Post by hugo on Nov 28, 2019 23:07:29 GMT -5
Metellos was like a shitty, smoggy Coruscant. Most of it was anyway. The little slice of Stratablock 9 that Bas had called home for the past couple weeks was quite the exception. It wasn't as illustrious as block 7 or some of the floating cities, but it was much nicer than the sprawling, low slums that encrusted most of the planet's surface, doubly so at the Kilo. The Kilometer Klub, coloquially the Kilo, was made of the highest levels of block 9, adn was reserved for the fabulously wealthy and the deeply mortgaged. It was the perfect place for Bas' brand of entrepreneurship.
A couple months ago, he and Grok bounced from Raltiir, eager to escape the retribution of Crystal City's Rodian spice cartel. Everything went to shit in a second, and if Bas knew anything, it was when to bounce. Metellos wasn't exactly anyone's getaway destination, but it was busy and crowded. It would be easier to blend in. Besides, the upper strata of block 9 was fertile ground for flipping packs.
Customs had been a joke on Metellos. The plasma case compartments Laren had recommended passed through the scanners like a breeze. Blue spice didn't weigh a ton. It was high-dollar, high-risk merchandise. Naturally, it was a Coreward status symbol. Celebrities and private school blue bloods alike were easy prey for a wily blue spice runner. The problem with it was, when people knew you had it, you were a target. That's why Bas had to keep it low-key once he got to Metellos.
Along with a half brick of clear blue spice, Bas and Grok had made off with a small fortune of credit chips. Bas had a few thousand before the Rodian affair, and along with the late Laren's stash and what he looted from the Rodians before they fled, was sitting on a whole lot of credit chips.
The problem was, you couldn't just run into any Core World bank and deposit a quarter million hard credits. That would raise eyebrows, and in his line of work, one did not raise eyebrows and live to tell about it. Fortunately, Metellos' high end real estate market had suffered a recent collapse, part of a galaxy-wide trend to more modest housing, and Bas stumbled upon a Level 88 penthouse for about half a million credits. Desperate for business and helped along by a generous closing fee and 50% down payment, the Bith realtor didn't bat a bulbous eye at the pile of credits from the odd pair: a scruffy human with a bad attitude and a dark demeanor and a jovial Besalisk with four too many slug-throwers at his hip.
So at 22, Bas was the proud owner of unit 42-Ob L-88 S9, a swanky, modern three bedroom with a sunken lounge living room and sonic-surround throughout. It was pretty nice, and had a big closet for his growing collection of Yves St. Coruscant hoodies and JulieKatarn shoes. It was true Bas was something of a wastrel, and designer was one of the amenities of his past bourgeois life that he couldn't do without. More importantly, it was the perfect opportunity to clean up those chips he snagged on Raltiir. After furnishings and groceries, he was well on his way to laundering all of it. That meant he was more or less cash poor, and had to get to work.
It was always harder at first. Blue spice was very, very illegal on most worlds, so most prudent people wouldn't just buy some off some strange long-haired boy with expensive clothes and a smoking problem. So, Bas had to integrate himself with the high-class clubbing scene. In his experience, kids like him, with the most resources at their disposal, had the least scruples. He didn't figure the wild children of Metellos were much different from those of Raltiir and Chandrila.
He was right. An argentium chain, JulieKatarn hoodie, and aloof attitude were enough to attract the attention of a Zeltron socialite, Solaine, who quickly became a regular customer. Bas went out with her and her coterie as much as he could, expanding the business to her circle of friends and starting to do quite well for himself. He was a merchant, and his storefront was the glitzy nightlife of stratablock 9. Blue spice was easy to flip, paid well, and as long as he was careful, carried little risk. Metellos was crooked anyway, bribes went a long way as insurance against the more scrupulous customs officials and peace officers.
~~
"Hey can you get up?" Gork gently nudged the nude Twi'lek. She groaned, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sunlight that peeked through the closed blinds of Bas' master suite.
"No, really, y'all need to leave." He shook her more firmly and tossed a pillow at the similarly nude Mirialan man on the other side of the bed. Between the hungover aliens was Bas, his aching head covered by a silk pillow. He stayed there as his companions dressed and exited, the Twi'lek with a humph when he failed to notice her leaving. He could hear Gork apologizing and offering them water as he politely ejected them from the apartment.
Everything hurt. It always did on mornings like this. His work kept him in the clubs well past sunrise, and inevitably to raucous after-parties like the one that ended up at his penthouse the morning before. That was where he made his living. Before long, the revelers were not satisfied with his gratuitous bumps, and opened their ample wallets to him for more. It was fun. Not as fun as if he didn't have to worry about margins, but there were worse ways to make a living. And it was mostly without risk. The authorities weren't worried about the vices of the upper stratum youth, and Bas fit right into that image. As long as he kept a low profile, Bas could be sure he would be free from the heat.
