Private Two Cents Short

[Soloman Priest]

It seems she didn’t much care for the title of Mandalorian either - which was a vague reassurement that at least she had some facilities about her. The Clans were a mess, and with the ever constant annoyance that was politics between the Mantis and Australis; Priest had long since lost the title of Mandalorian as well. He almost wore the Dar’manda title they’d given him with pride -​

​

Almost.​

​

“First piece of advice, kid, lower your voice.”, he said with a cold gaze in her direction.​

​

“You yell at me again, you won’t yell again - get it?”​

​

Soloman lifted his drink to his lips and sniffed at it - and while he enjoyed the aromatic nature of a good bourbon, this wasn’t a good bourbon. It went down like battery acid, and tasted like tibanna gas - but it got you drunk; and that was more useful than half the things he’d had in a while. He let out the iconic sound of a thirst quenched, and spoke again - this time motioning to her with a glass;​

​

“Second piece, get off the stims. Can’t shoot straight if you’re shaking all the fucking time.”, he said with a glance to her hands, which despite Sam’s best efforts - still seemed to be shaking.​

​

“And uh… Last piece, learn how to shoot. Runs in your blood, hate it or not, might as well figure it out.”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

There had to be a moment to appreciate Sam's restraint, after all, this was the longest conversation the woman had been a part of without a threat being thrown for quite some while and it wasn't even her doing the threatening. The lack of violence was admirable given the woman's regular demeanour, or perhaps it was the power of abject misery.

Her rock bottom was looming, he even knew it and she couldn't deny it any more.

Which is probably why instead of slinging back louder and angrier threats (or even fists) she just turned away, instead observing the no longer clothed twi'leks flailing about in a display that had caused the crowd to devolve into primal hollering.

Bet it was a solid wage though.

The door was suddenly slammed shut on that thought as Rodarch swiftly turned her attentions back to Soloman, who, in his defence was apparently full of advice as asked. Get off the stims, yeah, yeah...

Her stare was trained upon his glass after the last piece was imparted. Learn how to shoot. A seething kind of resentment was reserved for the look that Sam gave that amber liquid. She should have known how to shoot. Runs in her blood. Yeah. It should have been taught. Fist opened and closed over and over again, pallid flesh stretching over scarred knuckles. Dad can't teach you shet when he's drunk.

He's always drunk.

“Teach me...” she muttered, almost inaudible amongst all the ruckus, “I...I ain't got...nobody, you know?”

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

Soloman resisted the urge to look at her, as he exhaled slow. He couldn’t help but feel a… small pange in his gut. She reminded him of some of the Mandalorians he used to know, the children he used to train - those he enjoyed helping. How long had it been since he’d helped someone without needing creds?​

​

The man reached into a pocket on his holster, sighing as he pulled a cigarette from it. A quick light, and he inhaled, all deliberative, all careful to extend the time it took him to respond. He’d been alone for a long time - he liked it, enjoyed it.​

​

Or did he just tell himself he did?​

​

Soloman couldn’t even be sure it was what he enjoyed anymore. He wasn’t sure he could trust himself - let alone if any of this was even real anymore. An exhale of smoke, and the cantina filled with a touch more smoke than it had before -​

​

Grey eyes glanced to her with a solemn expression;​

​

“How many creds you got?”, he said suddenly, and perhaps for his own sake. It made him feel better that he asked for money - a force of habit, but it felt wrong. He resisted the urge to cringe -​

​

“For… a gun. For you.”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Out of all their silences, this was by far the longest.

Each second without a word spoken only fed the beasts of rejection and anxiety that always lurked on the edge of her mind. Why would he teach you? The voice said, disguising itself as her own. You're a joke. You don't have any skills, hell, you can't even fight and you're supposed to be good at that. Fists were clenched now with her thumbs trapped beneath being crushed. He won't take you on. Nobody will take you on because you're just no good. Runs in the family. Just like your-

Then he spoke, silencing the voices for another short while at least. Credits? Was to be expected on a place like Nar Shaddaa. You gave nothing for free here, not without ulterior motivations. If you did you looked like a chump.

“...not much,” she mumbled once more, refusing to look in his direction and instead choosing to stare into her glass of water, “...like fifty-four...”

Enough to be kept fed and watered for another week, not in a truly nutritious manner but enough. No need for rent, at least. She was squatting with a great number of outcasts in situations much like her own.

