Fondo
Character
<NAR SHADDAA>
It was too early.
With a grunt, Fondo awoke to a burning cocktail of morning sunlight and neon strips- his freighter smelled of death. The cloying smell of deathsticks and cheap Corellian drinks filled the sticky box with a near-toxic atmosphere; every centimeter of the duraplast interior was sticky to the touch. Striking out with one foot, he cracked open an exit door, the folds of his fur rising and falling as he took in desperate breaths. The cityscape that awaited him was just as disgusting, a hundred-thousand miles of corruption and death.
To him, it all seemed rather beautiful.
Snaking trails of dark smoke filtered off into the heavy speeder traffic above as he lit a cigarra, hunched over on the exit ramp of whatever stolen craft he'd driven here. Wheezing breaths punctuated each release of the blackness, cold eyes of deep purple staring blankly into the distance.
That was when he heard the sound- a quiet, thumping sound, looming from behind.
Slowly and carefully he rose to his feet, unholstering an ugly blaster of Coruscanti make. It was coming from the cargo hold of his ship. Every step he took towards it seemed to make it grow louder, the thumps devolving into wild crashing. It all happened in slow-motion- the instant he opened the door, he was confronted with the impossibly powerful stench of death and rot, dark blood pooling about his feet; there was a dying Ithorian inside his cargo hold.
Now he remembered.
"You very stupid, friend."
The Ithorian didn't offer a response- he knew it was over, cheap bounty-hunting scum he was.
"Next time, kill Fondo while he no see you, yes?"
The Ithorian didn't make an effort to look as Fondo shot him.
Fondo didn't make an effort to shift the body, responding in kind- he simply returned to his rest on the exit ramp, poised far above the slums below.
If they wanted to catch him, more effort was required.
[member="Zatten Black"]
It was too early.
With a grunt, Fondo awoke to a burning cocktail of morning sunlight and neon strips- his freighter smelled of death. The cloying smell of deathsticks and cheap Corellian drinks filled the sticky box with a near-toxic atmosphere; every centimeter of the duraplast interior was sticky to the touch. Striking out with one foot, he cracked open an exit door, the folds of his fur rising and falling as he took in desperate breaths. The cityscape that awaited him was just as disgusting, a hundred-thousand miles of corruption and death.
To him, it all seemed rather beautiful.
Snaking trails of dark smoke filtered off into the heavy speeder traffic above as he lit a cigarra, hunched over on the exit ramp of whatever stolen craft he'd driven here. Wheezing breaths punctuated each release of the blackness, cold eyes of deep purple staring blankly into the distance.
That was when he heard the sound- a quiet, thumping sound, looming from behind.
Slowly and carefully he rose to his feet, unholstering an ugly blaster of Coruscanti make. It was coming from the cargo hold of his ship. Every step he took towards it seemed to make it grow louder, the thumps devolving into wild crashing. It all happened in slow-motion- the instant he opened the door, he was confronted with the impossibly powerful stench of death and rot, dark blood pooling about his feet; there was a dying Ithorian inside his cargo hold.
Now he remembered.
"You very stupid, friend."
The Ithorian didn't offer a response- he knew it was over, cheap bounty-hunting scum he was.
"Next time, kill Fondo while he no see you, yes?"
The Ithorian didn't make an effort to look as Fondo shot him.
Fondo didn't make an effort to shift the body, responding in kind- he simply returned to his rest on the exit ramp, poised far above the slums below.
If they wanted to catch him, more effort was required.
[member="Zatten Black"]