First Reply Small Victories in a Large Galaxy

[Tarin Kosh]

"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.

 

[R'ayne Asara]

small victories

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Savage Queen of Hearts - by Neon Dreams
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Tag > Tarin Kosh

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I entered the cantina as one might descend into a crypt that had forgotten the dignity of death. The stale air clung to me immediately, thick with old smoke, spilled liquor, and the lingering scent of a thousand questionable bargains struck beneath dim lights. Above, a DJ struggled through a miserable excuse for music, the distorted notes crawling across the ceiling like wounded insects.

My crimson eyes swept across the establishment with ruthless precision, examining every cracked table, every shadowed corner, every face attempting to disappear into anonymity. On the dance floor, several patrons moved to the uneven rhythm, their bodies swaying beneath flickering lights.

Among them I noticed one of my own species, a distant kinship bound only by blood and evolution rather than loyalty. The sight coaxed a faint smile onto my lips.

I drifted through the crowd like a specter wrapped in black silk and malice. Drifters brushed past me carrying secrets worth credits, smugglers nursed drinks while watching entrances and exits, and others hid beneath false names and forged identities, seeking refuge from planetary patrols and governments eager to place chains upon them.

Fear, ambition, desperation; I could taste them all lingering in the atmosphere sweeter than any perfume.

At last I stopped before the polished counter, resting fingers upon its worn surface. Behind it, a bartender moved between customers with practiced efficiency. I lifted a single finger, drawing his attention without uttering a word.

I let my gaze cut toward the source of the so-called music, the sound bleeding through the cantina like a cracked hyperdrive struggling to survive vacuum. "If that is what passes for entertainment here, then this world has already surrendered its taste," I remarked with quiet, judging disdain, not raising my voice yet ensuring it carried just enough weight to be felt rather than heard.

The bartender hesitated only a moment before I ordered a frosty fruit drink; something cold enough to sharpen thought, sweet enough to mask the rot of this place for a passing instant. When it was placed before me, I accepted it with a slight nod.

"Thank you," I said, as if courtesy were still a currency worth spending. Turning away from the bar, I let my back rest against its edge, the glass held loosely in my hand as condensation traced slow paths over my fingers; my eyes looking for a specific talent among this gene pool.

 

[Tarin Kosh]

"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 - R'ayne Asara

It was always those damned crimson eyes.

Those he would have called a mystic generally came in one of two varieties: those with ordinary eyes, and those with the terrible stare that carried with it the fear and hatred born of such malevolent power. The figure blended seamlessly into the atmosphere, cloaked in shadow and darkness, allowing herself to become just another face among the rabble.

Those with experience, however—the brave few—knew the difference.

Kosh was already out of his league. These were not the matters he had been trained to handle, and certainly not individuals capable of ending his life whenever they pleased. The one thing he had been trained to do, however, was conceal his emotions.

Such creatures fed upon the horrors lurking within the minds of others, but Kosh remained resolute and stalwart. He had a task here—one that might protect countless people across the galaxy. Another small victory against the encroaching shadow of chaos. His duty was simple: approach the beast and somehow steer the encounter into a favourable conversation.

Allowing the crew to drown themselves in the tides of the moment, Kosh brushed the dust from his jacket and made his way toward the lavishly reclining figure with the glass in hand. Taking a seat beside her, he glanced toward the barkeep and signalled for a glass of ice-cold water.

He hated drinking.

His left eye settled upon the figure beside him as he finally spoke, his voice calm and confident.

"Drab place, isn't it?"

 

[R'ayne Asara]

small victories

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Savage Queen of Hearts - by Neon Dreams
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Tag > Tarin Kosh

I rested against the bar as though I sat upon a throne carved from shadow itself, my red finger lazily stirring the frosted drink before me. The liquid obeyed my touch, swirling in slow spirals as I traced ancient-looking sigils across its shimmering surface, each motion resembling the weaving of some forgotten Sith incantation.

Scarlet reflections danced through the ice like imprisoned embers while the cantina's atrocious music faded into irrelevance, drowned beneath the hum of my thoughts and the ever-present whispers of the Force. My gaze wandered across the sea of strangers, weighing ambitions, fears, and hidden talents concealed behind tired eyes and false smiles.

Then my attention settled upon a lone figure emerging from the crowd.

He stood near six-foot-two, possessing the lean athletic build of a man accustomed to hardship rather than luxury. Sharp, strikingly handsome features were framed by dark, unruly hair, while piercing dark eyes watched the room from beneath strong brows.

Though youthful of face, there was a quiet confidence in his stride that set him apart from the drunken masses surrounding him.

I continued tracing runes through my drink without breaking rhythm as the stranger drew closer, curiosity stirring faintly within me. His attire was practical civilian wear, unremarkable by design, yet he carried himself with a purpose that made anonymity seem like a deliberate choice rather than a circumstance.

Through the rainbow haze of swiveling lights and drifting smoke, he crossed the cantina floor and settled onto the stool beside me. The bartender approached, and instead of ordering some potent spirit or exotic indulgence, the man requested a simple ice water. The simplicity of it was almost more suspicious than excess.

The glass arrived with a faint clink, and for a brief moment I watched the ice shift within it while my finger completed another circle through my own drink. Then the stranger turned slightly toward me, and spoke.

The stranger's attempt at conversation washed over me like background static, earning little more than a faint flick of my attention. Rather than acknowledging his observation about the dreary nature of the cantina, I continued tracing slow circles through my drink, watching hopeful enchantment's ripples distort the reflections dancing within the glass.

My gaze slowly drifted toward the far left corner of the establishment where two human women had risen from their seats, their voices climbing steadily above the miserable music. One pointed an accusing finger while the other answered with equal venom, their faces flushed from either alcohol or wounded pride. I observed the spectacle for a moment before speaking at last, my eyes never once shifting toward the man beside me.

"They are either profoundly intoxicated or fighting over some male who is unworthy of either of their attention," I said in weary, tiresome tones. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth as I watched the argument intensify.

"Judging by their expressions, I suspect the latter. He is almost certainly the unfaithful sort. So yes," I said slowly stirring another sigil into the drink, "a drab of a place indeed. Which begs the question, why are you?"​