“It's a loan,” she admitted quietly, unravelling a situation from bad to worse as being in debt here was never a wise course of action, “from the guy that gets me the stims.” Somehow, it got even worse. A loan from a guy giving her stims, and somehow Rodarch wasn't getting the full picture.

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

Soloman took a long drag of his cigarette before pulling it from his lips - letting the smoke waft from his mouth with a resigned exhaustion. His narrowed his eyes, pointed the lit end of the cigarette towards her - and with the same gumption he seemed to fight her with, he took on a surprising annoyance;​

​

“You took a fucking loan, from the guy that sells you stims?”, he said, signing his annoyance with a harsh pierce of his lips.​

​

“You want to learn how to shoot, kid?”, Soloman said as he slammed the cigarette into the table and stood up, nearly knocking the chair out from under him.​

​

“Let's go see your dealer. I’ll do the negotiating.”, Soloman said as a hand moved to rest on the handle of his pistol.​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It wasn't the reaction expected.

“I...”

Strange, being on the opposing end of somebody's ire with little clue of what you had done wrong. She didn't understand what could bring such a rise out of a man who had been relatively content with his bourbon and life advice until that moment.

You start to grow up with nothing but ideas about honour and bravado hammered into you, and that might have been great for a dick measuring contest but in the face of street smarts such things were useless. Rodarch had learned no concepts of savvy when there were still people worth learning from, and when it all fell apart, well, then there was nobody.

Nar Shaddaa was not a place for this utter naivety.

“I don't get it,” Sam replied on the clearly clueless back foot as she followed his direction and stood, “it's just down the street but...”

There should have been a moment to stop and take a clear look at this scenario, which seemed to quickly be escalating to somebody getting shot, maybe even further than that.

“I'll show you but...”

While there was no need to show this man where her dealer was (especially not with his murderous implication) there was an instinct that urged. This Soloman, he was a person who had given Sam the time of day. Might have beaten her up and criticised her life choices but he didn't treat her like everybody else did. A thing like that was too rare to walk away from. It was a chance at something else.

So she lead the way.

“...did I do somethin' wrong?”

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

“No, kid.”, he said as he marched down the street with her. He undid the mag-lock on his handgun, and let it rest into his palm - it always felt more comfortable there than anywhere else. His hot breath left his nose with a rough anger as he continued -​

​

“You got taken advantage of.”, he said as his shoulder slammed into a bystander walking the other direction. The man had the audacity to speak up, to yell at him - but lost his nerve when Soloman glanced back with a snarl, and flashed the handgun.​

​

“It starts with stims… He starts to slip in death sticks, shit you don’t want -”, Wyatt said as he wiped what bourbon remained on his face.​

​

“Eventually, you can’t pay him back, so he takes you. For himself. For others. You get enslaved, kid.”​

​

As they turned down the wet alley, and the door to this hovel stood graffitied with a man outside. Large as he was, he had only a moment to glance towards Soloman before his nose met the butt of his handgun - giving a bit more credence to the nickname of ‘Big Iron’. The man dropped like a sack of poodoo, and the graffitied door was all that was left.​

​

His gaze moved back to Sam -​

​

“What does he look like? Before I go in there, I need to know what he looks like.”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Oh.

Missing puzzle pieces began to slide into place, explaining so much that had eluded the young woman prior to that moment. The hovel didn't keep people for very long, just as quickly as some arrived they would vanish, only to be replaced by more in seemingly endless supply and it turned out that this revolving door of outcasts wasn't because they had found their footing and moved on from their squalor. They'd been...

They were...

As the pair made their march a horrified glance downwards at still trembling hands all but confirmed another missing piece.

All those mornings waking up and feeling like utter shet. So much of it chalked up to the abuse taken in the ring the night before. Lotsa bodies in here, probably got the flu, girl. The shakes, the agitation, the anxiety. Died down when she shot up, made her feel normal but wasn't helping her win fights. It wasn't stims. It was...

Rodarch wanted to spew, her expression fixed in shock, wide-eyed and nostrils flared as Soloman made quick work of the doorman. She really was a joke. A helpless little idiot. Was it her fault for being so naïve and foolish?

Maybe.

No.

“He's a fething duros,” Sam told him quietly, eyes remaining wide still but features shifting, brow furrowing. It was his fault. He was doing this to her. To others. A familiar boiling began in Sam's core as her self-blame began to shift, anger beginning to slip its fingers around the wheel, “Green. Tats on his head. Omerod. That's his name.”

Finally Rodarch looked to Soloman, with her shoulders hunched and fists clenched.

