First Reply Smuggler's Moon, Meet Smuggler

[Ben Thano]

NAR SHADDAA, SPACEPORT DISTRICT
The Slag Pit

​

Nar Shaddaa, what a miserable, loathsome planet.

Ben had been to the Smuggler's moon only once before, but he'd known it was a regular haunt of his recently-deceased mentor, Rylan. For those who worked in the underground, making their living in the most unsavory corners of the galaxy, there were few better places to find work. Of course, Rylan had spent years building contacts and connections across Nar Shaddaa, and indeed, across the syndicates. Ben was a nobody, he'd helped Rylan on a few jobs, but in truth he'd rarely left the confines of his homeworld, and now that he was free of Corellia and had a ship of his own - a ship that had more of a history and reputation than even he did, to boot - he knew that reputation would be the deciding factor of whether he managed to sink or swim in the galaxy.

After he'd landed on Nar Shaddaa, he'd made a point of sending out messages to some of the more impressive-looking contacts that Rylan had made and filed on The Sojourner's computers, both to advise them that Rylan was dead - in the hopes that would settle any debts he might have had with them - and to advise that someone new was piloting his ship, and was open to work. Whether or not he got a taker on that, he'd just have to wait and see...

For now, he took to the kind of hive of scum and villainy he imagined he'd be most likely to find work in, a cantina. The Slag Pit had drawn his attention for its proximity to the landing pad he'd taken, after all, he figured that this was the sort of dive that those passing through with news might frequent, or those looking to hire spacers might come to, expecting to find those looking for work. It was a shot in the dark, but it was just about all he had.

"Get me a glass of Spotchka, will you?" Ben flashed a smile to the bartender as he approached, settling down some credits which were snatched up with a grumble by the large Besalisk who turned to find a bottle to pour a glass from, while the young smuggler turned to look over the sea of other patrons.​

 

[Oshin Jantu]

Spoiler: Music IC

Glass in hand, the fingers that cradled it were as smooth as the liquid inside it. They were able to move this way, that way, as beckoned by the mind behind the eyes, themselves veiled by the hood of a black leather trench coat pulled over her head, hiding her countenance.

For a moment, she just studied the contents of her beverage, head bowed, gazing down at the way the liquid tilted that way, this way, whenever her grip shifted. The spirit was a kind of fluorescent cyan, ice blue even, and was just as crisp.

It was tequila, after a fashion, given the variants were certainly different between planets. Words were just words, however, and one woman’s tequila was another man’s spotchka. That man and woman? Ignorant to each other, as oblivious of one another’s existence as that tequila was to that spotchka, except for the fact of sharing their presence at the bar on a moon whose stars were indifferent.

“Good pick.” Those feminine words escaped her lips, curved with genuine expression if unconcerned. Sat on a stool, both arms propped on the bartop, visage hidden within the rim of her coat’s hood, head bowed, she didn’t look around at the other fools in her midst. The Besalisk bartender proceeded to pour a glass for that masculine patron as requested.

“Usually,” she admitted. “Except in this establishment the spotchka tastes like piss.” At that, Oshin lifted the rim of her glass to her lips, took a sip, licked her lips and returned the liquid to her gaze, listening to whatever her fellow patron may say.

Ben Thano

 

[Ben Thano]

NAR SHADDAA, SPACEPORT DISTRICT
The Slag Pit

Oshin Jantu
​

For all his attention paid to the other patrons spread around the bar, those in booths or at the sabacc table, he hadn't taken much stock of the others that were at the bar along with him. When he heard the woman just a short ways down the bar speak up, he spared a brief glance toward her, almost thinking she hadn't been addressing him directly, until she continued to comment on his choice of beverage. He turned, watching as the Besalisk filled the glass before stepping back to put the bottle back on the shelf.

"That's part of the charm of it, right? Tastes like piss, but it kicks like a Gundark." The smuggler mused as he took up the glass of bright blue liquid, lifting it to his nose to take a brief whiff of the sour, unpleasant drink. In reality, he was drinking it because it was cheap - he'd left Corellia with the credits he had on his back, the ones he'd meant to be paying back to Rylan before the man had been cut down by a bounty hunter. He'd taken the opportunity to leave his debts behind, but he hardly had a great number of credits to throw around, certainly not on any drink that might have actually been good.

With a faint hiss as he pulled his lips from the glass, he settled it back on the bar and looked over to the woman who'd addressed him, clad in her hooded trenchcoat as she was. She hardly stood out, and he might have not even noticed her at all if she'd not spoken up. "Got a better recommendation, if the spotchka's so bad?"​

 

[Oshin Jantu]

He couldn’t see her visage, hidden as it was under the rim of her hood but, if he could, he would witness her grin at his words. Tastes like piss. Kicks like a Gundark. She would remember his. They were worth a statement to be injected into a later conversation. Perhaps one could even make the comparison with a pair of blasters to gun targets and then some.

She listened to his hiss, didn’t glimpse him cringe from her position and, in reality, if he couldn’t see her face then she couldn’t see his. It was just a worthless conversation anyway; words exchanged beneath the music of a bar on Nar Shaddaa before other patrons worth the same weight in coal and gold, never mind beskar. No more or less.

“Yep.” The woman answered the man with emphasis on her lips. After a certain fashion, aimless words were part of the charm in a conversation at a bar. “This.” At that, Oshin lifted her glass, all four fingers and one thumb gripping its circumference, base cradled in her palm as if it was a globe.

“Bartender,” she gestured with her words and no further gesture. “Zafiro Eladio tequila for my companion.” She declined to specify if the tab was in her hand. Oshin just turned her head, spread her lips, and let him glimpse her cyan eyes; oceanic, after a fashion. “But it does have a bit of a kick.” At that, she took a sip and licked her lips.

Ben Thano