Her Legacy
NTA
Outer Rim
Outer Rim
A broken holo-projector in the corner keeps trying to play some decades-old advert; it flickered to life in blue static, then collapsed into silence again.
The cantina's sign buzzed weakly in the dark, half the letters were burned out, leaving only NTA to shine in spurts against the Outer Rim night -- no one knew the full name, but you knew they had cheap drinks. Inside, the air had a stale tang of recycled smoke and maybe even old engine grease. There was a crooked row of booths that hugged one wall, most patched together with mismatched plasteel, the cushions split and showing stuffing.
There was just one single droid that tended the bar, and its vocabulator was blown, so it spoke in static and eccentric gestures, sliding cloudy glasses down a counter that had seen... better decades. Two locals nursed drinks near the door, but here folks were too buried in their own problems to notice much of anything.
The rest of the place was quiet. Quiet in the way only forgotten starports could be; transient, and then empty. The kind of place where veterans of a dozen wars might trade words without being overheard.
The door hissed, flooding the dim space with harsh portside light for a moment before it sealed again.
In the farthest booth, Romi sat with her back to the wall, a half-drained glass untouched in front of her. She leaned back in the booth, cloak creaking against the synthleather. The muted yellow light from above hit her just at her profile. She didn't fidget, didn't glance around, just waited...for friends.