“Make it fucking hurt.”

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

Soloman simply frowned as he looked to her - and choosing simply not to respond. She had made the connection, realized what he meant - and he could see the anger in her eyes, the tenseness of her jaw. Whether he meant it or not, he had hurt her - brazen and blunt as he was; he had to make it right. In his own way, perhaps.​

​

He turned around and slammed a booted foot into the door, its repulsorlift on the bottom denting the metal and sending it into the room - free of its hinges. Soloman rushed in and glanced about - and while the majority suddenly cowered at the sight of his gun, he saw the careless few in the drug den that served as the guards.​

​

His ‘Big Iron’ leveled its barrel at first - and like lightning, Soloman’s finger fanned the trigger faster and faster; and like thunder, the room exploded in thunderous sound as his disruptor tore every man with a weapon down. Burned to cinders, turned to ash - the room filled with blood and carnage as the Mandalorian set himself in stone and finished with a final shot.​

​

Many had fallen, a total of eight after everything was said and done. He exhaled slow as he looked for the Duros, but as he took a step further into the room; he could feel the blaster round in his chest - just off center of his heart. Blood began to soak his shirt, but he couldn’t stop now - and moved with a renewed effort.​

​

He wouldn’t die, he’d been hurt worse - but it didn’t stop the fact that it hurt.​

​

The Duros rose from behind a couch as he took a few steps in, with his hands raised in the universal sign of surrender. He seemed to cringe, sweat as the Bounty Hunter approached -​

​

“Oy, oy, Beskar-boy; chill out huh? I’m just tryin’ to make a livin’.”, he said with a quiet, nervous, yet hopefully reassuring laugh.​

​

His eyes glanced behind Soloman for a moment, and noticed Sam - and his nervous smile turned to a frown;​

​

“You doin’ this for her, Bou-”​

​

His voice was cut short as Soloman nested a harsh round into his throat, forcing the Duros to choke on his words literally. The man forced a snarl on his face, furrowed his brow, and let loose the last five rounds in his magazine before stopping; looking at the carnage of the face he left behind. Soloman’s nose flared, his hair fell in his eyes, and he glanced to the dead body with a refined anger.​

​

Tempered as it was, he waited for Sam to get closer.​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It happened so quickly.

Too many Mandalorian bedtime stories made it seem like the world slowed down when it was time to kill. A culture rooted in death raised on ideals brought forth by a craving for war. Another crusade. Another foe. It was never-ending. This was what it was all about. This was life's purpose.

All over in a matter of chaotic few moments.

When the sound of rapid disruptor fire drew to a stop all that remained was a single voice, a familiar voice trying to reason his way out of his execution. That piece of shet.

Confident that anybody that might have shot back had been dispatched Sam finally stepped through, remaining stood behind Soloman as she chose to simply stare in silence at the surrendering duros. She didn't need words when the way she looked at him said it all, lip curling back and teeth bared, eyes unblinking in their fury.

Rodarch didn't even have to speak because when he glanced to her, that look said everything it needed to.

No talking out of this one.

The first shot gave way to a painful gurgle, the most satisfying sound that Samantha Rodarch had heard in her entire life. She held onto it, etching it into her mind for a bittersweet memory of vengeance as the next five shots followed. His chapter was closed, and with it the fates of so many spared for another day, her own included.

Now she stepped fully into the room, and despite the utter carnage around her felt no great sense of relief, because she still felt stupid, she still felt helpless. Like some little girl who had to go and get a bigger kid to protect her from the bullies. This morning Rodarch had woken up thinking that it was fine, she had her own back and she'd get by somehow. Couldn't have been further from the truth. Sitting on numbered days before enslavement at the hands of pathetic naivety.

She screamed, raw and furious.

It had to be vented, and with no soul left in the room to take it out on, Sam's rage was enacted upon the furniture. A table was flipped, carelessly spilling all of its contents to the floor and then a boot followed up, splintering the cheap wood as the woman let her anger go. Letting impulse take the wheel Rodarch came to Omerod's corpse and without thinking raised that same foot and brought it down upon his bulbous head.

She needed that moment.

With ragged breath she crouched down, head buried in her hands as the Mandalorian attempted to collect herself once more. It would take more than a few minutes to process what had just in this room, but putting a stop to her small rampage was a solid start.

“He's...he's got a safe,” Sam finally spoke, standing up again before turning attention back to her saviour, “it's got a lo- shet.”

Blood.

