Private Run, Little Monster

[Ripley Kühn]

Lower levels, Coruscant
Some skeezy club
run, little monster, before you know who i am
Zett
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The thumping of the club had become all to a familiar sound. It ground on her senses, though its ear-splitting frequency was the least of her concerns- it had made gathering information on her target all the more difficult. She had watched from the shadows, waiting, as the raven-haired man met with many a shady individual. Though she had taken note of each, it felt useless without being able to hear what they were saying. After his departure, contacts seemed reluctant to talk, even when cornered and extraction techniques deployed.

As her eyes found him again- Zett, the reports had said- her frustration boiled over. She rose from the small booth, her leather jacket shifting around her frame. Slowly, she began to wade through the ocean of warm bodies, all gyrating in turn with the music. A breath of relief came when she burst forth from it once more, in front of the bar. She quickly moved away from the onslaught of people to a stool.

"What can I get ya, beautiful?" The bartender asked on her approach.

"Whiskey."

The full glass was set in front of her. The amber liquid burned as it went down, but it was a welcome sensation. As she set the now empty container in front of her, she gestured for another, her gaze flitting over as she did. Her eyes met the chiss, offering him a sultry smile. It seemed to only way to get what she need was to go to the source.

 

[Zett]

Level 3138, Coruscant
Spool's Nightclub
Let The Bad Times Roll
Ripley Kühn

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Having a nightclub named after you had to be the final step into legendary status. D.T. Spool had been dead for hundreds of years, but Spool's Nightclub still stood in his memory to this day. The establishment's identity had been turbulent through the centuries, with Heavy Isotope and adjacent genres in and out of fashion. Through it all, at its very core, it remained a rockerclub, still sporting the grimy aesthetic of the Clone Wars era to this day. D.T. Spool and The Skroaches immortalized forever, even beyond what still survived of their music.

ZETT'S had a nice ring to it, but the chances of neon ever displaying his legacy were remarkably slim. Short of him opening a club himself, that was. As if he'd ever have the cred for that in this lifetime. He wasn't about to learn to wail or shred a caster to make it happen, either. Pessimistic, maybe, but everyone needed a healthy dose of realism in their lives.

"I dunno what ta' tell ya' Zet." A rotund Devaronian expressed with an obviously feigned shrug. "I have seen 'em," he continued.

"Cmon' Valt, I'm not tryna hurt him or nothin'. Vandarian's boys, though? They'll make him wish he wasn't born. I gotta get to him first. We go waaay back, I'm just looking out for him." Zett replied, sounding as affable as he did pleading.

Valt returned a deadpan look. "I'm not tellin' you nothin, Zett," the Devaronian protested. Seeing through a ruse.

"Is it so hard to believe I'm just tryna help a friend pay off a debt without gettin' his knees blown to pieces?"

"If it wasn't you trying to convince me, I'd believe it."

A presence appeared on Zett's left. He cocked his head around to check. Keeping a casual demeanor as he did so, but the motivation was purely of self-preservation rather than any genuine curiosity.

"Whiskey."

He met her smile with a piquant grin. No danger. Not unless a woman like that came in here looking like that on a quest to ruin the next few months of someone's life. Enticing opportunity, that, but he'd have to deal with it in a moment. Business was still sitting on the other side of him. Zett called up to the Neimoidan bartender in Pak Pak, the mother tongue of Neimodia: "Whatever she wants on my tab," he asserted. The bartender made a gesture akin to rolling his eyes but obliged anyway.

When the clock hit midnight, the atmosphere of Spool's changed all at once. Blue strobe lights traded for dim crimson. Trending dance-tunes left to make way for fast, harsh, and heavy tracks for the rest of the night. It was around now that the people the Spool's loyalists unaffectionately referred to as 'Midnighters' would filter out in favor of another bar. When the first real track of the night hit, a SWORD OF THE JEDI track, Midnighters and Purists began to trade places between the interior and exterior.

The Woostoid woman on Valt's arm implored that it was their time to go. She didn't much care for the music that came on this time of night. When the Devaronian looked down to assure her they'd go in a moment, Zett took the opportunitly. Remaining casual, he flicked his finger to toss the tablet he'd been hiding in his cupped palm into the Valt's drink. That'll teach him to hold out on me, Zett thought.

"Hey, you know how it is; Just business. If you don't believe me, tell him yourself. I'm sure he'll find me when gets desperate. If he ain't already, I mean."

Valt downed the last of his drink where the tablet had already dissolved. Zett's innocent, friendly smile quickly shifted into something more crooked and devious. "Whatever," Valt grunted as he slowly rose to his feet and began to leave.

"Take care, big man," Zett mused knowingly.

Now, about having my heart crushed...

His regard returned to the Zeltron. Now that his focus wasn't divided, with his full attention he noticed how badly she reeked. In presence, rather than smell as it was. A Jedi. Zett never understood how, but he could always tell. His gut was often a better detective than what you'd see in the holodramas. His brow tilted curiously, this time genuine.

"So- What's a Temple Bunny doing all the way down in the three-thousands?" he asked slyly. Following up with a joke, he added: "Don't tell me you're here to arrest little ol' me?"

A loud thud sounded beyond the still moving crowd. Valt had hit the floor. Zett pretended not to notice.