But now it was time to get up. A quick jump in the refresher and a thin blue line would put him right in shape before his "morning" -- it was well past 2pm local time-- workout. Grok was a tough bastard, and made a great sparring partner. His four burly arms were quite a challenge for Bas, even as he increasingly learned to harness the force to quicken and strengthen his quarterstaff strikes.
The Besalisk had left his room, and he could smell breakfast being whipped up. It was time for another busy day as a designer drug lord.
~~
Todo's was one of those fancy bars with hefty covers that kept out most of the plebian rabble. Inside were mainly the progeny of block 9's Kilo Klub, young, stupid, and rich hedonists with nothing to do but burn synapses and spend daddy's money. It wasn't a blanket term, many of the Metellos's upper crust made it to these kind of places, but that was the target market, and here they were.
He met up with Solaine and her crew hours ago at another bar. They migrated here around midnight, and he'd separated from the group after a cripplingly expensive round of bottle service. Business had been alright, Solaine's people were always ready to burn up their nostrils and didn't care how much it cost, but the group had mostly moved on and Bas hung back, hoping to scare up a few sales as the club wound down.
Taking a break from the pounding techno of the upper level bar, Bas took to the wide terrace outside. As he passed through the sliding glass doors, Metellos' light breeze touched his face and tussled his neck-length ebony hair. Making his way to the durasteel railing, he leaned against the glass barrier and looked down onto the sprawling stratablock. They were near the top, the clouds mere meters above their heads, and the illuminated lower levels sprawled in every direction. You actually couldn't see the surface, or the lower levels, through the haze of the urban sky. Spires reach above him, seeming to jut out of the slum-like lower levels and reach towards the stars.
Checking that he was unobserved, Bas gracefully whipped a sprinkling of blue crystal onto his long ring fingernail and had breathed it up his left nostril before anyone could bat an eye. Suddenly, the night air seemed crisper than ever, the neon vanities of the various clubs and restaurants ever brighter. He felt focused, manic even.
Turning around to lean against the railing and face toward the bar, he lit a cigarrra but smoked it down quicker than he'd realized. Not quite ready to go back in, he lit another. He patted his jacket pocket, making sure the small packet was still there. It was his favorite coat; not only was it stylish and clean, but it had two long pockets sewn into the inseam, perfect for stashing packages discreetly. It probably woudln't make it past a half decent customs officer, but it was plenty discreet enough to pass the critique of Metellos bouncers.
Bas pulled for a long time on the cigarra, one of his signature long-filter Fulpa-Neera Lights, and looked around the terrace, which by now was emptying. From time to time on these sort of adventures, Bas ran into some colorful characters, and he wondered silently, with a somewhat vacant look, what Metellos' brisk ealy morning would present to him.
A couple months ago, he and Grok bounced from Raltiir, eager to escape the retribution of Crystal City's Rodian spice cartel. Everything went to shit in a second, and if Bas knew anything, it was when to bounce. Metellos wasn't exactly anyone's getaway destination, but it was busy and crowded. It would be easier to blend in. Besides, the upper strata of block 9 was fertile ground for flipping packs.
Customs had been a joke on Metellos. The plasma case compartments Laren had recommended passed through the scanners like a breeze. Blue spice didn't weigh a ton. It was high-dollar, high-risk merchandise. Naturally, it was a Coreward status symbol. Celebrities and private school blue bloods alike were easy prey for a wily blue spice runner. The problem with it was, when people knew you had it, you were a target. That's why Bas had to keep it low-key once he got to Metellos.
Along with a half brick of clear blue spice, Bas and Grok had made off with a small fortune of credit chips. Bas had a few thousand before the Rodian affair, and along with the late Laren's stash and what he looted from the Rodians before they fled, was sitting on a whole lot of credit chips.
The problem was, you couldn't just run into any Core World bank and deposit a quarter million hard credits. That would raise eyebrows, and in his line of work, one did not raise eyebrows and live to tell about it. Fortunately, Metellos' high end real estate market had suffered a recent collapse, part of a galaxy-wide trend to more modest housing, and Bas stumbled upon a Level 88 penthouse for about half a million credits. Desperate for business and helped along by a generous closing fee and 50% down payment, the Bith realtor didn't bat a bulbous eye at the pile of credits from the odd pair: a scruffy human with a bad attitude and a dark demeanor and a jovial Besalisk with four too many slug-throwers at his hip.
So at 22, Bas was the proud owner of unit 42-Ob L-88 S9, a swanky, modern three bedroom with a sunken lounge living room and sonic-surround throughout. It was pretty nice, and had a big closet for his growing collection of Yves St. Coruscant hoodies and JulieKatarn shoes. It was true Bas was something of a wastrel, and designer was one of the amenities of his past bourgeois life that he couldn't do without. More importantly, it was the perfect opportunity to clean up those chips he snagged on Raltiir. After furnishings and groceries, he was well on his way to laundering all of it. That meant he was more or less cash poor, and had to get to work.
