Marking Time

[Erika Davion]

"It's Quannot's Syndrome, I'm afraid."

The backstreet sawbones spoke the word, but there was a heavy weight to them nonetheless. His hands, held nervously before him, were constantly in motion as he stared at the woman perched on the bed before him, clad only in her khaki tanktop and briefs. His long, delicate fingers danced a nervous jig across one another, and he gulped audibly as the woman raised her head, dragging her eyes away from the dirty, bloodstained tiles that made up the floor of this dingy little clinic in the bad part of Ghorman's only major city.

"I'm not a medic, Doc," she growled, a slur of pain and weariness colouring every syllable of every word, "What the frak is Quannot's Syndrome?"

The sawbones - it was an insult to medics across the galaxy to call him a doctor - was slow to answer. Indecision showed plainly upon his features, half-remembered oaths to speak the truth and aid his patients fighting a losing battle against an evident desire not to anger the woman who sat before him.

"Well," he managed to mumble at long last, "It's a... umm... it's a degenerative disorder. There's... well, there's a number of options we could look at. Umm... Perigen, for one."

"Doctor, I believe you may be inadvertently misleading the patient." It was a new voice that cut in, a harsh, tinny voice that had once been a synthesised recreation of a Coruscanti accent before time and poor maintenance had distorted it into its current nasal whine. The owner, a medical droid that had surely seen better years, if not better decades, jerked unsteadily forward, its photoreceptors flaring momentarily as it accessed its databanks. "Quannot's Syndrome is an irreversible degenerative disorder. Perigen, a strong sedative and painkiller, is effective at mitigating early stage symptoms, but there is no know cure, despite attempts at immersive bacta therapy and total organ replacement." Pausing, the droid turned to fix its crimson photoreceptors on the woman, tilting its bulbous head in a curiously organic matter as it studied her.

Eyes flashing daggers at the droid, the medic shook his head, wringing his hands all the more tightly as the droid provided the information he had purposefully left out. "Yes, thank you T-1B," was all he could manage, "I'm sure you have some tests to run."

"No," answered the droid, "I have no additional du-"

"Then go find something," the sawbones snapped irritable, before being interrupted in turn.

"Leave it," the woman interjected, "I want to know. Tell me again, in words I'll understand. What'll this do to me?"

There was a pause, a long heavvy silence. The droid turned to regard its master, seeking permission to explain, but he simply shook his head once more, apparently resigned now to having to speak the awful truth. "It's attacking your organs. That's what the pain is. And since there's no cure, it'll only get worse. I can provide medication to help with the pain but..." Again he paused, a truly wretched expression touching upon his features as he shrugged his scrawny shoulders miserably, "I'm sorry, but it's terminal."

For a long moment, Erika simply stared at him, her hazel eyes entirely inscrutable. Then, to his evident bemusement, she snorted and smiled bitterly, glancing back down at the bloody floor as she muttered, "Well... kark."

 

[Erika Davion]

Some fifteen minutes later, the door to the clinic juddered unsteadily shut in Erika's wake as she stepped out into the cold air of Ghorman's twilight hours. Tugging her jacket tight about her chest, she hesitated a moment as her fingers brushed against the bottle of micropills - perigen - that sat in the pocket, before slowly fishing out the bottle and raising it to her eyes. "So," came her whisper, "This is how it ends, huh? Just me and you little pills?" The prospect drew a spark of anger from her, and her fingers tightened around the bottle under the blood fled from her knuckles. This was just... just stupid. She was a soldier. A proud warrior. She'd made mistakes... Force above and spirits below, she'd made some awful bloody mistakes in her time, but enough to warrant this? A slow death as she was eaten away from inside?

Well, maybe. Maybe Thela was enough to warrant it. If you believed in karma, that is.

