Private Worlport Blues

[Cyril Kamos]

Blue Dancer Bar
Worlport, Ord Mantell​

Three months. That was the rule. Never stay in one spot for longer than three months. Usually, Cyril had stayed less than that, long enough to get the Xenia refueled and to find the next job, typically hauling cargo for some business or another. After the latest run had gone wrong, Cyril found a job working at a hole-in-the-wall bar on Ord Mantell to cover costs.

That was four months ago.

Tonight was quiet, a weekday with only a small handful of patrons. Cyril’s boss, a broad-shouldered Nautolan, had taken over the front for the evening, leaving them to handle cleaning. A simple, monotonous task, but one that kept the young drifter busy. Busy enough to stay focused, but not enough to keep them from noticing the pair of new arrivals. Two Devaronians, each armed.

Keeping their head down as the two ordered drinks, Cyril kept working. Ord Mantell was a dangerous place, after all. No reason to worry about such things. Still, something drew their gaze at the pair as they worked. Though Cyril couldn’t tell why, a nagging feeling in their gut kept gnawing at their attention. These two men were a threat. Keeping half an eye on the Devaronians, Cyril began to work their way to the back, seeking to avoid confrontation. They heard only a few words spoken between the men and their boss as they slipped into the backroom.

"One of your workers is-"

Cyril leaned back against the door, steadying their thoughts. These two were after them, no doubt about it. For what? Half a dozen possibilities ran through Cyril's head. At their locker, they sought out a small blaster pistol, slipping the weapon into their pocket. A trained motion, brought on by years of training and narrow escapes. Today would have to be no different.

"Oy! Kid! get out here, a couple guys want to talk to you!"

Silently cursing their stupidity for staying this long, Cyril turned to face whatever was coming. With any luck, it was just a misunderstanding...

Damien Dooku

 

[Damien Dooku]

THE BLUE DANCER DIVE BAR, ORD MANTELL
THEME​

...THE PAZAAK TABLE ACROSS THE ROOM​

He couldn't help but win at Pazaak, or Dejarik, or whatever else game these idiots decided to throw on the table to win back their credits. Damien had a knack for gambling that set him into a class of his own; The scoundrel couldn't explain his unnecessarily stupendous luck, but it seemed to balance itself with the series of tense situations he found himself in. Much to his dismay, his current streak of unimpeded luck would come to an end, but not before he cleaned the table of every credit he could see.

The appearance of the Devaronians didn't bother him at first, and in fact he was too busy doubling-down upon whatever spare credits his fellow gamblers had left. He wanted it all, and not because he needed it, but simply because the company around him was aware of his repuation from the beginning. The dive they were in was one he'd frequented a few times in the past, but not in recent months as a result of his work keeping him the eastern fringes of the Rim.

"I hate to break it to you boys–" Damien pressed his cards onto the table. The corner of his lips creased upwards into a perfidious grin. "But if you've don't got the creds', I think it's bout time you packed up and left."

The table erupted in protest as he revealed a set of cards that formed the unbeatable hand known as Pure Pazaak. As far as how he managed to pull it off? Well... he wasn't cheating, and as such he simply shrugged at their protests, and stacked his credits onto a neat pile to his front. His fellow scoundrels exited the table, and as he reached out to grab the stack of credits, two of the seats across from him were filled.

...CAUSE ITS NEVER THAT EASY ON THE RIM​

His eyes shot up, cold and impassive orbs of amber staring down two more Devaronians who'd entered after the first pair went off to the back room. The tattoos visible on their body revealed an interesting fact about the men off the bat.

Broken Skull.​

They were a well-known gang on Ord Mantell, but as far as he was aware this wasn't their turf. The shit-eating grins on their faces didn't give him any well-meaning vibes, but he kept the credits on the table nonetheless.

Fast-forward a few minutes and his compatriots were regretting that decision as much as the last. The taller of the two, the one missing half a horn and one of his front canines, slammed an irritated fist down onto the table.

"E chu ta an do padda-mames!" He pointed a long claw of a finger at Damien, to which the scoundrel only sighed and shifted a bit in his seat. He tilted his head at an angle and smirked. "Awww, don't tell me a few missin' creds' have left your wallet dry already."

