Pazaak Attack

[Hamish McNair]

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N A R S H A D D A A​

UPPER LEVELS​

RANCOR DISTRICT​

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A light drizzle fell from the sky, coating everything topside in a shiny layer of moisture. Lights from overhead skycars and neon signs were reflected in dazzling patterns that new raindrops disrupted in a mesmerising fashion. The ambient noise was that of skycar engines and muffled conversations, no different to what this district would sound like at midday, nevermind midnight. After all, this was the moon that never slept.

This annoyed Hamish, who was currently trodding along a main boulevard. He liked peace and quiet, especially at night. No such luck was to be had here, no matter how many levels you journeyed down. In fact, the further down you went, the more the noise was compounded... Amplified. That's why Hamish stuck to the surface, despite the risks involved.

Hamish was a wanted man, after all. Punched the wrong alien in a bar fight, woke up the next morning with a sizable bounty on his head. That was the way it went on Nar Shaddaa, you just had to be careful. Unfortunately, Hamish never got this memo. Had he remembered his days growing up with violent gangs on Coruscant, things may have been different but the Sith brainwashing wiped out his street smarts as well as his memory.

He'd been laying low (attempting to, at least) on Nar Shaddaa for a while now, trying to figure out what to do with his life. With the fall of his previous employer, the Sith Empire, he gravitated to the first place that had abundant opportunities for someone with his... Skills. Mercenary work, bounty hunting, it all paid the rent and kept food in his belly. But that was it. Nothing more, nothing less. The contracts just weren't beefy enough.

Hamish wanted money, damnit.

The man was getting desperate, that much was for sure. Entering one of the wealthiest Pazaak bars this side of the galaxy signified the end of the road. He'd either walk out a millionaire or not walk out at all. You see, the intergalactic betting limit had been unofficially repealed in the Crazy Gizka, meaning that you could win backwater planets or be sold into slavery depending on the outcome of your game.

Just makes it exciting, the illustrious Ham Sandwich thought as the door guard greeted him.

 

[Harland Gates]

He had that itch - the one he couldn't ever quite scratch. Whether he was throwing the arm of a tumbler out in the busy streets of a shopping district, or tossing in credits to wager a guess on a Bantha race, gambling had been a seriously addictive thorn in the paw of this spacer. Since his exodus from Coruscant, Gates had formed new morals, a new hodgepodge of a 'code' and certainly new interests. Not a one of them was more prevalent in his life than risking credits on the whim of chance, or the skill of other people in the Galaxy far more apt to bleed a pilot dry. That ship was always a matter of thought when he got in too deep - and somehow he'd managed to keep it out of every filthy set of mits in the Galaxy that had their eye shining on that prize.

You didn't put a recovering spice addict on Kessel to serve time, and you didn't walk down the entertainment district of the Smuggler's moon when you were trying to stay away from the game tables. At least if you had any sense of keeping that itch at bay you didn't. Gates however was between gigs, between offers, and between meals as it were. Suffice to say he was getting to that very dangerous combination of bored and restless. Without a proper rudder to steer, his destination had landed him in the heart of Pazaak's premier palace; The Crazy Gizka. At least they hadn't stayed perfectly true to the name. Not a single annoying and replicating lizard was in sight, despite that bright neon side both inside and outside of the establishment paying homage to the Galaxy's reptilian scourge. A similar insignia was stamped on just about every commodity offered; from drink napkins, to the actual backs of each deck. They may not have been roaming around bugging the players and wait staff, but they had certainly multiplied in abundance.

"Staring down the barrel of a thirteen isn't good luck for any." Gates offered up as he drew his card, and fanned the cards to himself in a protective shield, eyeing carefully the array of numbers, and doing some remedial math. His game wasn't based on skill, or swift mathematics - his game was reading people. It was admittedly hard though when you had such a hodgepodge of faces to read. From a three-eyed Gran, to the emotionless face of a masked Keldor - you couldn't always rely on a facial tick to get you through a hand. Sometimes you had to get them talking, or hissing as the case might be from a snickering Dug to his right. The red spacer jacket hung over the back of his chair, trapped between his back and the formed curve of the chair's. "They say one is the loneliest number, but I think I'm in fairly good company." Hal said as he patted his stack of credits and then slid down the card onto the table displaying the crimson number one. It barely got a chuckle, from the gathering while he sat back, and laid his cards down in favor of another sip of sunspot brandy.

The CG never slept, or closed. It was far more profitable to be open at all hours of the day or night. To further add illusion to a standing still amount of time, not a single window, or holo-clock was in the place. Either you came in with a time piece, or you lost track of it. That was the aim though, to keep you playing long after you should retire. That is why, the house always won, even if they weren't being bet against. Especially then though. Any debts that couldn't be collected were subject to house rules, and they were strict with that sort of thing. Prices for booze were not as steep though, as it helped to keep the guests well lubricated so they would continue to spend, fall, and often owe the house large sums of credits they'd never pay off in a single lifetime (no matter how long that might be). For Hal though, the night was just beginning as he'd only been playing a short while, and hadn't finished his first game just yet - but it was getting close.

[member="Hamish McNair"]

 

[Hamish McNair]

The stench was that of your generic Nar Shaddaa casino. Smokey, mixed with the sweet aromas of alcohol, regret and a tint of happiness. Of course, Hamish was only human, meaning that regret and its polar opposite fell by his smell receptor's wayside -- which was probably for the best. After inhaling deeply at the entrance, the Ham Sandwich peered around. This was his first time in the Crazy Gizka and, if things went the way he intended, his last. Good, he summarised after witnessing a Dug playing with itself in a far corner.

