Private Something New

[Vexar Brunok]

The starport never stopped. Ships came and went, cargo exchanged hands, and deals were struck over hurried conversations in docking bays. But here, nestled just off one of the main landing corridors, was a cantina that had long fallen silent.

Its doors had been closed for longer than anyone cared to remember. Time had left its mark—the neon sign outside was faded, barely readable, and the entrance had accumulated a thin layer of dust, untouched by the regular bustle of travelers. The transparisteel windows overlooking the docks were streaked, dulled by grime and neglect, though they still framed the steady movement of starships beyond—potential customers for a business that no longer existed.

Inside, the place was still standing, though it bore the signs of abandonment—and of conflict. The bar remained sturdy, but deep grooves ran along its surface where blades had met durasteel, scarring the counter with silent remnants of old disputes. Along one wall, a faint scorch mark told the story of a blaster discharged at close range, the singed edges blending into the surrounding age-worn panels. The booths carried their own histories—fabric torn in places, some seats stiffened with old stains that time had never quite erased.

The lighting was dim, but not intentionally—several overhead fixtures flickered weakly, their power cells on the verge of failure. The cantina had seen its fair share of clashes before its doors closed for good, its battered surfaces whispering of old tempers and broken deals. But beneath the neglect, the cantina had promise.

It was a space waiting for new life. A fresh start. Whatever had caused it to fail in the past, whatever ghosts lingered in its walls, that was all history now. The future was unwritten.

Vexar Brunok stood framed in the doorway, his tall, muscular form casting a distinct silhouette against the soft flicker of the failing neon outside. Brown fur, thick and well-kept, caught the ambient glow, its lighter tones around his face giving him a presence both commanding and approachable. His piercing yellow eyes scanned the space with an unwavering intensity, tracking every detail—the dust gathering in abandoned corners, the worn-down booths, the bar marked by past altercations. His ears twitched, attuned to the faint hum of old circuitry, the struggling ventilation system pushing stale air into the room.

He took a slow step forward, boots pressing against the scuffed flooring with deliberate weight. The cantina had seen conflict—scorch marks marred the walls, deep grooves cut across the bar from blades that had once threatened harsher resolutions. Yet, despite its history, the space wasn't doomed. Vexar ran a hand over the bar's surface, his fingers tracing old battle-worn imperfections, considering what could be salvaged, what could be built anew.

The lighting would need to be adjusted. The fixtures overhead sputtered in uncertain bursts, some too dim to be useful, others flickering in erratic pulses that made the space feel more unstable than inviting. Too many of them cast sharp, unforgiving light—a problem Vexar wouldn't ignore. That would have to change. Softer lighting, controlled and deliberate, enough to make the place feel welcoming without leaving him squinting beneath its glare.

The booths would need to be repaired. Right now, they carried the wear of years—fabric torn in places, padding stiffened with age, a few seats unsettlingly sticky from past spills that had never been properly cleaned. If he wanted people to sit, stay, spend credits, the booths had to be comfortable, not just functional. Replacing the worst of them, fixing the rest, ensuring that when someone sank into a seat, they wouldn't feel like they were sinking into a mistake.

The bar, sturdy but scarred, needed attention. The deep grooves where blades had met durasteel told stories no one needed to remember, at least not in the way they were now—visible, etched, lingering. He didn't mind imperfections, but there was a difference between character and carelessness. He'd smooth out the worst of it, polish the surface, make it something worth leaning against when conversations started and deals were struck.

The windows, streaked with dirt and neglect, blocked more than just the view of the docking bays. Right now, they made the place feel sealed away, forgotten. That would change. A clean view would allow patrons to sit and watch the steady arrival of ships, giving them a reason to linger, to sip their drinks just a little longer as they watched the galaxy move past them.

It wasn't just about fixing what was broken. It was about making the place feel like it was meant to be here—not another failed venture, not another doomed investment. The whole place was a mess and would be its own project, but... it was his mess. There mere thought made him smile faintly as he let the thought linger.

