Not detectives. Not officials. There were too many nots gathering for her mind to comprehend just there and then what the krak was happening and who these people were. Scherezade tried to roll her eyes, but only one cooperated with her, seeing as the other one was kinda half smushed against the bar. It was uncomfortable. Her hands came up slowly and she started pushing herself up inch by inch. Once her face had unglued itself from the cheap wood she stared forward blankly for a moment, her hand now leaving the bar to reach for the bottle again.
"Beaches?" she repeated with a question, blinking, "I'm somewhere with beaches?"
She wasn't sure why it mattered. She wasn't a fan of beaches. Sand got everywhere, tourist showed their bodies off, and she couldn't swim. It was but one of the reasons she didn't bother going to Spira, where some remains of her family were, where her mother had grown up. There was nothing for her there, or anywhere else that had beaches. But that begged the question... Where the heck was she?
She rolled both eyes at being told she was there to forget. She was so tired of people telling her that. Fine, so she didn't know how to hide it. The past month of her life had been great at proving that she knew pretty much nothing. But having it pointed out like that, again, by a stranger, again. She felt violated. She wanted to smash the bottle into the butthead's head. Thankfully for him, there was still booze in the bottle. Never waste a drop.
When he mentioned someone getting a hold of her bullets though...
Scherezade set the bottle on the bar and pulled her slugpistol out. There was no way anyone would've managed to get their hands on her bullets. She practically slept with them. The only person who might have had any sliver of chance was a Jedi, and he wouldn't have... Or would he? With shaky fingers, she opened the compartment that held the bullets and put them on the bar, motioning for the two gafoons not to try to touch them.
"One... Two..." she counted slowly, going one by one, the bullets small and covered on the outside with an eye-burning shade of pink, "Three... Four..."
And that was it.
"No bullets missing," she sighed and started working them back into the gun, "I had four when I got off Melida/Daan and had to shoot that filthy zombie virus infected Mandalorian, and then things were too busy to make more and then..."
And then Gerwald had decided to sing songs and sleep with her sister instead of come check up on her, and then had not even contacted her even though they were supposed to go get his siblings from that chithole called Stewjon, and then she had stumbled into Kamon who almost killed her. Gerwald and Katrine claimed they saved her because they loved her, but while she had been in the Darkness for what she thought was years but they said was a week, they had chosen and loved and claimed each other. They had probably krakked each other's brains out on the same bed while she was lying in it.
She wanted to vomit as the pain washed over her, the memories coming back faster than she could drink them away.
It was a long and awkward silence before she realized she had succeeded in not bursting into tears in front of a stranger again.
"Then your records suck," she groaned, her voice breaking as she put her pistol back where it belonged, "besides, I can still kill while drunk. Been there, done that. Could shoot you between the eyes right now if I wanted to. But I don't want to. I just want to be left alone and... Where the krak am I? What's this planet? Do your silly little records state when I got here?"
[member="Dax Fyre"]