 

[Ripley Kühn]

As the familiar time kicked over the speakers, Ripley frowned. Too many memories threatened to boil to the surface. She downed the next glass, pushing them away with the fiery bliss. She then turned her attention back to the man beside her, just in time to see the movement. It was ever so small, easily missed- but not by her trained eye. Just business. What business might that have been? Though she was lost, one thing was evident: his deceit. It drifted through the force as heavy as his cologne did the air. At his greeting, she wrinkled her nose.

"If I'm a temple bunny, you're an honest man." She glanced over to the fallen body, then back to the scarlet eyes. "Doesn't seem to be the case for either of us."

Taking another sip from the glass, her eyes didn't leave him as she scanned him up and down.

"Just trying to enjoy my night off. Not all Jedi prefer the surface- some like the dark." She mused. "Your friend gonna be okay?"

 

[Zett]

"If I'm a temple bunny, you're an honest man. Doesn't seem to be the case for either of us."

Zett smirked. "Whoa, whoa, alright. Maybe we're both being a little presumptuous, eh?" His index finger rose from the bar once he and the bartender caught glances again. A known gesture for a drink on this level. He frequented Spool's enough that they knew what he wanted. It was his first drink of the night, of the week, even. Alcohol was usually off-limits when he was 'working' as per a personal rule, but an exception had seated herself next to him.

Before he could articulate a lie for her question, Valt stumbled over and fell against the bar. Zett put his arm around him in a convincing, brotherly fashion. "Oh, he's fine! Drinks are just hitting him a little early! Isn't that right, Valt!?" His arm bent to pull Valt in close to his face.

He whispered: "I really didn't wanna do this to ya, big man. Genuinely. I can't accept you holding out on me, though."

Valt wheezed, retuning with a whisper of his own: "Dynah's- He's- He's hiding out at Dynah's." The words were punctuated with gasps and coughs.

Zett slipped a small hypo out of his sleeve and stuck it into Valt's shoulder. Taking are to be as clandestine as possible. As soon as the Devaronian took a huge gasp of air, Zett slipped it back into his sleeve. Along with the second gasp from the Devaronian, Zett patted him on the back firmly. "You got it, buddy. You're all good. Go enjoy the night with ya' lady, eh?"

Valt cleared his throat and did his best to be non-chalant. It wasn't very convincing. Not everyone had it in them, Zett supposed. "Y-yeah," he uttered before leaving with coughing haste.

Another SWORD OF THE JEDI track came over the speakers. Two for one. Dagoth and Karis, Zett thought. Those are the kind of guys that get places like this named for 'em.

"See?" Zett soothed. "He's fine. Ne'tra gal will do that to the unprepared." His first drink of the week didn't go down a smoothly as he'd hoped. Still didn't feel right to break his golden rule. "Color me surprised, then. Jedi usually only venture this deep for business. I wasn't aware you got days off, either."

 

[Ripley Kühn]

There was so obviously more going than he let on; the movement of his jaw as he leaned in clued her into as much. Yet even at this distance, the blaring of the club stopped her from knowing more. She simply forced a smile, watching as the devaronian left. She was tempted to follow, but didn't want to arouse suspicion from her new company.

"Could they play anything else?" She mumbled as the second Sword of the Jedi track came over the speakers.

"Down here is home- a fancy blade and some force training didn't strip me of my roots." She stated with a shrug. The best covers were ones rooted in truth. "Don't always, but they don't have much of a need for me right now, with the war on pause."

"Ripley, by the way." She said, extending a fuchsia hand.

 

[Zett]

Most of what the Jedi said was only half-absorbed. Behind them, Valt was still stumbling his way out. Zett was warding himself from the possibility of sudden retribution. A facade obscured his true focus as he pretended to listen. Nodding idly helped sell it, though he was really waiting to ensure Valt left for real. Sensing and listening for an exit. The last thing he needed was another vibroblade between his ribs.

"Ripley, by the way."

Zett blinked, looked down at the hand. Paying attention now. He obliged with an azure extremity, shook lightly, nearly made purple. "Zett."

The next track came over the speakers, something obscure, harsh vocals in huttese. There was silence between the pair as he went for another sip. The worse she'd said slowly filtered back in. Comprehension came moments too late for a normal conversation. "Deep roots," he asserted after the delay had passed. "Guess you're lucky, few of us ever manage to crawl our way out of here."

"But I'm sure you knew that already. How'd you do it? Why come back to this chithole? Family?"

 

[Ripley Kühn]

"Guess you're lucky, few of us ever manage to crawl our way out of here."

Amusement flickered across the zeltron's face. No matter how much time she spent on the surface, she was never really out. The scumminess that marked a low-leveler had stained her in her adolescence, and stuck with her through the years. It was what had brought the Agency to be interested in her. And time and time again, it would drag her back down, be it for work or for comfort. The darkness and the dirt were familiar. At times, they were easier than facing the light above.

"Like you said, lucky." She stated with a shrug. "Lotta hard work too, though. Had to leave the planet, and only then did I realize this isn't a way to live."

Being dragged off by the peacekeepers had been a blessing in disguise. Her eyes floated away from him, looking at the bartender, but somehow absent from the present.

"I don't really know why I came back. Feels like what I deserve?" Her expression shifted from thoughtful to disgusted in a minute. Her face wrinkled before she downed the rest of her drink.

The zeltron's eyes finally returned to him, a charming smile plastered on her face.

"There are always ways out, though, for those who are looking. So why have you stayed, Zett?" She raised an eyebrow as she probed the force.