The provocation might've been unnecessary to an outside observer, but Damien already knew how this was going to go down. The Broken Skulls were no fan of losing face to anyone but their own, and even they could barely stand eachother at the best of times. The Devaronian's buddy shifted his posture ever-so-slightly, which was all the hint he needed to understand what was happening beneath the table.

A sigh left his lips, his free hand dropping his cards and rubbing down his face. The unassuming click of his blaster being primed beneath the table was drowned out by the louder one's continued insults to his honor, his mother, and his courage.

A large, curved vibroknife stabbed half through the table, the Devaronian's knuckles near white from how tight he gripped the handle. "I should cut you down right now, pretty boy." It growled out in rough basic.

The smile on Damien's face remained planted as the snap of a blaster rang out, the sound muffled slightly as the heat of the shot quickly impacted the still-sitting Devaronian across from him, much to the shock of his friend. He fell back, chair and all, revealing a slugthrower in his grip in the process. Damien lifted off the table just in time to grab the other's wrist, pinning it and the knife in place. The barrel of his blaster pointed square at his face, the vapors of burnt tibanna emanating off the heated metal.

No matter his pleas and assurances of squashing their problem, Damien knew that such words were bullshit at best. The Broken Skulls were not known for letting a blood debt go unpaid– atleast until enough of them had been killed.

Bang.​

The second shot ripped straight through the Devaronian's eye, and he too dropped to the floor, but not before Damien pocketed the credits on the table.

The sound of boots running from the back was all he needed to get ready, as the denizens of the bar scurried out in a hurry to avoid the impending chaos.

Cyril Kamos

 

[Cyril Kamos]

Everything happened in moments. A pair of blaster shots rang out from the main area, and Cyril’s blaster was already being raised as they opened the door. Both Devaronians were dead, the second falling to the ground just as Cyril entered. A man sat at the table with the recently deceased, still-smoking blaster in hand. While most patrons began to duck in panic, one stood up behind the man, raising a blaster of his own.

Cyril didn’t hesitate, placing two bolts in the rising alien’s chest. Something caught the drifter’s attention to their side, and they spun, firing a shot at the Nautolan just as he slammed into his former employee. Rolling their boss’s body to the side, Cyril caught glimpse of a knife clutched in the dead man’s hand, and stood. The dead Devaronians’ tattoos matched one they’d seen on their boss once.

Lucky guess

By now, the bar had quieted, the door slamming shut as someone ran off. Cyril looked at the stranger with uncertain eyes. He’d likely saved them, regardless of if they knew it or not. They steadied their hands, and spoke.

“You okay?”


Damien Dooku

 

[Damien Dooku]

The Broken Skulls laid dead on the floor of what had been his preferred spot on Ord Mantell, which was fine, he could always find another bar or cantina to frequent. But the Skulls they'd just killed weren't going to report back to their boss, and the scurrying civilians would spread word fast enough to make things more difficult than they needed.

He sighed, leaning back against the table and wiping a bit of sweat off the side of his temple. "This just got complicated." He whistled out a mouthful of air in his lungs, then swiveled his gaze towards the man who'd shot down the final two thugs.

He heard their question, but didn't respond immediately, instead choosing to holster his own weapon and walk towards the two dead Skulls in front of him. "Friends of yours?" He asked rhetorically, already guessing they had nothing to do with the four Devaronians who laid dead around them. He fiddled around in their pockets, searching for anything of use, and pocketing what credits they'd not anted up onto the table.

Satisfied with his haul, he rose to his feet with crossed arms over his chest, his face as sanguine as it was before the one-sided gunfight came to an end. "The Skulls' are gonna declare a blood debt over this, y'know." It was matter-of-fact and also a warning. Damien could take care of himself easily enough, but this tall, lanky fellow didn't strike him as much of a gunfighting scoundrel if you'd asked him.

"I should be asking if you're going to be okay." He smirked, the gesture just a natural rise of his emotions. "Their turf is less than a mile away from here, last I checked. Once word gets to them, these streets are gonna be impossible to get through without a blaster in your face." He whistled dramatically.

"Unless you can afford the right protection."​

Cyril Kamos