Outlaw Country (Bar Thread/Outlaws/Pilots/For Hire?)

[RC 212]

OOC: I'm literally IC for hire for just about anybody.

Tatooine

After a brief stint with Merrill and the ORC he'd gone back off the grid. Today found the former FOSB agent off in the depths of Mos Eisley. He was knee deep in scum and half a glass of ale in. Clad in black trousers, a black jacket and sporting an overgrown beard; compete with gun-belt and old heavy blaster.

He'd put his name in the drop boxes and up on the bulletin, advertising his services as Pilot for hire. He wanted to get back in the action, needed to get back in the action. Didn't really care what crew it was or for whom. Long as it paid.

"Bartender, hear any jobs for pilots abouts?" He asked cocking his head.

The Nikto gave him a once over.

"Depends, how good are ya lad."

Zok grinned, booze buzzing in his veins.

"Depends, how deep is supposed parties pocket book? Maintainin' a fighter ain't cheap."

 

[Crocell]

A woman was seated a few seats down at the bar... Strange it seemed, because she was gorgeous enough to have been noticed on the way in.

Long black hair cascaded down her back and curled about her face; cut in a unique mohawk and possessing a number of interesting tattoos; amongst-which was, on the shaved side of her head, were black spiraling designs which appeared as-if hair had been trimmed into a tribal design. She had a number of piercings, including one in her nose, her sternum, and a number of studs in both ears. She was dressed like a rebel... tight black leather pants hugged shapely curves, and were tucked into a pair of worn red leather boots which were strapped just above her knee, protecting her shins and calves. The toes of her boots were capped with engraved silver toes; a touch of class, and elegantly dangerous concealed weapons.

She wore a leather coat which was sleak and unadorned - her top, beneath the coat, accentuated and hieghtened her femme-fatale appearance. Upon inspection, she seemed to an air of self-confidence, as-if she belonged in this place.

Attached to her left arm was a glove & gauntlet, a simple piece of armor which protected her hand from the dust & grit of Tattooine, as well as providing some forearm support through what appeared to be scale mail. Her right hand was bare, index finger touching her glass. Her right side was facing away, but she did not appear to have a blaster.

If [member="Zok Stellaris"] were aware enough, he might catch a pair of violet eyes glance his way at the mention of looking for employment. Otherwise, she remained where she was seated, quietly enjoying her drink.

Before her was a glass, half-full of a hazy brown whiskey with no ice. The band, toward the back of the bar, played a drolling, lazy tune.

 

[Dayne Inck'ha]

This place reeks like bad breath and animal droppings, Dayne thought.

How the hell do people survive in a place this hot?

The hired gun was not build for the heat. Under her armor, beads of sweat slowly trailed down her back. She grimaced, thinking of the thorough cleaning she'd have to do when this was done. This heat was uncomfortable. This place was uncomfortable. The whole damn planet was uncomfortable.

Easy, easy. 1, 4, 9, 16, 25, 36, 49, 64, 81, 100, 121, 144... Beneath her mask, the woman opened her eyes again. She was okay. She was good.

Focused now, Dayne slouched in her seat, though still on full alert. She and [member="Ivory Stroud"] were here looking for new hires to absorb into The Family. She needed to be eavesdropping, not giving a damn about the local weather.

Her ears strained against the murmur of the cantina, attempting to catch even the slightest hint of someone needing a new job. A few here and there, but none caught her eye-- not til the man at the bar. She listened in on [member="Zok Stellaris"]'s exchange with the bartender. Waiting a couple more heartbeats - fifteen, to be precise - the woman stood up, grabbing her still-full glass (approximately 6.91oz of whiskey, if her estimates were correct) and casually waltzing over to Ivory.

Twenty-one steps later, and she was sliding onto the seat next to the tattooed woman. Setting the glass on the counter, she nudged it towards her counterpart. "Have a drink," Dayne murmured softly. "Six-point-nine-one ounces of piss-poor whiskey housed in an eight-point-five ounce glass to complement your four-point-three-six ounces of whiskey in another eight-point-five ounce tumbler. Help yourself." Clearing her throat, she added, "Additionally, I believe the gentleman who sits six average human strides downwind of us may be of particular use for your....interests. A pilot, I believe?"

