a small black

She looked, to all and sundry, like a Keshiri.

"Corellian Spike, rocks," she told the bartender and drew a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket. She lit up and placed it between plum lips. She'd barely had a moment to take a drag when the bartender set her drink in front of her. "Thanks." She held out a credit chit, but when the bartender reached for it, she didn't release it. Helena met his gaze and drew her cigarette from her lips. "More where that came from for you if you can point me in the right direction."

"Whaddaya need?" he asked, his eyes lingering on the credit chit before looking up to Helena.

"Transportation. Reliable and discreet. Looking to avoid any Republican entanglements. Any entanglements of any kind, really." She put the cigarette back between her lips and drew a second credit chit from her pocket, this one a larger denomination. Substantially larger. "You know a guy?"

"Well... let me think now."

"Don't try to push me at some chum who's going to take me for the wrong kind of ride, pal. I've got good credits to pay for a job well done, but I'm not to be trifled with. This is all legal, I can assure you. I just prefer to avoid major shipping lanes." She took a drag from her cigarette, held her breath a few long moments as she locked eyes with the barkeeper, then exhaled slowly through her nose. "Understand me?"

"Y-yeah, on the same page, lady."

"Good." Helena set the cigarette in an ashtray and then took a drink of the Corellian Spike. "Now, who have you got for me?"

Jace Wester​

 

[Jace Wester]

The bartender reached up to scratch at his receding gray hairline, past a face full of wrinkles that looked like it had seen too much stress and too little warm showers. His mouth opened to formulate an answer at the same moment another figure shouldered into Helena Cross .

The group of patrons beside her, three in all, had crowded around her.

"Hey, watch the drink, lady!" Said the first, a human, despite the fact that he had clearly shouldered into her first. His sharp tone was accompanied by an equally cutting smile.

The two behind him were aliens; one a Shistavanen, the other a porcine Gamorrean. The Shistavanen's fangs were bared in a predatory smile that matched his friend's, while the Gamorrean stood dull and expressionless. Whatever language the men were speaking before, their apparent leader addressed Helena in Galactic Basic.

"Couldn't help but hear you're in need of some services," The human continued, sauntering before her with one hand on the bar counter, as if that hand was the only thing holding him up. As he spoke, his eyes trailed up and down her figure in a way that suggested he was undressing her in his mind. "Me an' my crew would be happy to help. We'll get ya where ya need to go."

At this, the Shistavanen smiled wider. "And take turns with her after?" His voice hissed through razor teeth.

The bartender attempted to interject. "Now boys, let's not have any..."

"Hey! We're payin' customers just like her," The human, who was obviously the leader of this motley crew, protested. His voice raised and he looked about his surroundings. "Ain't we?" He bellowed, as if in a challenge to the rest of the bar.

The stranger in the black duster sat in his corner seat, first observing the Keshiri woman's entrance, and now overhearing the apparent trouble she'd seemed to immediately get herself into. From his vantage point, he couldn't hear the entire conversation, but the body language between her and the small crew of thugs was easy enough to read. His eyes fixated on the brewing altercation and he brought his spice beer to his lips, taking no steps to intervene.

 

[Helena Cross]

Helena jostled forward, and only with a quick adjustment was she able to prevent her drink from sloshing over the rim. She turned toward the other patrons. The human had a mouth, though she learned a few moments later that it was the Shistavanen that she had to worry about. Helena set her drink down carefully. "Much obliged," she said, as if he had not just insulted her, as if his compatriot had not just threatened her. "Unfortunately I'm looking to burn sublight in short order. You seem like you've had a bit to drink, so... perhaps another time, once you've sobered up."

Her eyes cut to the Shistavanen.

Then back to the human.

She put her hand on her hip, brushing her cloak away from the butt of her blaster there.

"I suggest you get your dog on a leash. It would be a shame if I had to put him down."

Several things happened at once. First, the Shistavanen bared his teeth and lunged at Helena. Second, the previously sedate Gammorean trundled into action. Third, Helena shoved the butt of her blaster down so that the barrel was pointing upward through her holster and fired two shots. Both caught the Shistavanen square in the chest and he went down like a sack of potatoes.

The Gamorrean tripped and his girth and forward momentum carried him past Helena and right at Jace Wester . That would be a problem for another time.

Helena pulled the blaster out of the holster and pointed it at the human.

"So."