His past didn't matter. His business partner's past didn't matter.

Only the future did.

And tonight, the work began.

 

[Mason Hale]

Mason Hale didn't come in like a man discovering something new.
He came in like the building owed him credits.
The door gave a tired little sigh as it opened, hinges protesting the way everything in this place seemed committed to sounding one step away from collapse. A faint whiff of stale air, old drink residue, and "someone definitely fought here once" drifted out to meet him.

Mason paused just inside the threshold.
Boot planted. Shoulders slightly slouched. That familiar post-night-almost-regret posture of a man who had either slept badly or not at all and was choosing not to reflect on it too deeply.

He let his eyes move slowly across the room.
The scuffed booths. The scorched wall. The bar with its blade-carved scars. The flickering lights that looked like they were negotiating whether they still wanted to exist.

He gave a low whistle.
"Seen worse," he muttered, like it was a compliment he wasn't fully willing to give.
Not impressed. Not disappointed either. Just… cataloguing. Like he was mentally filing the place under fixable, annoying, probably worth it anyway.
Then he saw Vexar.
That got a reaction. Subtle, but real.

Mason lifted a hand in greeting, casual and half-hearted in the way only familiarity earns.
"Been a bit," he said, voice rough around the edges. Not unfriendly. Just… used.
He stepped further in, boots thudding lightly across the worn floorboards. The kind of walk that suggested he already belonged here more than the dust did.

His gaze flicked back around the room once more.
"Didn't think you'd actually go through with it," he added, almost amused. "Or at least not pick something this emotionally devastated."
He stopped at the bar.
Ran a hand along it without ceremony, like he was checking if it was real or just another bad decision someone had made in architectural form. His fingers paused over one of the deeper blade grooves.

"Huh," he grunted. "That one's got a story."
Then, like it was the most natural thing in the galaxy, Mason leaned over the counter.
Reaching behind it.
He rummaged once, twice, like he already knew where things used to hide in places like this. His hand came up with a bottle coated in dust and optimism that had long since given up.

He turned it in his hand.
"Cheap," he noted.
A beat.

"Still keeps well."
He set it down with a soft clink and finally looked back toward Vexar properly.
"So," Mason said, settling his weight against the bar like it had been built for that exact purpose, "this the whole crew showing up today, or am I gonna get surprised by more ambitious chaos later?"

Vexar Brunok

 

[Vexar Brunok]

Vexar never took his eyes off the setting. He admired the story written around him, already thinking about the realities and the fabricated. He didn’t need to look around, he felt safe and could hear the steps long before they were seen. "There's plenty of stories and credits to be made here. Place was a bargain. The potential to double, quadruple, well... its there too." His voice was light, "Besides, aren't I a devestator? Or, emotionally devastated myself?" A very simple chuckle escaping his muzzle as he turns his head to watch Mason.
"It has been awhile. I wanted to keep it that way, but alas, here you are. Haunting me yet again." Vexar stated making his way over to the bar and taking up a seat on one of the stools. He watched as Mason examined the bottle, turning it around.
"That's a good question, Mason. But why should I answer it? Don't you want an adventure?" The Shistavanen asked plainly.
Mason Hale

 

[Mason Hale]

Mason snorted quietly at that.
"Careful," he said, brushing dust off the bottle with the sleeve of his jacket. "Start talking about 'potential' and 'investments' too much and people might think you've gone respectable."

A horrifying fate. Truly. One of the galaxy's great tragedies.
He glanced sideways toward Vexar as the Shistavanen took a seat.

"I'm still not thrilled about working with a mutt," Mason added dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching just enough to kill any actual venom behind it. "But apparently my standards collapsed somewhere along the way."

The bottle cap gave with a metallic crack against the counter edge.
Mason eyed the liquid inside for half a second like he was debating whether it qualified as a chemical weapon.
Then he took a pull.
Instant regret.

