Playing With Fire
"There are some who become spies for money, or out of vanity and megalomania, or out of ambition, or out of a desire for thrills. But the malady of our time is of those who become spies out of idealism." - Max Lerner | Tags - OPEN
Three bottles deep into a bottle of Corellian whiskey could get just about anyone talking.
It had been a good night so far. A successful little shipment here, a healthy pile of credits there. The days were always more enjoyable when some stuck-up fool wasn't pointing a blaster at his face, but such was the nature of the galaxy. Anarchists ruled the Core, opportunity and danger existed in equal measure, and for a veteran of the underworld like Tarin Kosh, that arrangement suited him just fine. Couple that with all the self-important Sith posturing across the stars and there was always room to make a profit. There was no telling what some self-proclaimed demigod might need for their next sadistic project—or how much they would be willing to pay for it.
The small-time crew he had worked alongside were celebrating throughout the dimly lit cantina. Earlier, it had seemed certain that the storm they were using to evade local patrols would come back to bite them. Somehow, through determination, luck, and a shared appreciation for the credits and alcohol waiting on the other side, they had managed to pull through.
It reminded Kosh that these were people too.
People forced into difficult choices by circumstances far beyond their control. Smugglers, drifters, and criminals by necessity more often than desire. The galaxy liked to divide people into heroes and villains. Reality was rarely so neat.
Perhaps that was why he found the work so easy.
For now, he was content to enjoy the celebration, dust off his boots, and look for the next assignment. Building contacts was exhausting work. Every meeting was a performance. Every introduction another carefully managed first impression. You could never say exactly what you wanted. Never laugh when someone made a fool of themselves. Never punch someone in the face when they thoroughly deserved it.
Sometimes he missed dealing with his handlers. Sometimes.
His attention drifted toward the small holocast playing above the bar. It was filled with the usual nonsense: High Republic nobility gossiping about one another, political scandals, and the latest opinion pieces denouncing whichever Sith Lord had most recently done something spectacularly terrible. All of it felt remarkably trivial.
The galaxy complained endlessly about its condition. Honest people crushed beneath corruption. Entire worlds ruled by self-serving elites. Institutions collapsing under their own incompetence. Yet nobody ever seemed willing to do anything about it.
They would make excellent bureaucrats.
Leaning back slightly in his chair, Kosh watched the Twi'lek co-pilot lose what remained of his mind on the dance floor. The man moved with all the grace of someone actively inhaling Tibanna gas.
These were victories too, he supposed, small victories. Meaningless in the grand scheme of galactic affairs, perhaps, but meaningful to the people celebrating them. For one evening they had survived. For one evening they had won. So he smiled, offered a few compliments, and raised his glass accordingly. It was what he was trained to do. Still, there was a small itch at the back of his mind, a feeling he had learned never to ignore.
Things were going rather too well tonight.
And in Tarin's experience, the galaxy had a habit of balancing every gift with a curse. The only question was how long it would take for the bill to arrive.