"Kark," she snarled, the memories of that terrible time rising like a tide in her mind. Even after all these years, after all the credits she'd spent trying to drown them in alcohol and rotgut, she could remember each and every face with crystal clarity. That was her penance. At least, she'd thought it was. She'd dared to believe that would be enough, that simply carrying their faces in her mind until the end of days would be enough to repay the debt she'd owed. But that was mere hubris, wasn't it? To imagine that she knew anything of penance or punishment? That was obvious now. Oh so painfully obvious.

She wanted to punch something. Or to cry. Or to cry as she punched something. In truth, she didn't know what she wanted, or even what she felt. Was she angry? Or upset? Or resigned? Or just... numb? How could she tell? Emotions whirled and faded like a maelstrom in a stormy sea, surfacing and vanishing in the space of a heartbeat. Her mind was in chaos, snared in a web of entropy that showed not the slightest inclination to release its grip. And perhaps - just perhaps - that was for the best.

"Garrett," she called softly, slumping back against the alley wall, "What would you do, huh? If you were here, holding these stupid little pills?" No answer came, but none had been expected beyond the mocking echo of Erika's bitter words as they bounced off the towering alley walls. But she knew the answer anyway; he'd have cracked a joke, kept everyone's morale up. That had always been his way. But Erika wasn't Garrett Tremaulkin, and she had lost her own way a long time previously.

Thus it was that only one thing suggested itself to her, the same thing that was always so willing to accept her affections in the dark years of the recent past. Drink.

Moving unsteadily, Erika pushed herself away from the wall and began her trek into the city. She moved in a daze, eyes unseeing as feet led the way down the familiar paths they had trodden so many times before. Yet one by one she left the familiar cantinas behind, her feet leading her deeper and deeper into the spaceport district as her subconscious mind sought out a particular type of bar. Soon, the streets began to darken, and the trickle of passersby faded into nothingness as night overtook day and the moon began its journey across the heavens, but still she walked, one booted foot after another. And then, suddenly, she stopped. A sign, once garish, swung loosely overhead, its half obscured letters calling out proudly to the world, 'Strs Ed Catna' and, in smaller text 'N wapns pese'. The reedy warbling of jizz music was barely audible from within, and Erika cocked her head, listening to the forced cheer of the simple melody. There was something pathetic about it, and the former mercenary found that oddly comforting on this night, so allowed her feet to drag her down the narrow steps into the gloom of the cantina proper. A thick haze of cigarra smoke obscured much of the interior, but that was fine and Erika made her way across to the bar, taking a stool between a bloated Gran whose face rested in a puddle of drool upon the bar and another empty stool. The bartender, a human woman of middling years and greying hair, spared her but a glance even as she asked the traditional question, "What'll it be?"

"Dodbri whiskey," Erika answered, fishing a handful of credits out of her jacket and slapping them down on the counter. Dodbri whiskey was far from her favourite, but it was cheap, and strong enough to drown out even the worst of memories. "Make it a double and keep them coming till the credits run out."

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"Keep em coming." That was a war cry in every cantina, on every world, with a sentient upon it. It used to be Salem Norongachi's, used to be until he couldn't face the looks of the barkeeps. Now he'd taken to the bottle outright, eyes cast down to the sticky and soiled bartop. What world was he on now? When had he arrived? It all became a haze after awhile, a warm blanket to wrap yourself up in and hide away from the Galaxy.

The shot glass rose to his lips and the amber liquid vanished, lost to a pit that could never be filled. Green eyes stared at it, glassy and confused, this innocent vessel. He wanted to smash it, to take it in his hand and crush its shards into his flesh. To feel the blood flow through his fingers, let the pain wash over his numb mind but most of all, he wanted it gone because of what he saw reflected in its bottom.

"Fuck it..." He said quietly and took the bottle in a wavering hand, tipping its contents out for another round. It sat there for a moment, the music rising in the background and the incoherent muttering of dozens of sentients filling the air. The struggle, the urge to stop his hand reaching for it again was upon him. A useless one, he knew. What was the alternative? To sleep? To dream? To relive his nightmare over and over again until it drove him to seek the cold silence of space?