It was always harder at first. Blue spice was very, very illegal on most worlds, so most prudent people wouldn't just buy some off some strange long-haired boy with expensive clothes and a smoking problem. So, Bas had to integrate himself with the high-class clubbing scene. In his experience, kids like him, with the most resources at their disposal, had the least scruples. He didn't figure the wild children of Metellos were much different from those of Raltiir and Chandrila.
He was right. An argentium chain, JulieKatarn hoodie, and aloof attitude were enough to attract the attention of a Zeltron socialite, Solaine, who quickly became a regular customer. Bas went out with her and her coterie as much as he could, expanding the business to her circle of friends and starting to do quite well for himself. He was a merchant, and his storefront was the glitzy nightlife of stratablock 9. Blue spice was easy to flip, paid well, and as long as he was careful, carried little risk. Metellos was crooked anyway, bribes went a long way as insurance against the more scrupulous customs officials and peace officers.
~~
"Hey can you get up?" Gork gently nudged the nude Twi'lek. She groaned, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sunlight that peeked through the closed blinds of Bas' master suite.
"No, really, y'all need to leave." He shook her more firmly and tossed a pillow at the similarly nude Mirialan man on the other side of the bed. Between the hungover aliens was Bas, his aching head covered by a silk pillow. He stayed there as his companions dressed and exited, the Twi'lek with a humph when he failed to notice her leaving. He could hear Gork apologizing and offering them water as he politely ejected them from the apartment.
Everything hurt. It always did on mornings like this. His work kept him in the clubs well past sunrise, and inevitably to raucous after-parties like the one that ended up at his penthouse the morning before. That was where he made his living. Before long, the revelers were not satisfied with his gratuitous bumps, and opened their ample wallets to him for more. It was fun. Not as fun as if he didn't have to worry about margins, but there were worse ways to make a living. And it was mostly without risk. The authorities weren't worried about the vices of the upper stratum youth, and Bas fit right into that image. As long as he kept a low profile, Bas could be sure he would be free from the heat.
But now it was time to get up. A quick jump in the refresher and a thin blue line would put him right in shape before his "morning" -- it was well past 2pm local time-- workout. Grok was a tough bastard, and made a great sparring partner. His four burly arms were quite a challenge for Bas, even as he increasingly learned to harness the force to quicken and strengthen his quarterstaff strikes.
The Besalisk had left his room, and he could smell breakfast being whipped up. It was time for another busy day as a designer drug lord.
~~
Todo's was one of those fancy bars with hefty covers that kept out most of the plebian rabble. Inside were mainly the progeny of block 9's Kilo Klub, young, stupid, and rich hedonists with nothing to do but burn synapses and spend daddy's money. It wasn't a blanket term, many of the Metellos's upper crust made it to these kind of places, but that was the target market, and here they were.
He met up with Solaine and her crew hours ago at another bar. They migrated here around midnight, and he'd separated from the group after a cripplingly expensive round of bottle service. Business had been alright, Solaine's people were always ready to burn up their nostrils and didn't care how much it cost, but the group had mostly moved on and Bas hung back, hoping to scare up a few sales as the club wound down.
Taking a break from the pounding techno of the upper level bar, Bas took to the wide terrace outside. As he passed through the sliding glass doors, Metellos' light breeze touched his face and tussled his neck-length ebony hair. Making his way to the durasteel railing, he leaned against the glass barrier and looked down onto the sprawling stratablock. They were near the top, the clouds mere meters above their heads, and the illuminated lower levels sprawled in every direction. You actually couldn't see the surface, or the lower levels, through the haze of the urban sky. Spires reach above him, seeming to jut out of the slum-like lower levels and reach towards the stars.
Checking that he was unobserved, Bas gracefully whipped a sprinkling of blue crystal onto his long ring fingernail and had breathed it up his left nostril before anyone could bat an eye. Suddenly, the night air seemed crisper than ever, the neon vanities of the various clubs and restaurants ever brighter. He felt focused, manic even.
Turning around to lean against the railing and face toward the bar, he lit a cigarrra but smoked it down quicker than he'd realized. Not quite ready to go back in, he lit another. He patted his jacket pocket, making sure the small packet was still there. It was his favorite coat; not only was it stylish and clean, but it had two long pockets sewn into the inseam, perfect for stashing packages discreetly. It probably woudln't make it past a half decent customs officer, but it was plenty discreet enough to pass the critique of Metellos bouncers.
Bas pulled for a long time on the cigarra, one of his signature long-filter Fulpa-Neera Lights, and looked around the terrace, which by now was emptying. From time to time on these sort of adventures, Bas ran into some colorful characters, and he wondered silently, with a somewhat vacant look, what Metellos' brisk ealy morning would present to him.