Post by Fromikeable on Nov 24, 2013 23:44:37 GMT -5
There was an old Corellian saying that Horst Stellar had never, ever dared to forget. Rorry had told it to him the very day they'd moved out of the Works on Coruscant and headed for Corellia. He'd asked how long it had been since Rorry had been back to his home planet. He could remember the old mechanic laughing and lightly nudging his chin with a fist before putting his arm around his shoulders; one of those nice fatherly moments that went down in the book of good nostalgia.
"Kiddo," he'd said, "s'been long enough, 'n I don't mind. 'Cause tha' bigger tha' galaxy, tha' sweeter tha' homecomin'."
A couple decades later, Horst was wishing that was a little less true. Corellia was a stone's throw away; it would take him literally minutes to be back in his burgh, checking in on the old neighborhood, sipping a Corellian Special, and maybe taking a nice little trip down memory lane. He'd been there a while ago back when Spearpoint had been running; a run to make a deal on some guns. His childhood home had changed, surely, but it was still the same old place he'd known and loved.
Then he was chased out by CorSec and barely made it out of the Core Rim. Now the closest he could get without paranoia of getting nabbed was Kuat.
With a hefty sigh, the Corellian shifted on his bar stool, sipped his whiskey, and watched the pod races up on the holoscreen. With all said and done, Kuat wasn't a bad place. Sure, it sure seemed to have a stick shoved up it's ass sometimes, but at least up on the shipyards you could run into people who were good folks and better gearheads. That had helped take his mind off things, which had in turn helped him even more adjust to life as usual.
Though he still hated life as usual. Whether it was a weakness or a strength, Horst still missed discipline. He'd hated smuggling; he still did. It was work for the birds as far as he was concerned. His picturesque life didn't involve zipping around the galaxy carrying fixes for junkies and stupid novelties and contraband for rich snobs too good to just accept the law and find something else to piss away their credits on. Hell, he still had dreams about his days in the Rancors. Had it been easy? Safe? Secure? Hell no, but at least it had meant something.
But alas, there he sat. At least he wasn't smuggling any more; with what cash he'd had left, he'd managed to get a pretty authentic fake ID and start shipping freelance and legal, mostly, out of the old freighter from Oatara (after he'd scratched all of the paint off, of course). There was still the occasional case where he had to smuggle a couple tons of illegal booze or some shnazzy piece of illegal technology (the other day had been a couple of droids reprogrammed and retrofitted for... well, suffice it to say the buyer had an odd fetish), but he didn't really consider those smuggling. Just amusing little jobs that helped him stay fed and gave him a chuckle or two.
And ultimately, they gave him enough credits to turn to what he always did when he was trying not to think; drinking! So when he sipped down the last of his glass, Horst slipped out a few more credits from his pocket, slipped them along with the glass forward, and lightly rapped on the counter and got the attention of the Gungan bartender.
"Hit me." There was a nod of floppy ears, and soon he was sipping some harsh fire water again, trying not to think of how it had come from home.
"Kiddo," he'd said, "s'been long enough, 'n I don't mind. 'Cause tha' bigger tha' galaxy, tha' sweeter tha' homecomin'."
A couple decades later, Horst was wishing that was a little less true. Corellia was a stone's throw away; it would take him literally minutes to be back in his burgh, checking in on the old neighborhood, sipping a Corellian Special, and maybe taking a nice little trip down memory lane. He'd been there a while ago back when Spearpoint had been running; a run to make a deal on some guns. His childhood home had changed, surely, but it was still the same old place he'd known and loved.
Then he was chased out by CorSec and barely made it out of the Core Rim. Now the closest he could get without paranoia of getting nabbed was Kuat.
With a hefty sigh, the Corellian shifted on his bar stool, sipped his whiskey, and watched the pod races up on the holoscreen. With all said and done, Kuat wasn't a bad place. Sure, it sure seemed to have a stick shoved up it's ass sometimes, but at least up on the shipyards you could run into people who were good folks and better gearheads. That had helped take his mind off things, which had in turn helped him even more adjust to life as usual.
Though he still hated life as usual. Whether it was a weakness or a strength, Horst still missed discipline. He'd hated smuggling; he still did. It was work for the birds as far as he was concerned. His picturesque life didn't involve zipping around the galaxy carrying fixes for junkies and stupid novelties and contraband for rich snobs too good to just accept the law and find something else to piss away their credits on. Hell, he still had dreams about his days in the Rancors. Had it been easy? Safe? Secure? Hell no, but at least it had meant something.
But alas, there he sat. At least he wasn't smuggling any more; with what cash he'd had left, he'd managed to get a pretty authentic fake ID and start shipping freelance and legal, mostly, out of the old freighter from Oatara (after he'd scratched all of the paint off, of course). There was still the occasional case where he had to smuggle a couple tons of illegal booze or some shnazzy piece of illegal technology (the other day had been a couple of droids reprogrammed and retrofitted for... well, suffice it to say the buyer had an odd fetish), but he didn't really consider those smuggling. Just amusing little jobs that helped him stay fed and gave him a chuckle or two.
And ultimately, they gave him enough credits to turn to what he always did when he was trying not to think; drinking! So when he sipped down the last of his glass, Horst slipped out a few more credits from his pocket, slipped them along with the glass forward, and lightly rapped on the counter and got the attention of the Gungan bartender.
"Hit me." There was a nod of floppy ears, and soon he was sipping some harsh fire water again, trying not to think of how it had come from home.