Private Holy Roller

[Talin Treicolt]

Shortly after the events of Takeover...
New Vertica, Nar Shaddaa
Morrow
You're grinnin' like a vandal after sippin' on a handle...​

Cool air was not nearly enough to sober the amount of alcohol Talin had downed at the casino. The transport had spat them out, and she and Morrow had taken to the streets, opting to make the walk back to the ship on foot. Heels slung over her shoulder, she wasn't sure she would feel somethin' pokin' at her if she managed a misstep. A smoke burned in her other hand, and empty chatter filled the silence in between drawls, Talin ramblin' on about everything and nothing both. Tansu, the book, and the race ahead were heavy in verbalized thought. New Vertica was still alive, even at this time of night, and the noise of landspeeders gave background to her droning.

Suddenly, Talin paused, attention drawn by something that broke their rhythm. From the general direction of her gaze rose thumpin' and hollerin' from beneath a neon sign across the street. That place in particular didn't appeal to her, but the offerings within did in idea. Headin' back to the ship suddenly seemed about the worst prospect she could think of. The exocitism of the venue they had departed had taken it's toll, she realized. Home should have been a comfortin' prospect after the fact - but On The Mauve still wasn't exactly home. Walls in which she sought rest, sure, and the promise of Morrow's present - but not the sense of belongin' she yearned for on this alien world.

"I ain't ready to go back." She blurted.

Didn't need the force to expect Morrow's response. Where she thrived in chaos, any attempt to break him from routine on mere desire alone was often met with staunch resistance. One hand reached for his, pullin' him in before he could take another step in refusal. It would take convincin' before he could become too set in finishin' their journey.

"Please." Eyes widened to plead, glossy and reflectin' the night lights back at him. "We're all dressed up, anyways. I know somewhere we could go instead."

 

[Morrow]

Looking down unenthused at pleading, wide-eyed blues, Morrow loosed a small sigh. "It's late," he protested weakly. Those drinks she'd insisted upon back at Club Vertica were getting the better of him. On The Mauve wasn't far from here, and he couldn't help thinking about climbing under the covers and becoming unconscious. Not to mention the inebriated messing around that was certain to precede it.

"Haven't you had enough?" he asked, noting her clear intoxication as reason to call it quits. The way those flameouts were making him feel was reason enough for him. Drunkeness wasn't a sensation he was particularly fond of. "Besides, we're only... two blocks from port?" A freighter passed low overhead, repulsors screaming as if to corroborate his estimation. A few stumbling steps attempted to lead her back home, his hand awkwardly intertwined with hers.

 

[Talin Treicolt]

"C'mon, y'know me better than that." A very unladylike snort accompanied the rejection of the notion that a few mere hours would have given her a fill of thrills.

The force felt weirdly wibbly-wobbly in her state, much like the pair's balance, but nevertheless she reached for it when he attempted to corral her like cattle and planted her barefeet. Their arms pulled taut, and with newfound strength, tried to rope him back. One last pull of smoke preceded flickin' a butt into the gutter and givin' him her full attention.

"'Sides, place I was thinkin' of ain't far, either. Just a couple drinks, and a dance, and...."

Bendin' at the waist, lookin' mighty mischievous, Talin detailed a very generous offer.

 

[Morrow]

"A Dance?!" Morrow repeated, volume unwittingly increased. Twisting, his face showed a weak, drunken indignance. Nothing else she mentioned, even the interesting parts, could hold his focus.

"No, I- I don't dance," he asserted, slurring slightly.

Just the thought alone of how embarrassing that would be curled his lip and rushed a faint red to his face.

 

[Talin Treicolt]

"Then I'll dance enough for both of us." Talin insisted, two fingers tuggin' on the collar of his cloak. That sounded perfectly logical to her. "C'mon."

They'd be here 'till the sun came 'round the horizon if she waited on his blessin'. Spinnin' on her heels, each foot was drawn up one by one to let her hop along a couple feet and slip back into her shoes and damn near lost her balance, grabbin' the steel face of a sooty buildin' at the last moment. Unsurprisingly, the blonde ignored that moment of lost grace, marchin' onwards like nothin' had ever happened. Morrow would follow, she knew - if only to make sure none of the Syndicate folks messed with her and sold her to the hutts.

Lookin' both ways, the blonde darted across the street and damn near walked out in front of a swoop bike. Curses flowed from her mouth as the maniac drove on undeterred. What an idiot. It truly wasn't far - into an alley, out the other side, and up a flight of stairs. Music thumped from the doorway, but not the low base of a nightclub. This was somethin' else entirely - backwater. From a stair above, Talin looked down with a sparkle in her eye.

"See? Not even a line t'night."

