Offer One Hand, Arm the Other [Rugs]

[Julian]

Jorra absently stirred another dose of sweetener into her caf, eyes continuing their endless scan of the tiny eatery. Outside of the floor-to-ceiling window that dominated one wall, the hustle and bustle of travelers going about their business in the spaceport went on in silence. The sound crept in, of course, whenever the pneumatic hiss of the door gave way to someone coming or going. Inside, though, there was nothing but the pleasant ambiance of music and conversation.

Conversation which, Jorra observed, included no less than three corporate bounties, and one dead-or-alive Republic contract. But that wasn't her business. Even if it was, there was no chance of bagging all four without her armor. No, that dark orange spacer’s jacket wasn't going to stop a piece of cutlery, let alone a high-powered round out of the sawed-off carbine that the criminal thought he had done so fine a job of concealing under the table. 

The Mandalorian took a small sip of her too-sweet, piping hot beverage, and wrinkled her nose at the flavor. She shook her left leg lightly, and felt the light blaster pistol jiggle in its concealed holster. Bending slightly to fasten it back in, Jorra threw a look at the Rodian server, who seemed adequately nervous looking at the much larger pistol holstered on her right hip. She sat back up, leaned her chair backwards until the wall behind her took its weight, and planted her boot on the lip of the table.

To most everyone, it probably just made her look cocky. Jorra, however, was far more concerned with the fact that this was the only position that gave her an easy draw on both guns. A lock of hair slipped loose of her tight ponytail, so she took the whole thing out and started to redo it.

Waiting like this was awful. She knew it was her own fault for being so early, but there was no helping the need to case the joint before the sit-down. Now she was doing anything to pass the time, save shelling out eleven credits for a palm-sized bun covered in seeds. Jorra wasn't even sure what currency was good on an orbital station over an independent world like Prazhi, although the machine had grudgingly accepted her credit chit for the caf after a frustratingly long series of “Accept/Decline” screens.

Palming an earpiece, Jorra keyed her commlink back to the freighter that the D’Resh had appropriated for this errand. “How’s it goin’, kids?” She murmured, gaze jerking around rapidly to see if her speech got anyone’s attention.

“One gun on each end of the external corridor, and the engines are hot and ready. You’re covered, ma’am.” The Trandoshan on the other end replied.

“Good enough for me. Oh, Brek, what about the uh…?” Jorra glared at the room itself, daring it to eavesdrop.

“Sorry, chief. We couldn't get enough detpacks in to make a difference without tripping their sensors. We’re probably lucky that they haven’t tagged this ship as stolen yet.”

Jorra sighed heavily, but grunted an acknowledgement. “Well, we tried. Going back to dark; keep an eye out.” She slipped the comm back into her pocket and poured a little more sweetener into her cup. Rapping the little stick dry on the edge of the table, and taking her drink in hand, Jorra resumed her wary stirring.

[Rugs]

[ramble ramble, happens with openings sometimes >>]

“Prazhi, my old friend, it’s been too long.”

Asyr strolled down the Bohemian’s ramp, hands comfortably in his crimson coat’s pockets, with a Alderaanian Black cigarra held firmly between his lips weaving a whispering trail of smoke behind. Flitch rode on his shoulder, as he often did. As always, the droid’s metallic dragon body contrasted sharply with the holographic eagle wings folded over his back, but Asyr supposed he could get used to just about anything if he saw it long enough.

“Feels like it’s been half an age,” he went on, continuing to talk to no one in particular. A Devaronian dockhand stopped from his work of running a fuel line out to the ship and blinked, wondering at the Echani’s words, but Asyr kept on with an easy grin and friendly wave.

“Asyr, by my records, it has been 156 standard days since the Bohemian last stopped at Prazhi,” Flitch said. He paused for a moment, and Asyr swore he could hear the droid’s no-fun-allowed processor whirring away in his little body. “Not an insignificant amount of time, but hardly ‘half-an-age.’”

Asyr gave a long exhale, cigarra smoke whisping from his nostrils. “Thank you, Flitch.” Sometimes it wasn’t worth the effort to correct the droid or revisit the talks they’d had about idioms for what felt like the thousandth time. Flitch was a good companion; his unique ability was incredibly useful at times, even if his damned morality — who ever heard of a droid with that — wouldn’t let him use it on raids. His straight-laced personality was even pretty funny, stuck with a crew of pirates and thieves as he was.

But sometimes, Asyr wished the droid would lighten up just a little bit.

But it wouldn’t dampen his mood. He just chuckled, silver-blue eyes shining as he took a long, final drag on his Aldraanian Black and stamped it out underfoot before a spaceport guard could get the words out of his mouth.

Asyr knew he’d been waiting for the moment too — his stance, with shoulders set and weight leaning subconsciously forward onto his left foot, might as well have been screaming it.

The doors parted with a pneumatic hiss and Asyr rolled along into the familiar halls of this particular spaceport. It was a smaller one than others littered around the trade world, nestled in a quiet region in a low mountain range’s rolling foothills. The Bohemian stopped here more often than not, when visiting Prazhi, and Asyr didn’t mind that one bit.

In fact, he’d met a favorite playmate whose sheets might need warming, if he could find her later.

Now there’s a thought, he mulled with a subtle smile. Would have to ditch ol’ Flitch though. It’d be like bringing grandma along.

“Ah, but business first,” the Echani muttered to himself. “Always that.” It was the entire reason he was off the ship so soon after landing, after all — the chance for further profit with a new potential client, one Jorra D’Resh.

He wasn’t familiar with the woman, but her message seemed legitimate. He’d have Flitch do some homework on her later.

Asry turned a corner and headed for a small café. His gait was easy, relaxed — not the sort of a man who carried two pistols at his hips and several knives hidden away on his person, but then again, he didn’t want to go weirding anyone out.

He reached the little restaurant and pushed the glass door aside and gave passing glance — and low whistle — at the menu and the prices that drove him to whole heartedly ignore it.

“Highway robbery, all of it,” he said, approaching the table where his contact was waiting. It was heard not to miss her leaning in her seat as if she expected a gunfight to break out at any moment. Though you never know in places like this.

Everything about the way she held herself told his trained eye she was a warrior—he didn’t even need his heritage to know that much. Dangerous perhaps, but he’d extend the same courtesy he extended to everyone else.

“Asyr Yevor,” he said, offering a nod as he pulled a chair out to sit. He repositioned it slightly so that his back would be to a wall, but so that he wasn’t right smack next to her. “Pleasure to meet you.” He turned to look at her as he offered a hand in good faith. Her hair was curious — as were her eyes. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like that before.

Questions for later, perhaps.

“I understand that we have a few items to discuss.”