Did you say Job?!

[Cerise Fuege]

Nar Shaddaa
There was a smell of desperation in the air of the Ugly Gamorrean, a local dive bar Scarlett found herself sitting in, waiting on business. Her ‘freighting’ business had been slow recently, it seemed no one wanted to go the old fashioned way when they were moving illegal things, now they went through he government, giving them enough money that it didn’t matter what the hell was in their cargo ships. She had enough credits to get a nice buzz going at the bar. She seemed to be the only girl in there who smoked too, you’d figure a place called the Ugly Gamorrean would have people more understanding of a female smoker. She let out a big ring of smoke at the waiter’s face as he walked by. The smug bastard hadn’t asked her if she wanted a refill in the last twenty minutes.

As one hand held the stick to her coral lips, the other hugged what was left of her Corellian brandy dearly, she hadn’t been here long and she already could tell some of these people weren’t above drugging a girl to get their way. It was something she used to see all the time back in the clubs, girls would just drink any drink a guy gave them or put any drug up their nose just to have a good time, Nebula used to be that way, and it got her nowhere fast. Now, she figured, she was old enough to know if they were good drugs or bad drugs.

Another puff of smoke passed, the locals had seemed to get over her smoking, some of them even taking the opportunity to light up themselves, exchanging the occasional ‘hey look at me I’m cool too’ glance with Scarlett. The tattoos and bald head were a strange turn on for some people which was a sad surprise for her after she decided to do it. The smuggler was relieved to see the young boy bringing her more alcohol; he couldn’t have been over eighteen. “Oi, next time you see my glass empty, don’t be shy.” She knew he was probably too young to be working at a dive bar but he seemed to be in close with the Zabrak who owned the place and even Scarlett could tell no one should mess with him; he couldn’t be described as anything less than a wall of muscle.

The real reason she was at the bar was because she got an offer from an anonymous source to deliver something that she assumed was stolen or was lusted after by a lot of people because they were requesting as little outside stops as possible, legal or otherwise. Or at least that what the contact who delivered the message had said. Who knew who else got the message, who knew who or what the offer even was, for all she knew she was in a cantina full of people who heard about the job offer. She was ready to cut down whoever got in her way of the job too. She took a sip from her glass and propped her feet up on the durasteel table of her little booth.

OOC: Looking to have a fun intro thread, trying to get a feel from different factions so if you'd like a new member please join in! It's my first thread in a long time, so please bear with me

 

[Excon the Hutt]

Nar Shadda.
It truly was a magnificent week for Excon the Hutt. He had done a lot the past several days, all of them worthy accomplishments. His accomplishments, however, did come at a costly price, and he was once again looking to earn himself a fortune. A few days ago, a Rodian high ranking official had contacted him about wanting to have something delivered. That 'something' was in his clutches as the Hutt slid through the streets of Nar Shadda.

The slimy slug stopped infront of a bar. This was one of his favorite bars in Nar Shaddow that he liked to visit. He was even friends with the bar tender. Today, however, he had a mission to assign to a smuggler that he had never met before. Neverthless, he had to get the job done somehow, and it was through smugglers like these that Hutts were able to ever get anything done. He entered the bar (making it through the entrance was a bit of a squeeze) and slid towards whom he had identified as the female smuggler. "Well hello, dear! I am -" It was then that he noticed that he was speaking in Huttese, and with some difficulty, he managed to get a translator droid. "Hello, I am your employer. I have a particular shipment that needs to get to Courascant. The address of delivery is on the package. Any questions? I'll be paying you 5,000 credits for this mission... After all, I am a generous slug." he said with a booming laugh.

 

[Cerise Fuege]

The Corellian Brandy slid easily down her pallet, almost too easily; most likely watered down to save money, hailing from the planet she knew first hand nothing from Corellia went down easy, from their women to their alcohol. “Swill.” She cursed as she cast the glass aside. Her lips were constantly wrapped around the deathstick, taking in its toxic fumes like they were the richest of incense from the tribes of Dathomir. She almost coughed out the smoke when she heard the entrance of the Hutt. It was in their nature to be as glorious as possible; however, squeezing one through a cantina door was anything but. The sight caused her to leave her comfortable position and sit upright, hand on her blaster, she knew Hutts usually called for trouble.

The Hutt started to come to her, his tail swaying behind his sluglike silhouette, she knew she had to remain calm, he couldn’t see her sweat because Hutts smell fear like Kath hounds and use it to smash their enemies into the ground. Her natural instinct was to take a big puff of her stick, likely the last she had been smoking it for a while. As the Hutt spoke, she felt a wave of relief wash over her, he was here to give her credits, not kill her. “Aye, I’m always up for a little Coruscant action, I could use the credits, I’ve got a hunk a’shit spacer right now, she’s fast but she’s tough.” Just how I like ‘em she thought. “I would propose a toast, but the liquor here tastes worse than shit on a Bantha.”

 

[Grid Locke]

Grid licks his spilled shot off the bar top. The taste of ash and liquor coat his lack of pride. The patrons around are smoking and conversing, but Grid could not bring himself to participate. This town is small time, but everyone walks around like they are grandfather clocks. Grid understands if in anything, he would be a pocket watch, but this doesn't stop him from stealing other people's time. Before ordering his next round Grid fumbles, smacking all his pockets before finding his wallet.
*Checks the divide between each leather bound extremity*
Grid found Nothing.
Looking to his left, Grid studied the fat patron sitting next to him. Weak arms, not the type that could throw a fast punch. Most large species have big stomachs but their arms compare in size. This one's skin oozed off his fat, flabby arms, like melted wax. Most importantly Fatman was not paying attention to his very large, high octane, brain cell killin', sobriety shiftin' party sized drink positioned behind him. The only thing Fatman was fixated on was a beautiful Twi'lek between him and the bald girl smokin' down the bar from him. Grid slowly crept his arm across the bar, as if he was attempting a jail break and his fingers violently grasped the glass. Each finger stabbed the glass, like a spider subduing its prey and pulling it back towards the nest. Grid's chest opened up as the liquid burned falling through his lungs. His vision tunneled and the drunken void began to grab hold of his consciousness.
*Blackout*

Grid awoke later that night with a broken nose, chipped tooth, and busted lip. The only evidence of the night was a napkin stuffed in his pocket that read, "Thanks for saving the night, we will be in touch. Sincerely, Your new favorite Twi'lek"