 

[Morrow]

Silent, Morrow stared with pursed lips at the club's entrance. Though muffled and distant, he easily recognized the song playing within. It was an old, but rather popular tune among a certain pastoral demographic. Talin's origin amongst such people was obvious; it had branded her tongue with an unmistakable drawl. Morrow, on the other hand, had never elaborated on his similar upbringing. Perhaps by virtue of the world's deep Imperial roots, he lacked any similar deficiency in articulation.

Now, faced with an echo of the past, even as innocent as this one, he grew even more apprehensive. Dantooine wasn't a fond memory. Why would Nar Shaadda of all worlds even have a place like this?

"Must not be all that," he feigned extrapolation from Talin's observation, trying desperately not to sound like he was coping. "Why don't we hit The Neon instead?" he asked, suggesting a place they'd been before, a desperate attempt to go anywhere but in there.

 

[Talin Treicolt]

"What do y'know about what's all that?" Talin asked doubtfully.

On another night, she may have taken him up on the offer - The Neon probably had dancin' that was more agreeable for their intoxicated state. Not tonight, though. The blonde was deadset on a taste of home, and good whiskey, and the mild amusement from seein' the Imperial boy she adored so totally out of his element. Battin' her lashes and wishin' she had a hat, Talin pushed open the metal door that let into the bar beyond.

"Or this, for that matter." She gestured to the music dronin' on from within.

The whole bar was real, solid wood. Knick-knacks, signs with crass jokes, and mounted trophies decorated the wall behind the bar, beside sparkling bottles. Messily lined tables littered the floor around a dance floor, goin' strong with a line dance. In one corner, a mechanical bantha bucked a patron wildly before throwin' 'em to the wayside. It was a true, rundown but well-loved little hodunk. Its patrons consisted of a few mandos and plenty 'o other misplaced nerfherders, just like her, though dressed more true to themselves. A wild, true, warm smile spread from ear to ear on Talin's face as she breathed in the scent. The blonde glowed in her element.

"Found it one of them nights you were workin' late."

 

[Morrow]

"Or this, for that matter."

"More than you might think," Morrow croaked tepidly through his teeth. Alcohol had made him begrudingly candid, but he managed to cut the 'unfortunately' from the end of his reply.

Curious glances were shot their way. Neither of them particularly fit the look of the usual patronage, and Morrow especially so. Someone remarked, mostly unheard, to their group about the pair having washed up from a Heavy Isotope club across town.

"I hate this song."

 

[Talin Treicolt]

The remark merited a squint, even through the drunken haze.

"They playin' this in Dantooine's imperial center?"

The thought was interrupted by the approach of a broad-shouldered man, starin' 'em down as they stood stupidly in the doorway. Squeakin' out an apology, Talin dragged Morrow along by the hand, towards the bartop. Further intoxication seemed like the answer for his reluctance to participate in the revelry. Even if she had to haul him 'round the floor, she was determined to get that dance. Pullin' her skirt down, the blonde clambored up onto a stool, orderin' 'em both a glass of Concordian whiskey.

"They give a cred prize for breakin' the record on the bull. Think I oughta give it a shot? Might pay for our tab."

 

[Morrow]

"Garang," Morrow named the capital in the manner of a correction. "Probably not, but I wouldn't know."

If there was a clearer way to imply that he wasn't an Imperial urbanite, he wasn't about to convey it. Talin would have to piece together the implications of his rural origin on her own. If she were even capable in her current state, that was. Maybe she'd be excited by the revelation? Or, would it go right over her ditzy blonde head?

A dark brow raised at the idea of riding that wild clanker. Even if they ignored the money he'd won back at Club Vertica, he was sitting on more cred than any tab they could ever rack up could hope to threaten. Business was good on Nar Shaadda, and especially so since his business was killing. Talin might not have known the exact depth of his wallet, but surely she knew he was more than capable of paying the tab.

"I think you're drunk and just want to ride the bantha. You know I can pay."

Over his shoulder, Morrow turned and watched the newest challenger get thrown from the mechanical beast in question.

 

[Talin Treicolt]

Not from the capital, then. More than he had ever let slip about his home. Talin had her own theories and thinkins about his background, but rarely did he offer insight with her pryin'. Just had to keep the drinks comin', then. Sure 'nough, the two glasses of amber were delivered by a corellian bartender, one set in front of the both of them. Takin' a swig, Talin raised her eyebrows to feign ignorance to the accusation.

"Noooo!" The word drawled harsher than normal with her denial. "Maybe I don't want ya to have to pay. I hate bummin' off ya all the time."

The latter piece was the only piece of truth. Everythin' was provided freely, and the fiercely independent Treicolt hated it - but the pot wasn't the biggest draw. Just the act did look mighty fun, and there was somethin' nostalgic about it. Metal and programmin' never would be a substitute for the real thing, but weren't many rodeos in Hutt space. Blue eyes fell to the holosign that flickered behind the thing. Seventy-eight seconds. Amateur hour.

"I'm gonna do it, then take you out for a nice breakfast." The declaration was haughty, like that prize was good as hers already.