He coughed hard, turning partly away as the burn hit the back of his throat like a thermal detonator going off in stages. One fist thumped lightly against his chest while his eyes watered just enough to irritate him.

"Stars above," he rasped.
He shoved the bottle toward Vexar afterward with absolutely no dignity preserved.
"That's got a kick."

Leaning back against the counter again, Mason exhaled through his nose and stared out toward the dirty transparisteel windows overlooking the docks. Ships moving. Cargo loading. People running themselves ragged chasing credits, causes, or distractions.

Usually all three.
"I don't like surprises much," he said after a moment, quieter now. "You should know that by now."
A pause.

"And my adventuring days are behind me."
The words came easy, but the kind of easy that usually meant they'd been repeated enough times to almost sound true.
He folded his arms loosely across his chest.

"I only agreed to this because it gives me something to focus on that isn't bar fights or planet hopping." His gaze drifted around the battered cantina again. "Figured rebuilding a dump with you sounded slightly less self-destructive than the alternatives."
Another glance toward Vexar.
"Only slightly, though."

Vexar Brunok Varek Fenn

 

[Scen Idrod]

Scen had been arrived at the old and, to put it gently, battered building a few days prior, making sure everything was in order and that he and his... friends? Business partners? He wasn't sure what to call them yet... were officially the owners of the place. When he had first seen the place, he definitely realised it was a bit of a fixer-upper, but he could work with that, at least he hoped he could. The walls were scarred with marks and peeling paint, the booths were an absolute mess that would need replacing completely, and the bar itself was at least in one piece.

Yes, it was definitely in need of some work, but he was sure the others would understand. He sent them the co-ordinates so they may actually find the place before continuing around the building. The halls in the back were damaged, with some walls partially or completely knocked down, the lights were all off (he preferred that at the moment because it meant he wouldn't risk getting electrocuted), and the doors around the building were all stuck.

But, for the moment, he decided to simply call it a day, placing out a sleeping bag he had, finding a good spot on the floor and proceeding to fall asleep.

======================

He woke up the next day rather groggy, with his fur slightly messed up and his vision drowsy. He made himself some home-brewed caf from a portable machine to wake himself up. A few hours later, he heard the front door get forced open and a few voices proceed to talk in the main area.

He hurried out in a standard tunic and pants he threw on to greet them. In the main area there was a tall Shistavanen talking with an older human: Vexar Brunok and Mason Hale respectively.

"Ah, I see you guys made it. What do you think of the place? A few renovations needed, I grant, but... well, it was the only thing in budget."

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Vexar Brunok | Mason Hale | Varek Fenn

 

[Varek Fenn]

A whole lousy day, that's what it took to finally get the right ticket, find the right flight and make it a day late. Varek was annoyed about everything he had to go through just to make it to the co-ordinates that Scen Idrod had sent over to his datapad. Since he stepped off the starship the weight of his decision began to feel heavy. For starters, he wasn't entirely sure how everything was going to go. In his earlier years, he would have been prepared for anything and everything, but investing and taking on the endeavor to become a masterful chef...that was entirely new. Varek thought highly of his ability to cook, that wasn't the new part, it was the credits he applied to a start-up that was discussed between him and three owners of a new cantina.

It seemed, this is where he would start his future, but Varek wasn't too sure if the credits stripped from his pocket were even worth it. So, he clenched harder to the combat bag, nervous about what he was about to walk into. His yellow eyes peered downward, the holoscreen lighting up and directing him into a tiny alleyway. It was snug and for Varek, the smell of smog and mixed garbage reeked like vomit and sulfur. As an ex-soldier, having seen and dealing with the smell of burnt flesh, this alleyway was no contest. Then the ping on his screen lit up, a small chain-linked fence opened up into a wider area. The cracked cement and deep holes in the forgotten ground told a tale of abandonment. He lowered the datapad and looked up, a steel crooked door met him. A small metallic over hang barely standing from the shoddy craftsman work. Scorch marks and layers of old crates seemed piled high next to the one hinged door.