 

[Crocell]

Sitting quietly, Ivory had spent time in dives such as this to know when her efforts would be successful and not. In her past, she'd made similar connections in similar hovels serving similar drinks to similar people... but few could compare to Tatooine's particular ambience. The heat outside was unbearable in the day and cooled in the night, the sand got everywhere, and the majority of the locals found respite at the bottom of a bottle in darkened, artificially cooled holes just like this one.

She and [member="Dayne Inck'ha"] had been passing through The Outer Rim and had decided to make a small number of stops on their way back to Dohmus Prime; their goal was simple: Gather Information, and if possible, recruit. So, they found themselves here.

"Here.", she thought, eyeing the unflattering decor and simple furnishings. She shook her head before taking another sip from her drink, and was about to reach for a cigera when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Dayne sat down beside her, and Ivory regarded the masked woman with a quizical look. The raven-haired femme fatale's bright violet eyes seemed supremely aware and glittered with a certain humor - she was still getting used to her companion's particular quirks, but appreciated the woman's ability with numbers... even if their ideas of precision might have differed.

Ivory reached for Dayne's glass, lifted it, and poured a measure of whiskey from one glass to the other; "2 Ounces, from you to me." She said with a sly grin, then raised her own glass and brought it to touch Dayne's with a *clink*.

She carefully eyed the man seated at the bar while she sipped at her drink. Using the glass to cover the movement of her lips, she spoke: "Yeah... he just might."

She swallowed, feeling the burn of the liqour as it traced a tingling fire down her gullet and into her belly. She set the glass down then reached into her coat, producing a square silver case with a beautiful ivy engraving upon it. Opening the case, she produced a cigera, placed it between her lips, and set the case down on the bar. In a moment, the cigera was lit by a flickering flame from a lighter which had been in her possession for many years.

"If he doesn't come to us, maybe we'll go to him."

 

[RC 212]

[member="Ivory Stroud"] [member="Dayne Inck'ha"]

"Tha' lass over there been eyein' ya fur some time now."

Zok glanced over, meeting her eyes and then back to the bartender. He slammed his glass and pushed it across the bar top.

"Well I'm no dog, if she want's some of this, she'll have to come get it. Who is she anyhow?"

The bartender scowled.

"You merc types and your pride. Well boyo not really sure. She's a new face here."

"You tellin' me you got no clue."

"Naw, just that she got money, by the looks of her bar tab."

"And that is?"

"Bout a thousand."

"Good enough for me. Add my next on hers. Change of plans."

He grabbed his refilled drink and walked over to her table, taking the most direct route and making direct eye contact. Then took a seat and placed his mug on the table.

"Zok Stellaris. And you are?"

 

[Crocell]

With a shift of her eyes, Ivory indicated to her companion to disappear, knowing Dayne knew the drill.

Violet eyes made direct eye-contact with [member="Zok Stellaris"] as he approached. The thunk of his mug on the wooden surface didn't phase the woman, and she couldn't help but offer a smile; perfect white teeth and a sensual air surrounded her, woven in mystique and a warning bell; though she might have seemed like she'd attended one-too-many "Thrash Djams" in the past, she carried herself with a powerful self-assuredness which spoke volumes; appearing equally secretive & genuine, it would be natural for the pilot to feel drawn to her.

Ivory's gloved left hand rose, brushing an errant strand of curling black hair behind her ear. She exposed her neckline, violet eyes shifting from her drink to that of the man who'd just joined her.

"Ivory." She said, taking a drag from her cigera and sending twin jets of smoke from her nostrils like some enraged, fire-breathing beast. She offered her empty right hand in a gesture of greeting.

"Couldn't help overhearing your conversation... What kind of work do you do?"

She asked, as-if she hadn't already made him as a pilot.

 

[RC 212]

[member="Ivory Stroud"]

Zok was fast, and right to the point.