“You alright!? Shet. Shet! You've been fething shot! This is my fething fault! We gotta get you help!"

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

While Sam raged - Soloman pressed a hand to the wound in his chest. It stung, and the black shirt grew damp with the dark hue of blood; his nose smelling the copper. He sighed, though ragged as his breath was - he could feel drops of it coming up his throat. He just had to sit down…​

​

Grunting, he found a seat near the body he had just left six holes in - leaning back to get some comfort while he leaked out anything keeping him alive. He could feel the would healing, fast as his DNA allowed - but that didn’t mean it felt good, nor was it a guarantee he would live… So close to the heart, part of his lung - a blast shot in such a vital spot never did much for his odds.​

​

“We gotta get you help!”, Sam had called out, but Soloman had only heard half of what she said. He furrowed his heavy, dark brow and shook his head -​

​

“Kid…”, he said rather weakly, “I’ll be fine. You-”​

​

His words were interrupted with the hacking of blood, a large clot ending up on the back of his hand. He groaned and leaned back again -​

​

“You need to get that safe, kid. I don’t work… for free.”, he said with a joking smile - though pain was certainly evident as the hand proving pressure to his wound was more crimson than it ever was before.​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

It wasn't exactly confidence-inspiring to see Soloman having to take a seat so he could cough up his insides. Judging from the state of the man it was hard to believe that he was going to be anything other than fine. Feth, he was even smiling and while that should have been a comfort, men like that didn't usually wear much beyond scowls and tight lips.

“Shet. You better not be lyin',” she replied, almost sounding threatening, which was overall not the tone that Sam was going for. It could be forgiven in the circumstance, really. She didn't want him to die, he had helped her and not in a way that suggested future drugging and enslavement.

The sight of the blood on his hand gave her a sense of urgency to open the damn safe, get what was in there and bail.

“Don't....even think of closing your eyes,” Sam said, rushing over to the safe and giving the handle a try (optimistic), which obviously didn't work, “...if I look over there and you're tryin' to nap...well,” she continued before pausing, her ever-frustrated features studying what was a fingerprint sensor, “...I'll hit you.”

Rushing back over, she grabbed Omerod's corpse by the hand and started dragging it over to the safe, her body beginning to protest as the 'stims' seemed to be wearing off. It was easy to forget that she had been battered by Soloman not so long ago.

“...in the...ugh...face...”

Probably not helpful, but Rodarch obviously wasn't a qualified doctor.

Eventually, she had managed to drag the carcass over and rather mercifully opening the safe was as easy as pressing a deceased finger onto a touchpad preferable to option number two, which was hitting it. A lot.

“Got it,” Sam declared, “you better still be a-”

The contents of the safe brought a stop to her sentence. It wasn't the couple of grands worth of credits that did it, nor the bulk quantities of spice. It was the collateral, all the shet that her and the rest of those hopeless kids had given him for their loans. A lot of photos. They didn't have much to give and so what he took were memories, they didn't have those left when he got them.

“You bastard,” she spat, taking back her own collateral of a single beskar gauntlet before the emptying the safe of all credits. Eyes lingered on the bricks of spice and a small voice questioned if it was worth taking. Could sell it in a bind. However, in the end, the door was slammed shut and the narcotics remained inside, hopefully, to rot.

“You still breathin'?” Sam queried, rushing back to Soloman to check on him, “Better be, or you won't get paid.”

It was supposed to come off as a joke as if the thought of credits would revive the gunslinger but her surly demeanour again sounded vaguely threatening.

-

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

Blood…​

​

It was a messy thing, Soloman thought, as he glanced over the blurring vision of his hand dripping with his own ichor. Crimson, warm, but his body felt cold - Yet all too familiar. How many times had he done this to himself? Struggled in a fight he shouldn’t have been in, without armor he refused to wear - just to get shot.​

​

“Yeah, I know the drill. Eyes open…”, he said weakly as he looked at a drop fall onto his pants.​

​

There was hope in dying, he imagined. That were someone to nail him in the chest, to put a single lucky shot in his heart - he might die, return to the Manda, to be a Mandalorian again. Was that why he always did this to himself, ran about by himself to die? The blood said yes, but he couldn’t help but refuse such a deep inflection.​

​

He wasn’t much of a deep thinker, regardless.​

​

“Credits always keep me moving.”, he said as he lifted himself from the couch with a groan.​

​

Blood still dripped from the wound, but it was healing fast - a notable trait of his Firrerreo genes. Something that was as much a blessing in his profession, as a curse to his culture. He groaned as he put an arm around Sam, motioning her forward -​

​

“Lead the way, kid. I need a… a drink.”​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

So he was roused by credits. Forget the Force, money was the real great motivator of life.