Varek squinted, once more double checking the datapad. His eyes widened in surprise.
"Well, that answers that..." Varek sighed, his voice trailing off into the alleyway as he approached the door with a displeased look. "Shit."

His hand reached for the old metal lip, the cold steel pressing into his palm as he gave it a nice tug. The hinge screeched and released its claim on the mechanism keeping it closed. The door swayed open, before denting the ashy white wall behind it. A large imprinted dent from years of use was more evident now than before. Varek ignored the terrible condition of the backdoor and stepped inside. His thick black boots crunched over a layer of whatever was left on the old, white and black tile. A whiff of old spoiled food reached him and when he turned the corner the kitchen greeted him.

If the outside was any indication, the same was true for this long abandoned kitchen. The steel framework of old appliances were no longer intact as rust had clung to them and the old durasteel counters were the worst of it. Exposed wiring sparked sporadically overhead, the amber lights dimming and brightening as they did. The scent was better than the alleyway, for Varek that was a plus. At least, to him the thick scent of stale grease and coolant leaks were manageable. He placed his bag down on the floor and began to walk it, the sheer size was impressive, but it also meant more work. His golden jewels for eyes scanned the broken cookware, glass and duraplast scattered on the floor. Next to the decimated glassware were boxes. Each of them had shipping labels from worlds that no longer mattered.

Varek lightly smiled. Despite the grim realization that his investment might have been a mistake, there was real potential. He turned, looking at the core area of the cooking range dominated by the far wall. The entire thing was blackened by fire and clear misuse in its time of relevance. His heart sank, his judgement on those before him already steeping in his passionate heart to make this all work, unlike those before him. A grin reached him now, his Montrals picking up on a subtle faint heat from the machinery that after all this time seemed to refuse to die.

Varek whispered to himself, "So, it still works."

Dust covered other areas around him, spice jars remained untouched on slanted shelves, their faded labels hinting at long forgotten recipes.

Varek was still mad, still annoyed about all the work it needed, but this could be his...with the right touch. Many would consider the state of the kitchen ruined, that's where Varek saw potential. Under the decay, the kitchen still had bones worth saving; industrial burners, reinforced prep stations and enough space to feed an army. With his partners, he could build something worth a legacy.

This place just needed discipline and someone like Varek that was obsessive enough to bring it back to life.

He took a deep sigh and exited into the front half of the building. There he was greeted with all three of his partners, a Shistavanen, a Human and a Zygerrian.

"Sorry, I'm late." Varek stepped further into the bar area the dim light highlighting his white, black and red stripes on his lekku and montrals. The counter had seen far better days as his red finger stretched to wipe the dust from it. "So, this was the "lucrative" business investment?" His voice was sarcastic and held some exhaustion to it. The question was clearly directed toward the Zygerrian.

He looked at who he clearly figured out was Vexar Brunok , according to the mail he had recieved from Scen Idrod . He observed the seating area to the side wall, cracks and slight imperfections marking most of them. "Even with my credits, this is the best we could do?" Varek lightly smiled and let out a chuckle.

He averted his eyes once more finally landing on Mason Hale . "You look drunk." The delivery was brutally honest and firm. He looked around one last time and shook his head.

His only thought invaded his mind like a constant nagging commander.

What the hell did you get yourself into!?

 

[Vexar Brunok]

Vexar turned on his stool and looked at the Zyggerian as they entered the cantina, he looked at the short, lean man. He silently judged him, this was Scen. Scen was a Zyggerian he ran into by sheer coincidence, the meeting was unremarkable and at the time seemed so... inconsequential, but somehow Scen left an impression with the Shistavanen, was it something he said or was it something he did? Really it made no difference.
Vexar had reached out, pitched this whole idea and the Zyggerian seemed interested. Maybe Vex just wanted his creds and put the charm on real good to inflate his bank account, but, the idea wasn't entirely stupid. "Well, I mean I did pick this place out for a reason - so no doubt I am pleased with it. I think we can all appreciate your work to pad our pockets to get this place going. We've got more to work with."
Scen Idrod