In this brief moment of internal struggle a new body joined the ranks of the damned at the bar, barely a flicker of a glance was cast her way. He had only eyes for his tonic and like all great loves, it would eventually kill him. Up and down the glass fell, clattering onto the bartop in his haste. Loathing filled him as it swam the familiar path to the abyss.

The fall was hard and it was far from over.

 

[Erika Davion]

The first glass barely touched against the stained wood of the bar before Erika snatched it up and sank it down, letter the foul brew sear her throat with its potency. Momentarily robbed of the power of speech, and with tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, she slapped the empty glass down and motioned for another. It was slow coming - the bartender was dealing with a drunken Bothan a couple of stools down - and Erika let her gaze drift whilst she waited, hoping against all the odds that she might see something that'd tear her thoughts aware from bitter recriminations and self loathing that were weaving their way insidiously through her mind. But there was nothing, just the usual assortment of lost souls you'd find in any such dive, a mismatched crew of the lost and damned, each caught up in their own private maladies as they went through the motions of filling their glasses and drinking them down, never so much as tasting a single sip of the liquors their hard earned credits paid for.

Here was a human woman, hair piled up in a style that was supposed to look sophisticated but clearly wasn't, hear makeup smeared around bleary eyes as she drank down a vile looking green concoction. There was a human, nursing a single glass of foaming ale, seeming more interested into diving the future in the foam than drinking it down. There was a Rodian, swaying in his seat and still calling for more. And there a Wookiee, its fur singed and matted, blood trickling from unseen wounds, and a glass of something toxic looking clasped in its monstrous hands. Further along was the drunken Bothan, so far across the line between sobriety and drunkenness that he must surely be approaching the line from the other side, yet still desperate to find something more to drown his woes. And there, at the end, another man, his face scarred and twisted, suit crumpled and desperately in need of a wash. For a moment, Erika let her gaze linger upon him, wondering where the scars upon his cheeks came from, before deciding she didn't much care as the bartender stepped between them and poured another stingy measure of whiskey into the dirty shot glass.

Once again, it vanished in a gulp. Once again, Erika slapped the glass down and motioned for another.

But she already knew it wasn't working. There was no buzz to go with the fire in her throat. The memories weren't fading back into the darkness, and the emotions weren't slipping from her mind like thieves in the night. No, they were still there, niggling, denying her even the slightest moment of peace. Just waiting for that moment when she let her thoughts turn back inward. "Frak," she swore beneath her breath, "Karking frak." Swearing didn't help either, though it drew a dispassionate glance from the bartender as she filled Erika's glass once more, but the mercenary waved her away irritable as she took up her glass once more. But in doing so, she raised her gaze once more, and found herself staring straight into the eyes of the scarred man. They were green, a deep, engulfing green, and the flare of pain within them was barely masked by the ocean of alcohol he appeared to have swallowed.

Somehow, Erika couldn't help but feel he knew a little something of the pain memory could summon upon a soul, and she raised her glass in kinship. "Salut," she called, her lips twisting into a cold, resentful smile in the instant before the glass met her lips and flooded her mouth once more with its acrid contents.

 

[Corvetta Salvo]

Well. This was sobering.

The star pilot had ventured into a quiet hangout of sorts, conveniently located near the spaceport district. It seemed like it could be a great place to grab some sleep and probably an excellent place to get abducted as one slept. And the crowd gathered here sure looked lively. The flygirl's eyes widened, allowing her pupils to better adjust to the dim lighting and see the glorious mess before her. Curiosity had brought her in here. She had not ventured into this shady venue and it seemed like maybe it was time. The missing letters on the sign signified character as well. So far, she had determined that it was not great character.

Biting her lip nervously, Corvetta decided to take a chance and head up to the bar and check out what types of transmission fluid they were offering. Seemingly the brightest thing in the room, the draping skirt of her prized maroon pilot's coat flapped in her wake as she made her way to the counter. Straddling a weathered stool and making herself as comfortable as she could, the navigator girl took a look at what was on tap.