Jace Wester​

 

[Jace Wester]

Another swig of ale was washed down between gritted teeth. Jace should have known he was enabling himself, being in a place like this -- but he really had the best of intentions for tonight, his inner monologue swore. Unfortunately, those intentions got washed away like sand on a beach with every time his lips met the bottle. He made a point to place his hat back on his head; Jace was still sober enough to have the foresight not to lose his favorite hat in the brewing storm.

"Sorry darling, I tried," He muttered, and made to stand up.

The scene erupted just as body language predicted it would have. Yet even Jace was surprised to see the Keshiri go straight for lethal force in what had heretofore been only a heated exchange. He stood, just in time to avoid the lumbering Gamorrean crash into his table, sending his spice beer catapulting into the air, only to shatter somewhere out of sight. So much for that.

The stranger in the black duster grappled the Gamorrean on the floor and took a swing at the brute, connecting with his porcine jaw. The lawless beast was made of tougher stuff, however, and bucked the smuggler from his mounted position. Onlookers quickly moved out of the way as the brute attempted to smash Jace's skull on the barroom floor with his heel, a move swiftly avoided by the stranger. He was able to stand to his feet again, and things immediately went to fisticuffs.

It didn't take much for the stranger to remember how well beer and pugilism went together.

He ducked and avoided a slow hook, and countered with an uppercut that sent the Gamorrean sprawling onto the table of whores. Shrieks accompanied the feat, and not wanting to top the evening's festivities off with a murder charge -- at least not yet -- the stranger kept his pistol holstered. For the first time that evening, though, the stranger smiled.

"You alright, lady?" He said, turning to Helena Cross , before an out-of-sight fist from the human who had been harassing her connected with the stranger's jaw.

 

[Helena Cross]

Helena sensed the motion of the hat-and-duster wearing fellow -- Hat Guy -- and turned.

Pleasant surprise registered that he had taken care of the Gamorrean.

A not so pleasant surprise registered with the human ringleader.

He took a swing at Hat Guy and it connected.

"Take a day off," Helena said irritably. She flipped the blaster so she was holding the barrel -- still warm -- and swung it like a hammer at the human ringleader. He noticed at the last moment, dodged enough to take only a glancing blow, and turned to aim a shove at her. She stumbled back against the bar, grunting as the hard edge jammed into her back. Her blaster went careening over the bar as the bartender ducked back.

The wind knocked out of her, Helena groped for something -- anything -- as the human lunged at her, hands grappling around her slender neck. Her pulse quickened, and she tried to kick, but she could not get the leverage. Her fingers closed around something cold and wet and she seized it, bringing it as hard as she could against the side of the man's head, and was rewarded by a cascade of booze and caf and ice chunks and glass shards.

Blood ran down the side of the man's cheek and he looked stunned a moment, then his grip tightened ever further around Helena's throat.

Jace Wester​

 

[Jace Wester]

Seconds in time were where gut instinct alone lived. In an instant, Jace found himself on the sticky bar room floor, with not enough wherewithall to even realize who had thrown the punch. He laid motionless for a moment as his the room spun, his hat rolling onto the floor as well, his cascading brown hair coming down in streaks across his face. Then Jace caught hold of the spinning room and ground it to a halt, and pushed himself up. With blood dripping from his mouth and a liquid-covered duster, he wheeled around to see his attacker slowly asphyxiating the Keshiri.

She may have hesitated to use deadly force against the villainous underworldman, but Jace had no such compunctions in the split second that followed. A blaster shot rang out in the cantina with a crack of energy. Helena Cross was near to the bolt, and it would appear as a momentary flash of red-hot light before it sizzled the neck of her attacker. The grip on her throat released enough to allow her to breathe, and then his hands fell off her neck entirely as he tumbled to the ground.

On the other corner of the bar was Jace, twirling the blaster pistol back into its home beneath his duster. He leaned down to pick up his hat, dusting it off with a casual sweep of his hand. Looking around, he now observed that the ruckus had sent everyone fleeing from the cantina, except for the bartender himself who, as Jace walked closer to Helena, was observed cowering behind the bar counter with his hands over his head.

Jace looked over both shoulders, then locked eyes with Helena.

"I think we should leave."

 

[Helena Cross]

Helena felt her vision narrowing to points as darkness closed around her. Just when she thought she might pass out, a searing flash of light struck across her vision, leaving her partially spotty-eyed for a moment. The human's body slumped against her like a spent over, his grip on her neck loosening before his arms fell back to their sides.