“Woulda said a bacta patch...”

There was something horrifically familiar in helping a grizzled man go to find his next drink. Truth be told she wanted to drop him right there and then as to hold a small intervention about the perils of alcohol. It was his life, his choice, just as it was Sam's choice to hold some very deep-seated opinions about it.

“...but sure, I guess.”

Besides, he had just saved her future by gunning down an entire room of fairly dangerous people. You can't lecture a person after that. There's a time limit on these kinds of things though. Nobody expects the teetotal inquisition.

And just like that, they walked away from the carnage.

Rodarch's mind was now ablaze with too many new questions as they made a much slower pace down the street. Shockboxing badly in crappy little cantinas only flirted slightly with the underworld. Yeah, there was bet fixing and people taking dives but that kinda shet was always way above her station. Shooting up a room of thugs, dealers and traffickers, now that was a touch more involved.

Sam was already frowning, but just to be sure the expression deepened, the combination of her face and his blood giving cause for the rest of the street to give them both a wide berth (it was probably mostly the blood).

“What happens now? People gonna want our heads?”

Soloman Priest

 

[Soloman Priest]

“Already did, kid.”, he said with a hoarse exclamation.​

​

He struggled to hold his own weight - but he managed well enough to make sure Sam didn’t have to carry him too long. He’d been shot a hundred times before - but you’d be surprised by the fact that one didn’t really build up ‘resistance’ to such things; and the fact was, he still hated the feeling. The scars on his body told a story he didn’t care to remember, it seemed.​

​

“Now, we just got a few more, I’d wager.”​

​

“Press that button, kid.”, he said as he motioned to a button on his vambrace - unable to press it himself with the range between his hands. When she did, he glanced up -​

​

And before them, came a ship, large and imposing as it was - it was lined with more guns than most ever cared to admit to owning. It was surprisingly quiet in the city, and lowered itself with a gentle descent; opening its landing pad for them both. Soloman beamed, through bloody as his teeth were and spurred them forward -​

​

“For now, you can stick with me. I’ll teach you how to shoot, and then you can leave.”, he said as they entered his humble abode - which was more lived in than it should have been, considering up until this point he’d lived entirely alone and in the scheme of a bachelor.​

​

“When you’re ready, that is.”, he offered as the wound on his chest began to finally close. He let go of her shoulder and landing on his synth weave couch - groaning as he grabbed a pillow and tucked it beneath his arm. He almost didn’t notice, but it was a way to comfort him, a nervous tick he had when he was in pain.​

​

Sam Rodarch​

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Shouldn't have been any surprise there, the manner in which he cleared that room was a clear indication that Soloman was a man who knew his way around a killing, or many many killings. Sam, on the other hand, was still processing what had just happened, which was difficult to do when unknown substances were wearing off in your system. Things were starting to hurt, namely where she'd been punched by him. Brain not think good right now. Think 'bout murder and consequence later.

The button was a source of mystery and Rodarch half expected a bottle of moonshine to come out of a hidden compartment. Didn't expect a bloody ship though. Not that it was a bad thing. All that firepower though. Just who exactly was Soloman Priest?

Somebody that was helping her out, didn't need to ask more questions than that. At least at this juncture. Maybe inquire about the gunslinging later. Good idea. Besides, hanging out on his ship was a damn sight better than squatting in what was practically a slum. Even if it was only temporary.

His digs were nice though, seemed pretty comfortable and had what a person needed. Couldn't complain. I mean, did she look like the type of girl that wanted an en suite with a walk-in closet?

“Hey.”

An awkward expression crested upon her face as she took stock of Soloman on the couch, Rodarch had to admire his grit and superhuman endurance. Might have needed a pillow but the guy got shot in the damned chest. It seemed as if she were trying to smile but it came out half-way between apologetic and constipated.

“Just wanted to...y'know...you didn't have to but... well ya did...and shet, saved my life...an' I owe...yeah...”

The sentence seemed to fall apart in her mouth, descending into a low and near-incomprehensible mumble as Rodarch struggled with the genuine sentiment called gratitude. Speaking of owing, she rooted around in her pocket before grabbing the big money (to her, at least) credit chits and placing them on the arm of his couch. Didn't even pocket anything for herself. Sweet summer child.

“Thanks.”