As Vexar completed his sentence he heard the unmistakable sounds of footsteps approaching from behind them, but this didn’t alarm him, in fact he didn't even react, not until the newcomer spoke up. This togruta was Varek. Vexar didn't really know too much about Varek, except that the tentacle head could cook, turning some of the most bland and disgustingly awful things into "gourmet" meals... Vexar chuckled internally as he corrected himself, not gourmet but much more, unique and tolerable. He needed a chef because big wolfie here couldn’t cook worth a Sith; well not for a large group. A cantina couldn’t be sustainable with just drinks - no matter how stiff and top notch - alone and some snacks. Vexar didn’t have much in terms of intetaction with the red man, just enough to know him.

"Yes, chef." Vex said plainly, "To both your question and comment. Your measly sum covered the few broken booths there and... well, yeah he's pretty drunk. Just slammed back a bottle of mysterious ancient liquid." He motioned to the open bottle on the bar, Scen had entered before Vex could examine the bottle and decide if he wanted to risk it. "Guess it isn’t poisonous... at least not yet? Give it a few more moments."
Varek Fenn

The Shistavanen rose out of the stool standing as he regarded the human. This was Mason. Vexar dealt with Mason on a couple of occasions, there really wasn't much time to talk given what was going on during their encounters. The whole situation was comedic even, at least looking back on it now. The man proved to be quite the tough bastard, could certainly take a hit and keep going. It was impressive, and while the beast that was Vexar was a force to reckon with, he still needed the occasional help, or, at least just someone to beat at a challenge.

Vexar walked along the bar once more, running a clawed hand across the surface, feeling every blemish and groove. Without warning he leaped over the counter with ease. "Here's the ambitious chaos you were asking for, Mason."
Mason Hale

Vexar stopped beside Varek and gave him a nod of greeting.

"Place is a home to stories. Like, for example," He pointed at a blood stain on the counter, "Pretty sure a gambler or smuggler had a vibroknife slammed into their hand right there... or maybe he was just caught with someone's sister."

"Place is dirty. Broken. Damaged. Trash. But look around, bones are pretty impressive - ceiling isn’t caving in or leaking. Stage in the corner seems to be standing... sound system is probably shot." He moved around behind the bar before picking up a shaker and some filthy drinking glasses, "Still got some appliances and utensils, dishware."

"And apparently a small audiobox." He began to fiddle with the knobs and buttons seeing if he could get it to work and get some tunes playing.

"So, who's ready to do some work?" He gives the audio system a smack and a tune kicked in, a chill instrumental jazz tune filled the space as he looked at the others, observing them.

 

[Mason Hale]

Mason looked Varek up and down as the Togruta entered, taking in the travel-worn look, the irritation, the immediate disappointment radiating off him like heat from an engine on the verge of detonation.
Then came the comment.
"You look drunk."

Mason lifted the bottle slightly in acknowledgment.
"Half right," he replied. "Slight hangover. Still partially drunk. But I'm fit for work."
He took another small sip.

Immediately regretted it again.
A rough cough escaped him before he shoved the bottle away across the counter like it had personally insulted him. Which, to be fair, it had.
The jazz crackling out of the audiobox made him snort quietly.
"Listen to this place," he muttered. "Already trying to pretend it's classy."

Still, despite the sarcasm, there was something lighter in his expression now. The kind of mood that came from standing around people who were all equally trapped by a terrible shared decision.

Mason pushed himself off the counter and wandered toward the exposed power access panel near the side wall, drawn to the intermittent flickering lights overhead.

"Lemme see what kind of war crimes the last owners committed to the wiring."
He crouched near the panel, popping it open with practiced ease. The second the cover came loose, a tangled nest of mismatched wires greeted him like an insult handcrafted by drunk engineers.

Mason stared at it.
"…Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."
He reached in carefully, following one line with his fingers while the others watched him work.

