He didn't respond to that, instead taking the drinking and giving it a longing stare; that, and a quick whirl, watching his reflection swirl around in the dark liquid. He didn't speak Sith - well, he may have known a bit at some point, thanks to that damn hag, but he hadn't bothered to remember much, if at all; he probably knew a few curses and obscenities. He nodded in response to her and planted it, firmly, on the tray of another passing server girl without so much as throwing her a glance. Clearly he felt pretty suave about that, nodding in approval before taking his attention elsewhere, firmly ignoring [member="Rausvas Sveni"] for the time being. He slipped his helmet back on, which sealed with his collar with a dry hiss, completed with a pop, and hummed with a life of its own; then, taking a look around, tapped his temple. It was very clear the situation he was in: outnumbered, in a difficult environment - hell, for all he knew, Rabboz was already onto him, or at least planned to cut him short and take all of the supposed credits he had to offer. Cut him short, literally, that is.
Regardless, it was clear he'd need to make the first move.
That's when the whiskey came to mind again - at least in retrospect. He may have just given up and thought to drink himself to death at that point, but he had a pretty good idea, nonetheless - he just needed to find the right angle on it ... There, on the far side of the room. A private bar, laden with all the hoops and wire and tubes and ... damn, he didn't know what else to make of it. It was just a complicated mess, all filled out with neon lights, strange liquids, and people prancing about - most of them non-humans, of course; not that it mattered much, provided they weren't immortal. He wondered if that was possible for a moment. Probably not. His bicep tensed up against his body, his hand clawing at the air, then balling into a tight, shaking fist; he was struggling momentarily, until he felt the click - a sudden dull hum seeming to emanate from him as he reached out ... and if he saw anyone looking, particularly the Sith, he'd break away into a feigned stretch of the arm.
It had already done its job, however; a small glass of whiskey shot from one side of the bar to the other like a bullet, exploding into a downpour of glass shards against the leathery forehead of a particularly unfortunate weequay drowning his sorrows, eyes on the counter. He, too, shot up like a bullet when the pain hit him, deep cuts running along his brow calling forth waves of blood which washed down his face, trickling into thick streams which poured off the contours of his face to the ground like a thick syrup. Drunkenly, he pulled his blaster and, first, slammed it down on the table, eyeing the shocked crowd until he picked his target - a rodian, casually lingering at the far end of the bar, sipping on some blue milk. Then, the barrel was pointed at him, shaking ever so slightly with expelled rage quite evident in the twisted expression on the gangster - it looked quite terrifying beneath the veil of blood. "Coo dun tru da?" he barked in huttese; he didn't seem to be taking it that well.
"How many are going to die?" asked Nova, his fierce, helmeted gaze wearing down on the Sith; it was a bit out of character - to antagonize someone. Then again, he wasn't quite sure if that's what he was doing in the first place. On some level, he recognized something within he - maybe he felt sympathy? Maybe he recognized ambition, or anger; perhaps he just wanted to spice things up a little, try something new ... give this shootout a little protagonist, so he wouldn't feel all bored and pointless when the fat slug bit the bullet. No, he figured, it was just a whim. He asked that again, adding: "How many deserve to die, do you think?"
"How many do you want to die? How many do you think want to die?"