The scent of burned flesh and ozone spiced the air. Helena took a breath, trying and failing to look as cool and collected as someone who did this sort of thing every day.

After a moment, she heaved the human off her.

I think we should leave.

Helena grunted something, finding herself unable to speak for a moment. Then she turned to the bartender, held out her hand. "Gun. Now." While the bartender picked up her gun, Helena slapped a few more high-value credit chits on the bartop. "Sorry about the mess. This should cover the inconvenience and the cleaning."

She turned back toward Hat Guy.

"I think you're right," she agreed gravely. Once the blaster was placed in her palm by the barkeeper, she holstered it and headed for the door. When they were out in the neon-marred Nar Shaddaa night, Helena allowed a glance at the man behind. "Sorry about your drink."

Jace Wester​

 

[Jace Wester]

The stranger in the black duster stood idly by during the exchange between Helena Cross and the bartender, then sauntered one casual foot after the other out of the establishment, shortly behind her. It was difficult for him to tell if her bravado was genuine or simply an act she put on to convince herself she was tough. Maybe it was a bit of both.

Fake it 'till you make it. Ain't that what they say, after all?

"S'alright," He breathed a reply and straightened his hat on his head once they had reached the streets. "But I prefer to put a bit more distance between myself and a crime scene. Even if the departed are unlikely to be missed."

He began walking down the neon-emblazoned sidewalk and motioned for Helena to follow.

"Don't suppose you can make up for it by giving me a smoke?"

He was sure he saw the woman pull out a pack of cigarettes earlier. That seemed adequate payment for saving one's life, he figured.

 

[Helena Cross]

"Crime scene? Only crime there was an attempted assault and worse," Helena said defensively.

She knew that the authorities wouldn't look at it that way -- not from the start, at least. And while they wasted time and dithered and put off reviewing the security tape that would clearly show that Helena and Hat Guy had done nothing wrong, the longer it went on the more questions they would ask. They might discover Helena's true identity. They might question why she was traveling incognito.

They might uncover her cache.

She couldn't allow it. She had strict instructions. So she followed.

"Here. Take 'em all," she said, handing hum the pack of cigarettes. It had become somewhat rumpled in the fracas but the cigarettes were still mostly in tact, if slightly bent. A small disposable lighter was tucked into the packet with them. "How do you intend to get away from this place? Have you got a ship?"

Jace Wester​

 

[Jace Wester]

A weathered hand reached out, but instead of grabbing the entire cigarette pack, the man in the black duster only took one. He brought it up and placed it between his lips, and, already being prepared with a lighter, brought one end of it to a smoking red ember as he took a drag.

"You did what you had to," He hissed between drags. "I'm only saying, if they were connected guys, the Hutts might not see it that way."

The man continued to walk, his pace steady but brisk. It probably took the shorter legs of Helena Cross a bit of bustle to keep up. He was, perhaps absent-mindedly, heading towards the spaceport.

"Yeah, I've got a ship," He answered her, then realized the question she was really asking. In truth, he hadn't actually thought that far ahead.

"Hell, since we've already been through so much together, I suppose a few credits will get you a lift to... somewhere."

 

[Helena Cross]

"Hutts," Helena said irritably as she stepped around a puddle of God only knew what -- rain didn't fall on this level, so... yikes. She thought she saw a half-digested bit of fried something, likely from a street vendor. "Always the fucking Hutts," she muttered as she took the cigarettes back. She shook one out onto her palm and lit it, taking a drag as they continued down the alley.

She kept pace with him, her boots making a slightly more speedy pace than he to keep up with his long-legged stride. Maybe he wasn't Hat Guy anymore. Strider seemed like a better name.

"I'm not accustomed to -- " she began, but the sound of a squawking radio echoed from the direction of the entrance of the alleyway. She was not accustomed to doing business like this, not accustomed to making transportation on the fly like this, not accustomed to making arrangements with strangers without even a slight reference from a reputable barkeeper.

She was even less accustomed to being apprehended by corrupt, Hutt-backed police forces. Still less accustomed to whatever happened to people in Hutt prisons.

"How many credits?" she asked on a cloud of silvery tendrils.

Jace Wester​

 

[Jace Wester]

He took a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke billowing around his hat as the man in the black duster walked. Flicking the cigarette onto the sidewalk somewhere, he continued onwards, curtains of smoke parting as his silhouette pushed through them. He only needed a quick hit from it anyway. The question from Helena Cross , however, made him stop and pivot around to face her.

"Depends where you're going," He said in a flat tone. "And how dangerous it'll be for me."

