Neon Paradise (Clarylla)

[Lemur, The Kool-Aid Guy]

It was mid-day on Coruscant. The sun was shining bright overhead, and it was a beautiful climate-controlled day on the capital of the galaxy. If there'd been birds they would have been singing picturesquely.

But you couldn't tell that in the lower city. Perhaps there was a hint of twilight in the air rather than a pure darkness of night, but the glare of neon signs in a hundred shades drowned it out, like a visual noise, an appearance that was deafening. Bold. Bright. The streets were bathed in wild colors, and they were visible still from where Zelada'ven sat, at a booth in a cantina.

It was much like any other such establishment to be fully honest. Dim lighting to hide the outdated upholstery of the booths and the marred finish of the walls, a song playing over speakers, soft enough to allow conversation but loud enough to capture attention and muffle what anyone might overhear. A pair of Twi'leks clad in rubber and leather were swaying and gyrating to the beat of the music on a stage in the corner, commanding lonely gazes from some of the patrons who were obviously lacking female companionship.

Zelada, however, was not. Recently he'd fallen into a relationship with a human woman, a pale beauty with golden hair named Golda. Despite their language barrier they were together now, and he was temporarily living with her as he looked for work.

Unfortunately the legal work was hard to come by. The private contractors wanted fluency in Basic to hire someone on. His Huttese just wasn't good enough in the estimation of those recruiters. That meant he'd had to delve into the underworld again, looking for less than legal jobs. And what better place than a seedy cantina?

The burly Rutian Twi'lek stared down at the beer he was drinking, his second of the night. He could easily keep it going the whole evening long, however it took to be noticed. Strap on a blaster pistol and wear your body armor and you command the right attention. Everybody needed a merc now and then. He'd tried to avoid simple things like grudges and feuds, but at this point he wasn't picky. Work was work, no matter how distasteful.

He leaned back against the padded booth and stretched as he yawned. Waiting could be a long evening.

[Clarylla]

There were many categories into which the inhabitants of Coruscant's underworld could be sorted: male or female, young or old, lawful or lawless, Mimbanite or Twi'lek or Farghul or human or Zeltron, intoxicated or sober.

Right now, the only category that mattered to Sforza (middle-aged, more-or-less lawful, Omwati), was her own intoxication status. Whatever that last shuttle she'd taken, it hadn't had in-flight drinks, and her hip flask gave off depressingly empty clanks whenever it banged against something, which was often. Omwati grace could only counteract so much of the awkwardness of her instrument-laden bag and the uneven walkways and the dizziness that came whenever she took a fast lift more than a floor or two...She was lucky to remain upright at all, never mind having any sort of steadiness to her lurching.

Somehow, she'd ended up back on Coruscant, after swearing never to return; as long as she stayed in the underworld, though, she ought to be safe. The Ndos were much too proper a family, aware of their social position, to venture past where sunlight couldn't penetrate. Besides, they probably wouldn't even recognize her now. Not with her silvery-white hair kept dandelion-short and deep indigo eyes hidden behind dark round glasses and the smell of alcohol on her breath. The only thing that could possibly give her away was her awful hands, but the prosthetic appendages were jammed deep into the pockets of her drab orange dress.

She squinted against the bewildering glare of multicolored neon signs that served for ambient lights at this level, cursing in a steady mutter under her breath. It seemed like every establishment had some sort of brightly colored decoration glowing to assault the vision of anyone who happened by. Most simply proclaimed the name of the cantina or restaurant or flophouse, but others - Sforza had seen many things and learned many bawdy songs in her travels, but that didn't mean she liked having them shoved into her face.

Carefully keeping her eyes down - as much to protect her hangover-raw optical nerves as her sensibilities - the little Omwati stumbled her way into the first cantina that didn't have a mostly-naked female on the sign out front. The transition from garish neon light to dim ambient lamps left her half-blind as she fumbled her way into an empty seat.

Sforza eased her bag to the floor beside her feet and tilted her head, assessing the music. "Crappy shound shyshtem," she grumbled, "bu' ish norra half-bad shong." One metallic fingertip tapped time on the scratched duraplast tabletop. "Nishe 'monies, bu' drea'ful nar'gl'on player..." Her voice trailed off as she noticed someone else -- a very large someone else -- sitting at the other side of the table. Uneasy, she reached down to grab her bag and began to edge her way off the bench. "Shorry, mishter, di'n't shee y' there. I'll, ah, jusht be movin' on..."

