There was a hard life lesson for every smuggler from Han Solo to Jimmy Gonewild to learn: never owe someone money. Some smugglers- Barrett- had a hard time learning this lesson. No matter the lashings, nor the ‘infamy’ (Though it was hard to beat Jimmy Gonewild) Barrett Haskins never learned his place with lady luck. He always tried his damndest to play the odds. This lead the Corellian to be sort of a catalyst for interesting events as he would call them. Most of these events were survivable, though no one knows when life has the trump.
This was just another situation, just another group of intergalactic scavengers, and just another payday. As always, whiskey was the solution, credits the unifier, and lastly a spritz of greed that seemed to be the proverbial spice of life amongst these harsh spacelanes. This would hopefully create a perfect cocktail of crime. The nervous person Barrett was, he made sure he had a couple cocktails of his own before he left for the meeting. He would never be drunk at work, but he would sure as hell come close. The closest bar was where he set up shop the forty standard minutes before he was set to meet with everyone. He needed something to take the edge off, a ritual among his breed. Soon enough he would pay his small tab and make his way to the meeting’s location.
A plume of gray smoke announced his arrival at the tower’s door. He put out his cigarette before he entered as a common courtesy, however it was an irrelevant gesture. No matter how hard Barrett tried to cover it with cheap cologne, he always had the scent of searing, chemical fire around him. It burnt the nostrils of more delicate folk, though most just accepted it as the typical Corellian musk. The front desk knew when they saw him who he was and where he was supposed to go. They greeted him with a smile and a handshake and showed the smuggler the way to the correct eleavator. It seemed his handler had settled things with whoever was upstairs ahead of time. That, or the establishment had ways of identifying people as soon as they entered. Or as Barrett had hoped, that his reputation proceeded him and they the receptionist was just a fan.
Delusions of grandeur aside, he was here for a job. His destination was quickly approaching and it would not be long before he was in front of his peers and being informed of whatever it was he had been dragged here for. His handler was a particularly slimy Corellian halfbreed Barrett owed money to, who himself owed more money to an even slimier Hutt. Of course this meant Barrett would be collecting both of their debts and yet still probably coming out with less credits than he went in with. In situations like this, blasters and blades were his troop, and as he ascended swiftly toward the top floors, all he could do was hope they would be enough. As usual the life of a criminal was a lonely and dangerous one. Though as it turned out jobs like this were a good way to make contacts and maybe cast a little light in the bleak milky infinity they all shared amongst the constellations.
A quick metallic bing harolded his arrival. The Corellian strode forward with a confident gate, he would never give someone the satisfaction of seeing him nervous, least of all in a first impression. His messy hair was done back with a little swoop, he had tried to look impressionable. He was clad in his typical- though surprisingly recently dry-cleaned- blue suit. Barrett was not one for an overbearing set of armor or a flashy cape and mask hiding his true identity. Barrett Haskins was a very simple man, and for that he blamed his father’s military-like parenting style. That being said he made sure he had an energy shield on his persons in a secret pocket incase anything or anyone got sheisty. He was simple, not stupid.
“Hi fellas, am I early?”
[member="Adiara Drelas"] [member="Pavor Clauditis"]