"Whoever wired this place either hated themselves or everyone around them." His brow furrowed deeper. "Power routing's all crossed through auxiliary lines. Half these connectors don't even match the same damn manufac-"

Mid sentence, the flickering overhead light abruptly surged.
Mason froze.
There was a sharp pop.

Then, without warning, his entire body tilted sideways and he hit the floor with a heavy thud.
Silence.
He stayed there completely motionless.
One arm stretched out dramatically.

A long suffering groan escaped him.
"Tell my creditors…" he rasped toward the ceiling, "…they ain't gettin' anything."
Then he barked out a laugh, finally moving again.
"Damn leg's acting up."

With the exhausted irritation of someone dealing with an inconvenience they'd stopped finding shocking years ago, Mason sat up and detached the prosthetic leg at the thigh coupling with a metallic click.

Varek got a clear look now at the rough mechanical limb. Functional. Durable. Old repairs layered over older repairs. More workhorse than elegance.
Mason huffed.
"Relax," he muttered to nobody in particular. "Looks worse than it is."
He leaned back into the power panel one-legged, unplugged a scorched wire connection, scraped carbon buildup off the contact point with a knife, then jammed it back into place.

The overhead lighting steadied slightly.
"There we go."
He reattached the prosthetic with another solid click, stood again, and wiped grease across his jacket without caring.
"Whole place has wiring issues," he continued. "Previous owners routed cables through the ventilation channels instead of proper conduits. Lazy idiots probably figured nobody'd notice till the walls caught fire."

He pointed upward toward the ceiling.
"You've got signal wire tangled around primary power lines up there like two guys trying to-"
Mason stopped himself mid sentence.
A pause.

Slow blink.
"…Never mind."
He cleared his throat roughly and moved on with absolutely zero intention of acknowledging what almost came out of his mouth.
"Point is," he grumbled, "this place is one overloaded fuse away from becoming a cautionary tale."

Varek Fenn Vexar Brunok Scen Idrod

 

[Varek Fenn]

"Yes, Chef."

Varek shifted his attention back to Vexar Brunok . Those words were usually reserved for other...chefs. A slight aggitation grew within him, but he ignored it as the Shistavanen began to answer his intial questions. It was the raw truth too. Varek was a soldier not a billionaire philantropist, the sum he had to offer as Vexar had put it...was measly.

"I already told Scen that I was a retired soldier. I'm so sorry that I spent my years carrying a blaster rifle or two, instead of chasing dividends. So yeah, my savings aren't impressive." Varek didn't break eye contact with Vexar, his expression turning serious. "At least I can say every credit I earned came from dirt and blood on my boots-" Varek paused, took a quick glance at the rest of them, then back to Vexar. "not someone else's sweat on my hands."

There was a moment of silence before his suspicions were confirmed about Mason Hale . Varek didn't appreicate it, but he understood the process of getting lost in a bottle. When you've seen the things he had, it was hard to put the bottle down some days. Varek knew it wasn't the best way to go about things, in fact, he consider it a sad choice. That didn't matter anymore though, not for him anyway. Instead, this was going to be a new beginning. He envisioned a peaceful life here, at least part of him hoped.

Vexar moved closer to him and began pointing out the real charm to the place. Despite the clear awful condition of the bar he was right about the stories. The scorch marks and chipped wood around the bar told its own story. Some of them no longer remembered by those that made them. Varek shifted his gaze from the bar and back to Mason. His confidence in his efforts to assess the wiring issue made Varek skeptical. Anyone slightly enebrated, probably shouldn't be accessing an electrical panel.

As soon as the thought struck him, Mason became a heavy sack of electrocuted volts before the human suddenly slammed into the cracked floor below. Varek looked to Scen Idrod and Vexar Brunok . He leaned onto the counter and watched as Mason stiffened. "You both sure about this guy?"

Varek took a look at the dusty bottle left on the counter. Judging from the look of it "posion" seemed accurate. The tiny brown liquid almost seemed thicker than other distilled choices. A look of disgust began to form on Varek's face as he grabbed the bottle and gave a light sniff. It was putrid with an odor of mixed alcholic substance and spoiled Keshian Milk.