[Lemur, The Kool-Aid Guy]

Zelada's quiet and uneventful evening at the cantina was promptly derailed by the arrival of a woman from a species he didn't recognize, one who walked, or more accurately staggered, directly over to his table and flopped into the seat across from him, drunkenly mumbling commentary about something.

The burly Rutian Twi'lek was hardly the most skilled speaker and listener of Basic at the best of times, which meant he really wasn't sure what the woman was saying drunk. It was sort of an incomprehensible babble to him, so he instead focused on what he could glean from her appearance, something that seemed to be more productive from where he was sitting.

Very blue skin. Silvery-grey hair that was... Feathers. Feathers rather than hair. She had a distinctly avian appearance in fact, and next to Zel she seemed incredibly tiny and fragile, like a child's doll rather than a person, come to life and walking and talking, dressed in clothes far too big for her, a drab orange dress that contrasted greatly with her skin. And quite noticeable were prosthetic hands, metallic in hue. That was an interesting touch.

On the whole she stood out a great deal in the cantina while simultaneously blending in, walking a curious line between being a noticeable element and another voice in the chorus of the Underworld.

She belatedly noticed the Mercenary sitting there, and as he waved hello, she started to slide out and excuse herself. Luckily she wasn't moving very fast, which gave him time to fumble over the right words in Basic that he wanted to say.

"Joo don' aff too go if joo don' wantoo."

Zel keyed the service button on the tabletop, calling over a serving droid so he could get a refill on his drink. It was about time for something more, with his glass of whiskey finished. And he had the desire for beer now too.

"Joo wanna nuther drink? Iz onme."

[Clarylla]

"Joo don' aff too go if joo don' wantoo."

The deep, fumbling Basic interrupted Sforza's wrestling with her uncooperative bag. She tilted her head, curiously and laboriously decoding bass syllables...something about going? What?

"Joo wanna nuther drink? Iz onme."

Her ears perked up at the word "drink," but she peered suspiciously across the table and around the cantina before answering. Large....wossname, the ones with the worms off the backs of their heads. Lekku. Twi'leks, that what they were. A Twi'lek with tattoos, body armor, scruffy clothes. Obviously not the safest of people.

She shifted on the cracked fabplast seat, on the brink of leaving, but one hand brushed the empty, empty hip flask with a metallic ping. Bugger. She definitely couldn't get far or get work without at least one drink under her ratty leather belt and - Sforza felt at the credit pouch tucked into the front of her dress - she was broke. Again. Unless the Omwati felt like begging (or worse, showing up on her parents' doorstep), the only way to get more alcohol appeared to be this Twi'lek. Besides, the cantina and street outside were quite busy enough to draw a crowd if she had to scream.

With a sigh, the small female gave up on untangling her dress, bag, and feet and settled back into the bench. "One...shomething. Not too shtrong. Got to keep my witsh about me thish deep. Cheap whishkey will do fine." One hand beat a nervous counterpoint tempo to the music before she noticed the motion and swiftly snatched both metallic appendages back beneath the cover of the table.

[Lemur, The Kool-Aid Guy]

One something. Not strong.

Cheap whiskey? That didn't strike Zelada as not strong at all. He'd been anticipating beer or wine from that description, but ultimately it didn't matter. Charity for the town drunk didn't hurt anyone, and it gave him company while he waited for anyone to show interest in a merc.

Hell, he was starting to think he'd have to go offworld to get any work. That, to his thinking, was very unfortunate.

He stifled that doubt and waved down the serving droid, ordering a whiskey and another beer. Then he looked back to the woman, still unable to place her species.

What intrigued him more was those metal hands he'd got a good look at.

"So, I nevah seena wom'n liken joo befor, wassa your spesees?"

He'd build up to the hands later, and start with something more basic, measures geared to build confidence.

[Clarylla]

Sforza nodded happily as the Twi'lek placed the drinks order, bouncing slightly in a 5/8 rhythm on the surprisingly well-sprung seat. Not too much music had a 5/8 time signature, sadly; it was an entertaining challenge, even for one of her own considerable musical skill. Particularly with a competent drummer. There was a Nautolan piece in particular that --

"So, I nevah seena wom'n liken joo befor, wassa your spesees?"