First stop was getting a drink. Something cheap but also satisfying. Something with enough alcoholic content to get you buzzed but not enough to get wasted on after one glass. Easy, was the thought as Ham approached the bar. He fondled his pocket vigorously, intent on retrieving a credit chip. When his fingers couldn't coax one out, he frowned and dived into the other pocket. Lips morphed into a lazy smile as he pulled out a pink chip, sliding it onto the bar. The bar tender, a Devaronian, eyed it, eyed Hamish, then jerked its jaw as if to say, 'What do you want'?

"Corellian whiskey," was Ham's reply, his voice tinted with warmth to try and ease whatever cross-species tension existed between himself and the bartender. Or maybe the bartender was always this cranky shell of a sentient being?

Moments later and the harsh warmth of the whiskey coated Ham's throat and trickled into his belly. This was the beginning of greatness, Ham could feel it. Wait a second... Greatness doesn't feel like tha- Thoughts were cut short by the sudden realisation of what was causing the secondary warm sensation on Hamish's hand. It wasn't whiskey and it certainly wasn't from the bar. It was a viscous fluid, white in colour. Hamish screwed up his face and looked around frantically in an attempt to spot the culprit.

A spasming Dug caught his attention and confusion turned to shock turned to disgust. "Ohhh noooo... Are you... Are you serious?" Hamish's facial features captured that of a child who'd witnessed their parents doing unspeakable things. He shook his head and rubbed the back of his hand on a passed out patron, making sure to wipe it as clean as clean could be. For added measure, he picked up a half-full glass of spirits from a nearby table and poured it on the back of his hand, rubbing it in as if it were handwash. Thankfully, the owner of the glass was presumably the passed out patron, so no fights ignited.

Soon after and the Dug was thrown out by security, although by this time Hamish was already gravitating towards the Pazaak tables. He pushed his way to the front of a small crowd, intent on watching a game or two before playing himself. A man, young it would seem, was facing off against a less-than-bemused opponent. Hamish caught the tail end of what sounded like a joke, which was confirmed by a few muffled chuckles around him.

He took another sip of whiskey and eyed the game silently, the traumatic event that had occurred previously almost forgotten.

[member="Harland Gates"]

 

[Harland Gates]

If you found it hard to bluff at a game like Pazaak you would be in good company. There wasn't much to hold back when the numbers didn't add up. You either had something to lay down on your turn, or you drew from the pile. This wasn't a contest of comparing lots with your fellow players - it was about getting to that magical round number, and not a digit over. Though getting your opponents to go over was a nice trick if you couldn't land on that spot of twenty. At the rate Harland was going through, he was still a ways away from trying to crack the mathematical code in order to perfect it on his turn. That was the challenge, being able to work with what the others gave you when they would lay down a card. Even amping up the total on the table by one digit could certainly turn tides and open pathways once blocked.

:: Two can be as bad as one, spacer. :: The Keldor hissed as he reached forward and planted a forest green card onto the table, sliding it next to Hal's number one. His breathing apparatus skewing his speech into an almost synthetic blend of his own vocals and the mask he wore. Orange digits left the card in plain view, giving it a double tap before the much taller creature reclined back in his chair, pausing for another moment and surveying his own cards. The beady black eyes barely visible beneath the mask quirked for a moment as he considered another play but quickly abated his decision as the Dug to his left growled in frustration.

"E chu ta!" The tiny three pronged fist slammed on the table, and while not a great weight, it did disturb the cards a bit. "Chuba doompa, dopa-maskey kung!" Another angry bellow from the gravely voice of the Dug who jumped down from his seat and began to shift away from the table. Apparently the Keldor had made the Dug bust by that play, and it had ended with an unhappy Dug. Thankfully with the security force neither the still silent Gran, or the Keldor were turned into orange goo for that move. While Wookies might tear your arms sockets off, apparently the reputation of a Dug was worse when they lost.

"Get one more to bust, and we might just find out." Gates commented, his eyes shifted to the Dug who went to sulk at the bar, as his fortune became up for grabs in the communal kitty pile that was on this round. A sizable chunk that was now forfeit to whoever would walk away with the whole pot. The round finished with the movement of the Dug. All eyes turned towards the Gran who was sitting there mulling over the circumstances of the cards on the table. The third eye blinked on his brown hued head before he silently reached forward to toss a few more credits into the pile. Specifically another one thousand more into the pot. It was the betting phase, and each had to ante up, of which was both done by Gates and the Keldor who was a little less compliant, but reluctantly emptied his pile into the pot. Gates had a few chips left, but the Gran had the most between the three of them. He rarely spoke, and that was probably because when you didn't open your mouth, you couldn't be read as easily with that kind of a face. The count was dangerously close to twenty now, and the Gran peered precariously at the cards and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

This was a make or break moment for the game. The Gran's turn could end it, or end them. Harland glanced around the crowd and shifted his posture a bit in the chair. Lifting the glass of sun-spot brandy and took another sip in a relaxed posture. He needed to break the tension, and break focus. His eyes glanced up at the ceiling and the lights that decorated the dark red hue above the table proper. They had ample light to see the cards, but it was slightly more spot lit just for the show of the audience. Everything was perfectly crafted to add to the allure of the tables. The cards in his hand were then folded to show only the back of one before he let them fall down with aloof apathy, while he swilled from the glass once more, like the outcome certainly didn't matter.

[member="Hamish McNair"]