"That's truly disgusting." Varek said, placing the bottle back down on the wooden counter. Varek couldn't help but recognize the mechanical malfuncition of Mason's leg. No doubt from the sudden voltages coursing through his body due to the poorly wired infastructure.

"Relax, looks worse than it is."

Varek was all too familar with prosthetic legs. Many men in war ended up with them. If it wasn't a leg, it was an arm or two. Part of him felt for Mason, he had seen many men far better than him make their losses part of them. It seemed Mason accepted his fate long ago to be so non-chalant about his condition.

"Mason, I've seen far worse than that. Trust me." Varek looked at the mechanical leg, it was in rough shape, but not enough to be too concerned. When Mason fiddled with it and reattached it, Varek smiled. He listened carefully to the explaination of the wire situation. A sudden flicker of the lights made it even more apparent as the light dimmed further. "Can you fix it?"

Lastly, Varek turned to the other two. His yellow eyes scanning each of them. He understood the place needed work and although Varek himself wasn't too keen on their choice...part of the place already felt like part of him. He turned away from them all and peered through the jagged cut out of the wall and into the kitchen. He pictured himself there cooking and screaming for the orders that were ready to be sent to hungry customers. Whether he liked it or not, this would be his kitchen and he had no other choice but to make it work.

"Budget or not, I would have at least negotiated with the seller for something a little more-" Varek cut himself off and turned back around to finish what he was saying, but didn't. Instead he felt a form of gratefulness. "Ya know what, yeah, I'm ready to get to work. Only thing, are there any credits for a new Nanowave stove?"

 

[Scen Idrod]

Scen was sat on the counter drinking his caf as the wolf and the human went on their own small rants, content to finish his drink and be fully awake before moving on. When Vexar noted how he was the one to actually find the place, the Zygerrian rolled his eyes in annoyance, muttering something to the effect of, "Same thing.", before sulking and sipping at his drink. As he heard the door forced open, he stopped sulking and grew a smile upon seeing the fourth member of their... impromptu quartet.

Scen nodded as the Twi'lek who was to be their chef arrived, but then immediately lost his smile when hearing the complaints about the place. Of course, the four of them, new to the ways of owning a business and pooling their collective credits to the shockingly thin market of cantina's for sale, of course they'd have enough for a better place. The only issue with said places was the location of them, to which Scen was ready to give the chef a piece of his mind about, before shutting down his retort as the other's inspected the place more thoroughly.

He did let out a sound of worry and shock when Mason's leg shut down and he fell to the floor, only not asking if he was okay due to the human quickly resolving the issue before he could form the words. Then there was the Twi'lek's apparent... uncertainty about said human, and further complaints on the place itself.

Scen chugged the rest of his caf before slamming his cup down, deliberately pointing at the chef, as if that'd make his point clearer. "Well, apologies that empty cantina's are a shockingly low market! Any place that was better than this was either out of price range, or not a good place in general." He turned to the wolf while still pointing at the Twi'lek for his next point, "Like that place I found on Tatooine, remember that? That was a nice cantina objectively, but the sand gets caught in my fur too easily, so I vetoed it. This is the best place we could get."

Despite his attempt to look frustrated, he looked more like a kitten trying to look tough, "And yes, there's enough for a new microwave. Which does lead me to a significant question, fellas: What exactly are we prioritising?... after generally making sure we won't die in the place itself of course." It was an important question. After they sort out the loose wiring and other electrical dangers, the pests he may or may not have seen out back, and the multitude of other health and safety issues, what was the actual priority in terms of renovations.

_________________________________________________________

Vexar Brunok | Mason Hale | Varek Fenn

 

[Vexar Brunok]

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated deep in Vexar's chest—a dry, amused sound that barely parted his sharp, prominent canines.

