Nar Shaddaa
Home sweet home. Or maybe home awful home, I can't imagine that you would sell many door mats bearing that slogan but it was true. You can talk about your Tattooines, your hives of scum and villainy but in truth the desert world had nothing on the Smuggler's Moon.
Stephanie Zenima was seeing this for the first time.
The veil of addiction had been lifted and sobriety gave her new vision, a horrible vision, the woman was finally seeing what the moon she called home had to offer. Poverty. Addiction. Filth. This new-found clarity had turned her former playground into her nightmare.
A pang in the back of her mind, everywhere she looked was a reminder of her former life. They say addiction never truly leaves, and this rang true for Miss Zenima. A craving on the tip of her tongue, just visit her old haunts, just relax, have a drink. Maybe something more. No. Shake it off. You've been doing so well.
It's true, the woman just flat-out looked healthier. From the absence of sores and scabs on her face to the fact that for the first time in her life she was sitting at a healthy weight. It had been gruelling, at times she thought she was going to die but Havoc Squad supported her throughout all of those gruelling ordeals, even if she had attempted to seriously assault them in the throws of serious withdrawal.
“KRIFFIN' 'ECK, STEPH, IS THAT YOU?!”
Oh god. Old friends. A pair of idiots so malnourished that their body had started to eat away at their brains. It wasn't like Zenima was any better. Sobriety doesn't create intelligence, or grow back teeth for that matter. She turned on her heel to face the voices.
“Aye, it is,” she grinned with those rotted teeth.
“Ya little schutta! Where have ya been? Ya get busted?”
They were a man and a woman, a gruesome twosome, just browse a few pictures on Faces of Meth and you get the idea. They were just part and parcel of the poverty package. They didn't have faces to be described they were the norm of the lower levels. The faces of many.
“Somehin' like 'at.”
They could see that she was clean, it shone through that much. She was more of a human now, less of the violent animal that they known before.
“Here I was, finkin' you was dead, mate! Let's go get a drink in ya! Celebrate!”
As if addicts needed reason to celebrate...
@[member="Popo"]
Home sweet home. Or maybe home awful home, I can't imagine that you would sell many door mats bearing that slogan but it was true. You can talk about your Tattooines, your hives of scum and villainy but in truth the desert world had nothing on the Smuggler's Moon.
Stephanie Zenima was seeing this for the first time.
The veil of addiction had been lifted and sobriety gave her new vision, a horrible vision, the woman was finally seeing what the moon she called home had to offer. Poverty. Addiction. Filth. This new-found clarity had turned her former playground into her nightmare.
A pang in the back of her mind, everywhere she looked was a reminder of her former life. They say addiction never truly leaves, and this rang true for Miss Zenima. A craving on the tip of her tongue, just visit her old haunts, just relax, have a drink. Maybe something more. No. Shake it off. You've been doing so well.
It's true, the woman just flat-out looked healthier. From the absence of sores and scabs on her face to the fact that for the first time in her life she was sitting at a healthy weight. It had been gruelling, at times she thought she was going to die but Havoc Squad supported her throughout all of those gruelling ordeals, even if she had attempted to seriously assault them in the throws of serious withdrawal.
“KRIFFIN' 'ECK, STEPH, IS THAT YOU?!”
Oh god. Old friends. A pair of idiots so malnourished that their body had started to eat away at their brains. It wasn't like Zenima was any better. Sobriety doesn't create intelligence, or grow back teeth for that matter. She turned on her heel to face the voices.
“Aye, it is,” she grinned with those rotted teeth.
“Ya little schutta! Where have ya been? Ya get busted?”
They were a man and a woman, a gruesome twosome, just browse a few pictures on Faces of Meth and you get the idea. They were just part and parcel of the poverty package. They didn't have faces to be described they were the norm of the lower levels. The faces of many.
“Somehin' like 'at.”
They could see that she was clean, it shone through that much. She was more of a human now, less of the violent animal that they known before.
“Here I was, finkin' you was dead, mate! Let's go get a drink in ya! Celebrate!”
As if addicts needed reason to celebrate...
@[member="Popo"]