"Dogfighting, Escort, Gun for hire etc. What exactly do you need me to do and how much are ya payin'?"

He liked the look of her. She was cute. He cracked a smile.

 

[Crocell]

The raven-haired woman gave a melodic laugh, leaning in toward the pilot. The expression of humor was honest, and she reached for her glass. Giving the man a wink, she responded,

"I can think of a few things I might need your help with... but first..."

She bit her lip, then took a sip from her glass of bourbon.

"I'm curious about you... I have some friends that might be in-need of a... "Hot-shot" (Spoken as she looked him up and down, obviously evaluating him) Pilot. You interested in maybe... making a move into the Private Sector?"

[member="Zok Stellaris"]

 

[RC 212]

[member="Ivory Stroud"]

Zok grenned.

"You offering me a contract? Lady if there's money in it and I get blow things up, I'm in. Don't much care what it is."

He took another sip of his drink.

"Now," He said looking her up and down likewise, "What you got up your sleeve for me?"

 

[Crocell]

Ivory leaned forward, taking another drag from her cigarette then breathing out. She took another sip of her glass of whiskey, her curiousity already piqued. Silver earings hung from her ears & softly twinkled as she moved, casting shivering slivers of light as the entryway into the bar opened & shut as a patron made their way into the heat of the day. She held [member="Zok Stellaris"]' eyes with her own as she placed her chin in the palm of her hand. Their faces were nearly touching, and the volume of her voice dropped low...

"Maybe... we could go somewhere... private, and talk?"

She smelled of bourbon, cigarettes, and a summer field of flowers.

If he agreed, she'd stand up with him and lead him toward the back of the bar where they could carry on a conversation privately. Ivory trusted [member="Dayne Inck'ha"] to be her eyes & ears. Ivory was perfectly capable of protecting herself... but the math-whiz was a markswoman, and would provide a subtle layer of security.

 

[Dayne Inck'ha]

[member="Ivory Stroud"] [member="Zok Stellaris"]

Dayne knew that look. Without another word (or drink) the woman began to slip away - only to pause. "You know," she rumbled slowly, "Those things are known to decrease the lifespan of a human by a minimum of seven-point-five years." She let the words linger momentarily, before giving the younger woman space to negotiate.

Now, to find a new seat.... She didn't need to look long. From the moment the markswoman stepped into the bar, she had the whole area mapped in her head. And... no doubt the pair would move to the private rooms to discuss terms of service further.

Her dark eyes flicked from seat to seat. There. An empty spot, where a pair of Rodians had been formerly. It was close enough to the rooms that, should things go south, Dayne could lend a hand. Yet, it was also at such an angle so as to allow sight of the front entrance. Beautiful.

A light smirk dancing across her mouth, she strode on over, settling in the booth. Dayne didn't expect trouble. But trouble always had a funny way of showing up when you least liked it - so it never hurt to be prepared.

 

[The Space Cowboy]

Arwen stormed into the establishment, avoiding eye contact with the various humans and creatures as he made his way to the dimly lit bar that had poorly designed decor and fluorescent signs descending from the ceiling. The atmosphere was dull; a band was playing soft jazz music, men were socializing and dancers were looking to find a partner to spend the night with. The usual occurrence at a bar on Tatooine.

He acknowledged the bartender with a respectful nod, followed by his trademark smile; one that was unusually cold and vacated of happiness. Arwen extracted his bloodied hands from his sand covered poncho, directing the bartender to the alcoholic beverage he craved. Arwen nodded a single time as the bartender spoke, "Is this the one y'want? It'd be much easier if y'spoke, pal." Arwen merely rolled his eyes in exasperation at the lack of respect shown. A raised thumb confirmed his order to the unprepossessing creature that manned the bar.

Credits dropped to the bar counter in exchange for the alcoholic beverage. It was a single malt whiskey, a favorite of Arwen's. He coiled his wrinkled fingers around the glass filled to the brim with his favorite drink and made his way to the bulletin board. His eyes lazily scanned the board, as he sought for an opportunity to prove himself.