Apparently no one here had ever heard of her favorite Mantellian brandy. No wonder everyone looked so down. Shrugging, she requested the next best thing: Taanab gin. That was out, too.

Furrowing her brow, Corvetta tried for the smuggler's go-to poison, Corellian whiskey.

Oh-for-three. They call this place an establishment?

Rolling her eyes, the spacer chick thumbed towards the depressed-looking female next to her. "Guess I'll just have whatever she's having. Must be pretty hard if she's willing to dock around this joint." The bartender sent her needles along with the drink. Classy.

 

[Salem Norongachi]

It was getting harder. Harder to keep functional, the intervals between the gaping blackness that dragged him down a hole so deep he couldn't see the sunlight any more. The CIS didn't care, as long as he did his job and he did it as efficiently as he'd done anything else in his life but that could only last for so long. Soon he'd start slipping, mistakes would follow there after, lives would be lost and questions asked of his ability to lead the Crusaders. The scary thought, the one that filled his guts with bile, was that he didn't care. Ghorman could burn -the Galaxy could burn- every atom of it ripped apart, but as long as he had this bottle and this stool it was nothing more than a static hiss at the edge of his hearing.

He'd feel different, he knew, in a few days. He'd wake up one morning and the crushing wieght of it all would become a dull ache in his heart. He'd be something closer to the man he was 700 years ago, a leader of men, a commander of armies and not a pathetic wretch wallowing in self pity and regret...but for how long? How long until this was all he knew? The thought chilled him, made Salem wonder what he would do if there was no reprieve from the black tumour eating away inside him.

The clatter of a glass drew his eye and then he saw his reflection in cold hazel eyes. Its funny how many times you can see your own soul mirrored in another, it reminded him just how messed up a Galaxy they lived in where broken people could be found so readily. She raised a glass and he knew the drill, a spoken word he didn't understand that drew a nod of acknowledgement from the Lord Commander before they tipped back another sacrifice to their demons.

Another voice joined the drunks at the bar, again a casual glance toward the new comer and then his eyes went to the bottle of Corellian Whiskey, the last bottle this fine establishment had to offer to a weary soul. It occurred to him that the polite thing to do would be to offer her a drink but Salem Norongachi had never been polite. Instead he poured himself another measure, drank it down and ran a hand over his mouth to catch any spillage that his eagerness may have caused.

"Any port in a storm..." Came the words in response to the latest arrivals scathing assessment of the Cantina.

[member="Corvetta Salvo"]
[member="Erika Davion"]

 

[Erika Davion]

The slender form who perched herself upon the previously empty stool beside Erika drew more than one curious glance as she ran through a list of desired drinks, her voice seeming to grow ever the more despondent with each curt response. For her part, Erika simply sat and smirked into her glass, reflecting on just how out of place the girl seemed. After all, it seemed self evident that not a single soul that belonged in a dump like this would even dream of asking for a drink even a fraction as upmarket as Mantellian Brandy. And perhaps the girl realised this - or at least realised she could waste the better part of an hour reeling off a list of drinks that the cantina didn't stock - her with a resigned exclamation she settled for ordering a glass of the same foul smelling concoction that Erika was ineffectually drowning her memories in.

And it seemed as though others were listening too, for the suited man down the bar spoke in answer to the girl's exclamation, offering up the trite old adage of 'Any port in a storm' in an odd, muted tone that seemed entirely in fitting with his dull suit. Erika shook her head at that, chuckling ruefully. "Who cares about a port?" she asked the galaxy at large, motioning as she did for another glass from the suddenly busy bartender, "Any cove, or dock, or cave... times like this a soul's gotta take comfort where they find it. Doesn't matter if they drinking... what'd you ask for, Mantellian Brandy? Yeah, that, in the Imperial back on 'Scant, or stinking rotgut in a pit like this." The words drew a disproving cluck from the bartender, whose grim expression suggested she'd heard more than enough insults thrown about in relation to her cantina that night, but Erika waved her away irritably as she took a shot of the bitter whiskey. "End of the day, drunk's drunk, and it doesn't much matter how you get there."