Judging by how trigger-happy this woman seemed to be, he had no idea how much of a bounty she'd potentially accrued on other worlds. She could be on the run from much worse than the Hutts, for all he knew. Then, the sound of sirens from a police speeder broke his thoughts.

"Let's go," He hooked a hand around Helena's arm and tugged her gently forward. "We can haggle on my ship."

Whether he liked it or not, he was involved now, too.

 

[Helena Cross]

Casting a glance over one shoulder, Helena frowned at the sound of speeder brakes and sirens. She didn't like the idea of leaving without checking in with her employers. There would be time to correspond later, in theory, but if things went tits-up with Strider-Hat Guy they might never learn of it, nor even know where to begin the trail.

Well, that wasn't strictly speaking true. Tallis knew of her Keshiri alias, and had a list of places she might frequent on Nar Shaddaa. It didn't take a rocket scientist to piece together that it was probably her that had fled a bar brawl with a body count. Maybe it wouldn't be hopeless after all. "Yeah," she agreed, turning back to Strider-Hat Guy as he yanked her by her arm. "Sounds good."

They wound throw the city's warren of alleys and passages. At one point she led him through the kitchen of a kebab shop, helping herself to two wrapped parcels, each containing a sort of bread pouch stuffed with savory meat and fried nightshades. The operator of the food stand saw her, lifted his chin in recognition, and took a credit chit for his trouble, then locked the kitchen entry door. That might put the authorities off the scent.

"How much further?" Helena asked her reluctant traveling companion.

Jace Wester​

 

[Jace Wester]

Winding through the dingy back alleyways where the bright lights of Nar Shaddaa hardly reached, the two erstwhile companions attempted to weave a confusing pattern through the tangled web of corridors and streets. Anything to put more distance between them and the crime scene, though Jace made sure their general direction was headed towards the spaceport. He looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes as Helena Cross flicked a credit chit at the street vendor. So she wasn't a total cold-blooded criminal; she would at least pay for her snack on-the-go.

"We're almost there," Jace assured her, and indeed they were approaching the spaceport.

Two great durasteel opened to a large hangar facility, fronted by a row of kiosks that kept track of comings and goings. There were a few denizens present in this recieving area, which was cordoned off from the main hangar proper by crude durasteel fencing. One of which was a pair of what appeared to be police officers, talking to a few of the inhabitants of the spaceport. Jace was unsure if they were looking for something or someone in particular at this moment, but he didn't like the idea of sticking around to find out. It didn't help that his companion was a recognizable species that was easily picked out from a crowd.

"Easy does it," He assured his companion, and moved as unassumingly and briskly towards one of the kiosks as possible, hoping the officers wouldn't notice either of them. From within his black duster, he produced a small keypad device with a cable attachment, the end of which plugged into the kiosk. Helena would surely recognize it as a cheap slicing device. Either Jace had no money, or he didn't pay for parking on principle.

Whatever the smuggler tapped into the keypad worked and caused the kiosk to light up green, the arm at his waist lifting to let him through. He continued his brisk walk towards an unassuming VCX-820 freighter docked placidly a few dozen meters ahead, its hull appearing dulled by time and unwashed, sporting a few burns from blaster cannon fire to boot. Hopefully Helena hadn't aroused any suspicion behind him and was hot on his heels.

 

[Helena Cross]

Helena regarded Strider Hat-Guy with a look bordering on the supercilious.

For all his chat about crime scenes, he wasn't so much an 'above-board' type, after all. She followed quickly after him, boots thudding quietly on the stained duracrete of the landing bay flooring. "Pretty slick," she murmured as they approached the ship's boarding ramp. She hoped he realized she meant the slicing job and not the ship, because boy, what a junk of junk.

Her fingers flexed as she walked, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the flickering of the lights at the entrance from red to blue, indicating that the door had been opened by law enforcement rather than a customer. "Keep going," she told him under her breath. "Get your ship warmed up. I'll handle this but we may need to make a speedy exit."

Helena reached out, snagged his sleeve briefly, and met his gaze with her own artificially colored one. "Don't leave, Hat-Guy. That would be... ungentlemanly." Then she released him and split away from his path, ostensibly going toward a nearby communications terminal. On the way she pretended to notice the police approaching.

"Gentleman," she said in perfect Huttese. "Is there something the matter?"

Jace Wester​

 

[Jace Wester]

Hat Guy?