The scene unfolding on the other side of the bar was pure, unadulterated chaos. Minutes ago, Vexar had leaped over the counter and smacked the old audiobox to life, hoping to inject a little rhythm into the place. Now, the chill jazz tune was competing with a hungover human mechanic ( Mason Hale ) casually snapping his own prosthetic leg back into place after a near-fatal electrical surge. To his left, a disgruntled Togruta soldier ( Varek Fenn ) was wrinkling his nose at the very "poison" bottle Vexar had wisely avoided testing earlier. And right beside them, a Zygerrian ( Scen Idrod ) was slamming down a caf cup, trying desperately to look intimidating while defending his hatred of Tatooine sand.

Vexar didn't flinch at Mason's sudden fall, nor did he rush to dominate the bickering. He simply leaned his forearms against the dirty bar from the staff side, his posture relaxed but effortlessly commanding the space. His piercing yellow eyes, intense and always calculating, flicked from Mason's greasy jacket, to Varek's tense shoulders, and finally to Scen's bristling fur. His ears twitched slightly, filtering out the crackle of the jazz music—which Mason had so lovingly called out for trying to be "classy"—to focus entirely on the room's shifting dynamics.

He was already balancing his mental ledger.

"Dirt and blood buy the best kind of loyalty, Varek," Vexar said, his voice smooth, calm, and intentionally grounded. He held the Togruta's gaze across the counter, letting the tension from his earlier "measly sum" comment dissolve naturally. "I'll take a soldier who knows how to hold a line over a billionaire corporate aristocrat any day of the standard year. Your credits are just fine here. And the kitchen?" Vexar offered a slow, assuring smirk, the subtle wear on his knuckles shifting as he gestured toward the jagged cutout in the wall behind him. "It's yours. If you say we need a Nanowave stove to make this place run, then we'll find the credits for it. Consider it a done deal."

When Varek cast a wary glance toward Mason, questioning if they were truly sure about relying on the chaotic human mechanic, Vexar looked down at Mason. He didn't dwell on the dramatic fall, nor did he let the human's unpredictable nature unnerve him. He looked at the result: the overhead lights had stopped flickering. The man was eccentric, but he was effective.

"He's alive, the lights are on, and he didn't charge us a premium for the theatrics," Vexar noted dryly, the distinguished, lighter fur around his face catching the newly steadied light. "For now? Yeah, I'm sure. Just keep him away from the top-shelf liquor until the building is structurally sound."

Finally, Vexar turned his attention to Scen. He extended a clawed hand, palm down, a silent, comforting gesture to bring the Zygerrian's defensive energy down a notch. The clean, noticeable scar across his left forearm caught the light—a silent reminder of a past Vexar never spoke of, but one that gave his presence an undeniable weight.

"You're right about the sand, Scen. It's a nightmare to get out of fur," Vexar conceded with an easy, welcoming charm, completely bypassing the Zygerrian's irritation and validating his choice to veto Tatooine. "And you're right about the market. This place has bones. It has a history. Now it's just about survival."

He stood up straight behind the bar, his dense, muscular frame moving with a quiet, predatory agility that was entirely controlled. He looked at each of them in turn, pulling their attention to him without ever needing to raise his voice.

"To answer your question, Scen: our priorities are simple. We calculate our steps, or we fail." Vexar tapped a claw on the bar top. "Step one: Mason keeps us from burning to the ground. If the ventilation channels are packed with live wires, that's your domain, Mason. Fix it before we plug anything else in."

He turned his gaze back to Scen. "Step two: Scen, you mentioned pests out back. Take a blaster or a broom, but clear them out. We can't invite paying customers into a nest."

Lastly, his yellow eyes locked back onto Varek. "Step three: Chef, you clean that kitchen and draft a menu based on what we can actually source locally. Once Mason gives us the green light on the power grid, we order your stove."

Vexar folded his arms, his posture casual, firm, and entirely certain as he looked out at his new crew from behind the counter. "We ensure we don't die today, gentlemen. Tomorrow, we worry about the paint. Are we agreed?"