Well, except that you got there faster and with more creds left in your pocket if you were drinking the rotgut, although there was no guarantee they'd stay there if you got drunk enough to pass out at the bar. She'd learnt that one the hard way, though at least it hadn't taken more than a single lesson to sink in. But there was no need to share that in the here and now. Hells, she wasn't even sure why she was talking at all. It wasn't like she'd come here looking for company, or that she'd ever needed companionship to get truly and utterly drunk. Maybe it was just because of the memories that were swimming around in th liquor that soaked her mind.

Yeah, that had to be it.

[member="Salem Norongachi"]
[member="Corvetta Salvo"]

 

[Corvetta Salvo]

The mood of the guy in the suit matched the room, she would give him that. Corvetta gazed at him awkwardly before carrying on.

The pilot sputtered upon the drink's contact with her tongue. What was this junk? The complexion of her face shifted rapidly from its usual engine-burned hint of bronze, to a pale tan, to a peach-red as she choked on the foul drink and bent her head over her cup in embarrassment, avoiding eye contact with anyone. She wondered if the bartender had added a special ingredient to her drink, but the patron next to her seemed to confirm that the liquid was supposed to taste this way, utilizing the term 'stinking rotgut'.

Twisting her mouth in frustration, the flygirl admitted defeat and gave up on finding anything worthwhile to drown in. She scooted the glass around between her anchored arms, sliding it about the countertop without concern on the occasions that it splashed over the lip of the cup. People who come here must be pretty desperate, she deduced, taking a glance at Mr. Suit and the drolly philosophical woman sitting beside her. You win some; you lose some. At least she had learned never to return to this shack again.

She did not know why she lingered. Maybe this place provided a does of reality--something she most often opted to try to ignore--despite its incapacity to provide good alcohol. Her eyes kept flitting back and forth between the Suit and the Philosopher. She could at least attempt to make this adventure a noteworthy experience. Turning to face the other girl, Corvetta tried to think of the most sympathetic thing to say to a depressed person. "What's killin' you, girl?"

[member="Erika Davion"] [member="Salem Norongachi"]

 

[Salem Norongachi]

"I'll drink to that." He responded with a sneer and was a man of his word. The room had begun to grow all the more hazy, his head throbbing a little bit less and the girls down the bar looking marginally appealing. Thats when he knew the desired effect was being achieved, Salem Norongachi had never been interested in what some dubbed 'The fairer sex'. He'd never found the time, never seen the point, there were always things that required his attention that were so much bigger than the need to have a fumble in a dank alley with some tart.

He regretted that as well, that he'd been so swept up in the dance of galactic politics and war that he'd never once stopped to savour the little things that make life almost bearable; A lover, a child, a home. Alien concepts to a man that had killed more than he had loved, that had enemies by the score and little in the way of friendship. Rani Churs swam into his mind, the red haired Sith Lord that he had fought shoulder to shoulder with but no, that was necessity not any kind of kinship and then like a bad smell that always seemed to linger; Kal Strife. The cold Corellian had been his greatest adversary and at the same time the only kindred spirit he had ever come across.

A hand snatched at the bottle like it had offended him and this time he cut out the middleman, greedily gulping down mouthful after mouthful just to drive that fraking bastard from his thoughts. He didn't need the Butcher, he didn't need anyone...he never had. The bottle fell back down to the bartop with a thud and then he heard the other of the two address the first.

"Not me," He said with a cold smile. "I'm off the clock."

[member="Corvetta Salvo"]
[member="Erika Davion"]

 

[Erika Davion]

It was strange. Erika had spent the last sixteen years travelling the galaxy. She'd faced down the worst of the worst, exchanged barbs with the foulest pieces of scum to ever darken the galaxy, even stood atop the smouldering remains of a hundred innocent beings, but not once had she ever found herself at a loss for words. And now, with four carelessly slung words, the waif beside her had stilled her tongue.

What's killin you, girl?