Well, that was better than vagrant, slimeball, or drunken ne'er'do'well, Jace supposed, all of which monikers had been leveled at him at one point or another. Jace met her intent stare with one of his own, a silent reassurance in his eyes that he would not abandon Helena Cross . Their fates were intertwined now, at least as far as Nar Shaddaa went. Besides that, she seemed desperate to escape to wherever she was going. Desperate people tended to pay pretty well.

"Do what you gotta do."

Those were his only words to her, as he turned around and boarded the ship.

From behind her, Helena would hear the VCX-820 freighter's engines firing up and emitting a low hum as they idled in wait for takeoff. Before her were two officers, both Humans speaking Huttese.

"Ma'am," One of the officers began, eyeing Helena with a look of suspicion in his eyes. "We're investigating a crime in the area. A being matching your description was last seen at the crime scene. Where are you coming from?"

 

[Helena Cross]

HC

HELENA CROSS

NAR SHADDAA

STARPORT

EVENING • DATELINE: UNKNOWN

♫ A GAME OF CHESS — THE FLIGHT

x

✹

"A crime scene?"

It was a reasonable facsimile of innocence, really. The right amount of incredulity and indignation. "What are you implying? Just because I'm a Keshiri? Don't you know that's prejudice? Are you really comfortable being so -- so -- so prejudiced? Everywhere I go around here it's purple this and purple that and you can't trust the lavender folk and watch your purse around the lilac ones. I don't steal. Never have, never will. So whatever's been stolen you can just look somewhere else. Only thing I've got are some sandwich wraps, which I paid for."

She produced them for the police. They were only a little rumpled, but still warm. "See? Nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me, my flight is waiting."

Helena turned and strode away from them, jamming the wraps back into her pockets, and letting one hand rest on her blaster. Just in case.

"Excuse me," the policeman -- well, glorified Hutt thug, really, on Nar Shaddaa -- called. Helena pretended she didn't here. "Miss! Come back here. We need to confirm your identification."

"It's just sandwiches," Helena called back, pretending she hadn't heard correctly. Her hand closed around her blaster. "Good luck with your -- whatever it was!"

✹

x

WITH

Jace Wester • Helena Cross

 

[Jace Wester]

Jace watched the exhange unfolding between Helena Cross and the Hutt thugs from the cockpit window of his starship. Whatever the discussion was, it didn't look entirely amicable. For a moment, the sinking feeling that they were busted crept up in the pit of his stomach. Then in the next moment, Jace contemplated throwing her to the wolves. He could punch it and be out of this space station in seconds flat, leaving Helena to deal with the Hutts on her own. Then he remembered he was broke.

That all-too-familiar little detail.

Jace bent down and typed a quick, furious command into the ship's control panel. He finished the entry with one hand, while the other reached into his black duster and primed his pistol. The control panel responded by flashing a message in basic across the screen, its azure glow washing over his face.

Automatic systems primed; automatic takeoff in t-minus 30 seconds.

In another instant, Jace had evacuated the pilot's seat, his duster whirling behind him. His boot steps resounded throughout the ship's central hallway as he ran for the onboard ramp. In but a moment he was there, hurriedly clinging to one of the ramp's hydraulic legs as he fought to slow himself and raise his blaster, firing over Helena's shoulder at the head of one of the Hutt officers.

They'd come this far, after all. What was another fried corpse on the ground?

 

[Helena Cross]

HC

HELENA CROSS

NAR SHADDAA

STARPORT

EVENING • DATELINE: UNKNOWN

♫ A GAME OF CHESS — THE FLIGHT

x

✹

Helena rushed for the ramp and was startled to find Strider Hat-Guy coming down the ramp. He raised his blaster and Helena spat a furious "You bast -- " before it became clear that the blaster was not meant for her, but for the pursuing guards. She dropped to a knee to give Hat-Guy a broader field to fire and drew her own blaster. Between the two of them -- though it was Jace's shot that finally scored the kill -- one Hutt thug went down. The second ducked behind cover of a few stacked crates.

He poked his head around to fire, and Helena's blaster bolt caught him square in the eye. He went down, his eye socket and brain matter behind it sizzling.

The purple-died woman rose, darted past Hat-Guy onto the ramp and scrabbled up it, not stopping until she was on solid ground. "Let's move before any more of them come!" she called over her shoulder to the smuggler, then doubled over to catch her breath. The adrenaline still pounded in her veins. "Good shooting, by the way."

✹

x

WITH

Jace Wester • Helena Cross