Davessi Linden
Feisty Flygirl
The cravings always started the same way: a hollow, weightless feeling at the top of the spine. They got worse from there, of course. Most guys got the shakes. Some unlucky kriffers got the seizures. Davi got the flashes: sudden, sharp muscle spasms of painful heat followed by teeth-gritting cold. They shot through her feet and up her calves when she walked, cramping her muscles. They burned like needles in her good arm, and made the joint where metal met flesh ache.
That was how she knew she needed another hit of Neutron Pixie. Which was a problem when she ran out.
Davi loved being spontaneous, and wouldn't trade all the fun she'd had through it for the galaxy, but it had its disadvantages. One of them was a lack of forward planning, the sort of lack that could see her stranded on an uptight, moralistic little drukhole like Antecedent when her last dose ran out. Here were people who had no kriffing idea how to have any fun. Thankfully, she had a nose for corruption; if there was a single huttlet on a planet populated entirely by tight-pants Jedi, she'd find it.
And so she'd found her way to the Dragon Palace Casino and the growing shadow sector around it. She knew the kind of place, the scuzziest kind of offworlder enclave; she'd bet serious credits that there were half a dozen proposals in planetary government to burn it to the ground. But "Little Coruscant" (she could swear that name was taken, she thought with a wry grin) was far enough away from the planetary capital to be out of sight, and brought in enough credits to be kept out of mind.
Here was a place she could finally breathe again, away from the militarized police and the obsession with genius and the creepy "invisible" underclass. She could smell greasy food from a dozen cuisines, leaking lubricant from some speeder being broken down at a chop shop, carbon scored metal and unwashed flesh. She could hear shouting in basic and huttese, the hum of swoop engines, and occasional blasterfire. She was soon lost in the press of people. Twice, someone tried to pick her pocket.
Some people saw desperation. Davi saw opportunity. Here you could be anyone and get anything.
At least, that was the theory; getting some Neutron Pixie was proving to be a little tougher than she'd hoped. But the stuff you bought on the street tended to be druk quality anyway, and she'd had bad experiences with poorly-cut spice before. So she'd soon made her way up to the casino at the center of it all, where she'd heard a quality fixer or three tended to hang out. She'd made her introductions, subtly passed around that she was in the market for some high-end stuff.
But a place like the Dragon Palace made it so terribly easy to get distracted. A bottle and a half of rhuvian fizz later, Davi hardly felt the flashes any more. She was much too busy winning her third hand of sabacc and trying to figure out how many more she could win before they threw her out. Maybe after the next hand she'd go lose all her winnings on the chance cubes so she could start over again. The kriffing things were hopelessly rigged, even for someone as good at the long odds as she was.
Spice or no, she was having the time of her life. As usual.
@[member=Jen]
That was how she knew she needed another hit of Neutron Pixie. Which was a problem when she ran out.
Davi loved being spontaneous, and wouldn't trade all the fun she'd had through it for the galaxy, but it had its disadvantages. One of them was a lack of forward planning, the sort of lack that could see her stranded on an uptight, moralistic little drukhole like Antecedent when her last dose ran out. Here were people who had no kriffing idea how to have any fun. Thankfully, she had a nose for corruption; if there was a single huttlet on a planet populated entirely by tight-pants Jedi, she'd find it.
And so she'd found her way to the Dragon Palace Casino and the growing shadow sector around it. She knew the kind of place, the scuzziest kind of offworlder enclave; she'd bet serious credits that there were half a dozen proposals in planetary government to burn it to the ground. But "Little Coruscant" (she could swear that name was taken, she thought with a wry grin) was far enough away from the planetary capital to be out of sight, and brought in enough credits to be kept out of mind.
Here was a place she could finally breathe again, away from the militarized police and the obsession with genius and the creepy "invisible" underclass. She could smell greasy food from a dozen cuisines, leaking lubricant from some speeder being broken down at a chop shop, carbon scored metal and unwashed flesh. She could hear shouting in basic and huttese, the hum of swoop engines, and occasional blasterfire. She was soon lost in the press of people. Twice, someone tried to pick her pocket.
Some people saw desperation. Davi saw opportunity. Here you could be anyone and get anything.
At least, that was the theory; getting some Neutron Pixie was proving to be a little tougher than she'd hoped. But the stuff you bought on the street tended to be druk quality anyway, and she'd had bad experiences with poorly-cut spice before. So she'd soon made her way up to the casino at the center of it all, where she'd heard a quality fixer or three tended to hang out. She'd made her introductions, subtly passed around that she was in the market for some high-end stuff.
But a place like the Dragon Palace made it so terribly easy to get distracted. A bottle and a half of rhuvian fizz later, Davi hardly felt the flashes any more. She was much too busy winning her third hand of sabacc and trying to figure out how many more she could win before they threw her out. Maybe after the next hand she'd go lose all her winnings on the chance cubes so she could start over again. The kriffing things were hopelessly rigged, even for someone as good at the long odds as she was.
Spice or no, she was having the time of her life. As usual.
@[member=Jen]