The words echoed mockingly through her mind, taunting her even as they struck to the core of her being. A tremor ran through her hand, sloshing her drink in its glass, but she barely noticed. In truth, the entire world had faded away, the colours of the cantina replaced by a dull, hazy monochrome reflection.

What's killin you, girl?

Although innocently spoken, the words tormented Erika, and she dropped her gaze to the bar as she shook her head, hoping that the gesture would cast them from her mind. No such luck; her mind - fickle, trecherous thing that it was - had latched onto them as surely as a mynock latched onto a starship, and it seemed that far more than wishful thinking would be required to shake them free. And suddenly, insanely, she found herself laughing, a harsh, bitter chuckle that stung her throat. Across the bar, the suited man took a swig from his bottle, eyeing her irritably as he muttered something about not killing her because he was off duty, but Erika didn't care. So the suit thought he could kill her? What did it matter? She was already dead, her body just didn't know it yet.

[member="Salem Norongachi"]
[member="Corvetta Salvo"]

 

[Corvetta Salvo]

What a creep. The Suit's comment was tasteless; tactless. Naturally, it was to be expected from his bitter type, but what Corvetta had not foreseen was the bout of laughter directed towards her question by the Philosopher. If the pilot's face had been pale when she had tried a taste of the dodbri whiskey, it was something else now. Her breath disappeared for what felt like minutes, a sensation of drowning in ridicule. She sniveled and scowled into her unwanted drink and found the murky reflection of her own face to be mocking.

Maybe it was all true. Maybe she was uncivilized and naive and sacrilegious and had something of a flat chest, to boot. Suddenly, she imagined that maybe the taste of the whiskey was not so bad. Wincing, she tried another sip. Nope. A salvo of three hoarse coughs followed. At least one thing was consistent.

Her glass tumbled out of her hands and cracked on the bar, waves of vile liquid splashing all over the counter. Corvetta did not care. It seemed like nobody here cared about anything, anyway.

[member="Erika Davion"] [member="Salem Norongachi"]

 

[Salem Norongachi]

The laughter contained no mirth that Norongachi could find, it was hollow, and he found himself watching the woman's expression. It was one he recognized instantly; Laugh or cry. She was having one of those days, although why such an innocent question had sparked such a reaction he couldn't say. What he could see, etched upon the lines of her face and in the deep hazel eyes that seemed to have lost their light, was the edge. That sheer cliff face that everyone faces at some point in this meat grinder of a Galaxy. Would she jump or would she pull back from the brink and realize that somewhere out there a little light remained?

The musings of the drunk were stalled by the smashing of a glass from their friend a seat away. Green eyes moved to the shattered remnants glistening upon the bar top, a pooling of alcohol creeping across the synthwood, and then to the woman herself, to her expression. The barmaid cursed audibly, her expression suggesting that an apology should have followed but it never came. Salem narrowed his eyes at this woman, he was as rude as the day was long but for the right reason and with the right people, the barmaid looked dead on her feet as it was without any more disrespect thrown in her face.

"Give me that." He called to the barmaid who had appeared with a rag. The woman obliged, she had little time to argue who cleaned up what when the place heaved with patrons all demanding her attention. He slipped from his stool, found the ground give a wobble beneath him for a moment and then marched straight toward the subject of his ire.

"Clean it." A hand thrusting the soiled white fabric at her chest.

[member="Corvetta Salvo"]
[member="Erika Davion"]

 

[Erika Davion]

The sound of shattering glass brought an abrupt end to Erika's bitter laughter; the noise hit her ears and set her body in motion without seeming to bother with consulting her mind, as instincts honed on the field of battle years previously sent her hand snaking beneath her jacket for the holstered blaster even as she turned to focus her full attention on the source. But there was no threat there, no danger, and a moment later she relaxed as her mind finally caught up with her body. "You ought to be more careful," she grumbled, releasing her grip on her blaster, "People're jumpy around these parts." Ironic words, but she spoke them sincerely, seemingly oblivious to the fact that barely a soul other than she had even reacted.