Again, the mangled Basic interrupted her thoughts; again, the Omwati took it as a challenge to unravel the tempo and phrasing. Her species? He wanted to know her species? Surely Omwati were not that rare...Sforza shrugged. "Firsht off, jusht caushe you don' notice we scrawny, middle-aged spinshters don' mean we don' exisht." The mocking statement was delivered in that 5/8 time, twaddling accidentals shifting from F-major to D-minor and back again. "Shecondly, 'm an Omwati. Ohm-wat-ee." She spelled out the syllables, momentarily shifting to a slower andante tempo before returning to the allegro speed. "Like the unit of electrical resishtance, the unit of electrical power, and the imaginary constant."

Entirely-too-intellectual explanation over, Sforza went to lean her elbows on the table, but it was too high. Scowling, she settled for folding her arms on the scratched and pitted surface - which conveniently hid her dreadful mechanical hands from scrutiny - and resting her chin on them. She squinted impatiently across the room.

When would that gorram droid be back with her drink?

[Lemur, The Kool-Aid Guy]

Zelada couldn't help but chuckle at the spinsters comment. Yes, he was accustomed to younger women, like Golda. In the grand scheme of things he was probably quite lucky, lucky to have a nice girl, lucky to have a good family, and lucky to be alive still. Maybe this Omwati wasn't quite so lucky, if she considered herself a spinster. Well, assuming that word meant what he thought.

He also wasn't quite sure what an ohm was. From the way she was talking, it was a technical term, which meant it was hardly a surprise he didn't know it. The Rutian Twi'lek mercenary was not the most educated of men, lacking a formal education in fact. All his knowledge had been acquired practically, free of any class setting. In some subjects he knew vastly more than the typical person, but in this area at least he fell sadly short.

He simply stared.

She tucked away the mechanical hands he'd noticed, hiding them from sight under her arms. Perhaps she was ashamed of them? He wasn't skilled enough to read that on her face, but he wouldn't bet against it. No one liked cybernetic replacements in the place of their own flesh and blood. Even with modern medical technology it wasn't as good.

It was also expensive, and healthcare wasn't a charity in much of the galaxy. Perhaps she'd once been of higher means? Zelada wasn't much for playing detective though, and he found it more prudent to ask.

"Jor 'ans, wass appen to dem?"

[Clarylla]

"Jor 'ans, wass appen to dem?"

Sforza squinted a moment, then scowled. She pushed her hands further out of sight, and replied shortly (dead steady 4/2, flat A-minor tones), "Comp'tshion didn' like gettin' beat." Absently, she pushed at her bag with one foot, shook stray hair from her eyes. "Mushic's hella way to make a livin'. Egosh 'n shuch. 'Lessh you c'n get a wealthy patron or crack th' interplanetary conchert shircuit, it'sh th' cantinash 'n shtreet cornersh for you."

Rattling announced the return of the serving droid. It set the glasses down on the table and remained, mechanical arm extended, waiting for payment. The Omwati ignored the droid and instead reached out one hand to snag her whiskey, fingers clinking gently against the glass. "To neon moonsh," she said wryly, and tipped back the glass.


ooc// Eep, long time no post. Sorry!

[Lemur, The Kool-Aid Guy]

[OOC: That’s OK, I haven’t been able to write Zelada anymore. So after we’re done, he’ll get deactivated. In the meantime you get ‘Lemur sucks at posting’ posts.]

Zelada dropped a credit chit into the droid’s metallic palm and nodded as he tried to understand the words being spoken.

Between the slurring and the Basic, it was a wonder he got anything out of it at all. Unless concerts, cantinas and streets. Luckily those were words he understood, and understood reasonably well.

What neon moons were though, he had no idea. So he just nodded again, feeling like a bobblehead more than anything else.

“Joo shore like jor whiskey,” Zel commented as he saw the liquid in the glass becoming reduced. But, as was often the case, he was at a loss for words. He didn’t know where this conversation was going to go, or how much longer it would continue.

He did doubt, however, that he would find a job anytime soon.