Of course, it only took one bad reaction to truly ruin someone's day - not to mention their week, month, year and life - a fact that it seemed the girl was about to learn as the green eyed man stormed up to them, a filthy rag clutched in his clenched fist. "Clean it," came his snarled instruction as he thrust the rag at the girl, his eyes flashing with anger and implicit threat.

"See what I mean?" added Erika, flashing the girl a not entirely unsympathetic, "Reckon you'd be best doing what he says, though. Guy's been drinking like a Quarren since I got here, and he looks like a mean drunk." Actually, he looked like a mean everything, but there was no point in saying that now. Besides, it wasn't like the girl was going to listen; she had that look to her, that stupid, stubborn one that Erika knew oh so very well.

She'd worn it often enough herself, after all.

 

[Corvetta Salvo]

Corvetta jerked back as the Suit shoved the filthy rag into her space.

She did not want to do as he said. In fact, she sat still, obstinate and unresponsive to the dirty cloth held under her nose for the better part of a minute, eyes only moving to take note of the woman at her side as she offered retroactive advice. But as crummy as this hole and nasty as the drunk in the suit was, she figured there was no need to be so arrogantly irresponsible. Eyes narrowed, she begrudgingly yanked the rag out of the sour man's hands and flopped it unceremoniously atop the pool of whiskey that was beginning to trickle down the side of the bar. Mindlessly dragging the wipe along the countertop by an edge, the girl muttered about annoyances in her spacer lingo, a few insults specifically directed at the jerk in the suit.

"Frakkin' nosebleed," the pilot cursed. Was the atmosphere contagious in here? Half an hour ago, she had been her brash, energetic, sporty self, simply seeking out a new experience. And she supposed she had found a new experience, alright. She was hurt and angry at something--mostly the guy in the suit over there. It had been a long while since she had felt this crushing emotion, and there was nothing desirable about it at all. Was there any hope, bouncing around systems with countless faces to never be known by a friend? "What's the point?" she lamented, blinking away a tear.

[member="Erika Davion"] [member="Salem Norongachi"]

 

[Salem Norongachi]

Norongachi didn't move until the last of the liquid and the broken glass had been swept up by the filthy piece of cloth and then his head turned toward [member="Erika Davion"] and a smile broke through his dark mood. "Quarrens wish they could drink like me." He commented and moved to the bottle of Corellian Whiskey by his seat, he reached over the bartop and found two more glasses within reach before filling them as he sat down.

"I think we can all agree that today...had been a day. Lets not make it more so." He slid one glass down toward [member="Corvetta Salvo"] and the other to Erika. "Heres to mean drunks and universal peace...or...some crap." He raised the glass in salute to the pair and then the liquid vanished into his waiting mouth.

 

[Erika Davion]

The sudden smile that parted the man's lips was entirely at odds with his previously sullen expression, but none the less welcome for that fact. Yet for all of that it wasn't a fraction as welcome or appreciated as the gesture of camaraderie that followed, and Erika caught the glass he slid across the bar with a deft hand and the closest thing to a genuine smile that had crossed her lips since she'd stepped into mangy little backstreet clinic a handful of hours previously.

"Here's to that crap," she uttered in response to his toast, raising her glass in salute, "And to all all the poor bastards that end up cleaning up after us." She sank the contents of the glass with those words, savouring the taste of the whiskey - a thousand times better than the cheap rotgut she'd been drinking all night. But as the firewater burnt its way down her gullet, she hesitated, glass still held slightly aloft as a thought slunk and siddled its way through liquor-doused contents of her mind; How many people have been left to clean up after me? It was a melancholic thought, one that had been lurking, lacking the words to express itself, for close to a decade. And now, stirred from its slumber at the back mind by the events of the day, it bore into her mind, eclipsing each and every other thought as she slumped back down against her stool, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Huh," she whispered, momentarily forgetting her company, "Is it really that simple?"

[member="Corvetta Salvo"]
[member="Salem Norongachi"]

 

[Corvetta Salvo]

Oh, so now he spoke up about his Corellian whiskey.

Corvetta abandoned the rag and caught the sliding glass as it passed in front of her. She twisted her lips, not sure whether to hold on to her grudge or thank him. Indecisive, she simply lifted the cup and drank the alcohol. It was so much better than the filth she had spilled, but it tasted a little more bitter to her this round. She took a deep breath and mumbled, "Thanks, chum..."

Meanwhile, the Philosopher seemed to have had some revelation of galactic proportions. Corvetta was a bit curious as to whatever was this simple solution she had discovered, but decided to allow her some privacy. Wanting to take advantage of what seemed to be a rare occurrence for happiness in this miserable bar, the pilot piped in a bit of humor. "Nah. Simple's too complicated."

[member="Salem Norongachi"] [member="Erika Davion"]

 

[Salem Norongachi]

In just one simple act the entire mood of the three had swung to something akin to contentment, a smile mirrored Erika. He'd left more than his share of broken things behind him in his time, although he had always consoled himself that it was all for something bigger; Collateral damage in the fight for a better future. It was all bullcrap, he knew, but he'd always been good at lying, especially to himself.

"Chum.." He scoffed at [member="Corvetta Salvo"] and shook his head, that was a new one he had to admit and then the mood darkened once again. It was going to be one of those long, confusing days.

"Its never that simple," He commented with a shrug, trying very hard to shield himself from the downturn lest be be dragged back into a place he was sick of visiting. "But you're alive, for now, so whatever it is you've done that brought you-" He cast a hand around the divebar. -here, you can always make up for it." He poured himself another drink and then planted the bottle in front of [member="Erika Davion"], indicating that they could help themselves. It joined its siblings in the gaseous pit of his stomach a moment later. "But what do I know? I'm just an old drunk guy sitting at a bar with two pretty girls."

 

[Erika Davion]

Strange. She'd spent years dwelling on the past, thinking back over the sins of times long forgotten by many of those who'd stood beside her at the time, and the solutions had always deluded her. Oh, yes, she'd felt close to them. They'd often lurked just beyond the grasp of her mind, or just at the bottom of the next bottle, and yet they'd never arrived. And now... now this sozzled drunkard in a suit that had so very clearly seen better days was throwing out the answers like they were nothing.

Perhaps they were. Perhaps she just hadn't wanted to admit them to herself.

"You may be drunk," she noted, shaking her head in wry amusement, "Hells above and below, what am I saying? You are drunk. But you've got a point." It was hard to believe she'd been so blind for so long. For too long, perhaps. How long did she have left? Not long enough to do enough to live on in anyone's mind as a hero, that much was certain, but maybe that was for the best. After all she'd done, with all the blood on her hands, it'd be a disservice to let people thing she was a hero. But time enough to make amends, to get the scales balancing? Maybe, just maybe. And she knew just where to start.

But first.

"Bartender," she called, slapping a few more credits down on the counter, "The drunk in the suit's shared his drink, so now it's on me. Three of the finest thing you've got, so long as we'll still be able to see when we're done with it."

 

[Corvetta Salvo]

Wisdom is derived from alcohol, apparently. As are compliments. The girl knew that one should never trust a drunk to judge aesthetics, and yet she still suddenly felt like she had achieved something. Although, whether it was good or not with this type of guy was another story...

Corvetta wondered what fascinating things she might say with a little more in her system. She doubted anything particularly savvy. And what she would say was probably something regrettable to let out. No, she would only take this one special glass, courtesy of her new philosopher friend. Maybe she would learn something by shutting up for once. "Thanks a payload, girl," the pilot said appreciatively before closing her lips around the rim of the cup.

The atmosphere was suddenly less weighty, and the drink was helping things seem a little brighter as well. Hazy, but bright. After a drawn-out sip of this somewhat quality alcohol, Corvetta decided to draw out identities. "Got names?" she inquired of the two, brushing back her hair. "I'm Corvetta."