Last Call

[Rugs]

“I think I’ll have another one,” Io’an said to the serving droid as it ambled by. “I’ve got some time to burn.” A sliver of fluorescent red drink remained in the short glass with flaring sides on the table in front of him. Io’an threw it back and set down the empty cup. A lava crush, the drink was called; a local homage to Sleheyron’s volcanic geology. Io’an pushed his lips together, blowing burn settled down his throat and into his gut. Some sort of spice went into the drink. He didn’t know what, but it was a real kick in the pants.

He was a fan.

Io’an sat at a small, round table in the back corner of Last Call cantina. The table was old and scarred from Force only knew how many years of use, and would’ve tilted slightly to the side if not for the napkin stuffed under one of its feet. The cramped cantina was much the same itself — old and worn, but warmer for it. Out on the edge of one of Sleheyron’s urban zones, that was all that was needed. The locals seemed to think it a small miracle their favorite watering hole made it through the Archeri occupation unscathed.

It is, Io’an told himself as the serving droid returned with a fresh lava crush and relieved him of the empty glass. Io’an nodded at the droid as it passed, the violet rings that circled his irises glinting dimly in the dull light.

He doubted anywhere except maybe Nal Hutta bore the Archeri’s wrath as acutely as Nar Shaddaa, but the signs of their coming were all around on Sleheyron. It’d take years for the world to rebuild, same as anywhere else in Hutt Space. If he listened for it, he could still feel the echoes the shock of so much death had left behind on the world in the Force.

Not here for that, Io’an, he reminded himself as he eyed his new drink.

He was here — as Draco — to see if a candidate who’d caught the Exchange’s eye during the siege passed muster for joining the enterprising criminal organization. Viggo Loroto, or Vig, as Io’an understood he preferred to be called, had done some good work during the siege of Nar Shaddaa.

Still, working as a contractor was a different animal than joining the Exchange fully--as he himself knew well--and so Vig would be put to the test.

Some weeks ago, Vig received a message from Draco. It was, of course, encrypted, in a cipher that altered itself just so every three hours. It was a hard nut to crack — made intentionally frustrating — but there were subtle hints and patterns within that any slicer worth their salt should be able to figure out with time.

Should Vig crack the code, he'd find a set of coordinates that led to Sleheyron and a second that led to the Last Call cantina, along with a message signed at the bottom with a vector art dragon head.

Big Man,

Word gets around about you, even with the mushrooms from hell setting everything on fire. If you can read this before the date listed above, it means you might be worth half a damn. Come to the included coordinates on the designated day and we’ll chat about some opportunities.

You’ve got til sundown.

Io’an glanced at the dusty window at the cantina’s far side. The day’s light was fading, the shadows across the old wooden floorboards growing longer. Time’s running out, he thought, straightening a jacket sleeve. He raised his glass with a grin and downed the whole crush in one go. The burn was invigorating.

Will you show?

[Dayl]

The message addressed to Vig had sat in his inbox for most of the time he’d had it, unopened like so many others sat. Those damned mushrooms had fucked everything up. Absolutely swiving everything, blown to hell and in many cases, quite literally so. Including Vig's stomping grounds. Laundered liquid assets he had, especially with the…inheritance from the old man. Or the rebate, he thought with acrid bitterness. But he'd spent a lot of time cultivating his presence right before the plague and the invasion. A lot of his cash flow had dried up. Or rather, had been destroyed.

Vig fumed as the rented speeder zipped through the streets, closing in in the coordinates from the encrypted message. Vig had noted the periodicity of the encryption's changes and had simply waited for three three hour cycles, comparing each against the other until the pattern revealed itself. The contents were of immediate interest, but he'd had to hop the first public transit available to make Sleheyron by the appointed hour. It had taken him less than a day to crack the contents of the message and he would barely be able to make it to the planet before the appointed time had passed.

But make it he had and now the speeder weaved through traffic at his behest, dodging proper speeders and speeder bikes. The cantina was called the Last Call, and for him, it was accurate and ironic. On the transport, he'd come to one of two conclusions for organizations that would be reaching out to him. One was a brace of Coruscanti criminals that were trying to muscle in now that the Archeri had been defeated and Hutt Space had been devastated. Vig had had some run-ins with the Black Sun in the years leading up to the invasion and those posh dumbasses knew nothing about Nar Shaddaa. They didn't know it like he did. Nobody did.

The other group had been very active during the invasion and he had run with them a bit. But this was different. This was a full invitation -- for Vig, it meant quick access to new contacts to exploit and new avenues of profit to extort. A grimace spread across his face and he pushed the speeder harder, the navigation system reassuring him or at least, attempting to do so. Vig pulled into a public space and checked the time on his wrist chrono -- sundown was closing in, but he had made it. He had tied a dummy account loaded with a measly thousand credits to the rental of the speeder and usage of the lot was paid for automatically -- no service touched by the Hutts was free.

Vig could hear the relief in the gravitic engines of the speeder as he stood up, placing one and then a second booted, gargantuan foot on the ground as he stood. He had baggy black breeches tucked into his boots, his jaunty armorwoven coat hanging on him. Underneath was a shirt of bright lilac, a burst of playful purple that belied the fearsome nature of the man, the buttons at the neck hanging open. He took off and large steps carried him through the streets, but the Last Call wasn't far. It wasn't long at all until he was throwing the cantina's sliding double doors open with a jab of his thick thumb.

Vig stopped for a moment to take in the sights, but there was little that stood out to him. But as he stood in the dying light, he was backlit as if by orange fire, his visage darkened and obscured as the giant peered in. He lumbered through and took up a space at the bar, waving the serving droid to him. His voice carried despite its depth, and his accent was that of the Core Worlds, but thick, heady and unrefined. The school had been run by them and some of their lessons stuck.

"I'll have three of whatever's strongest on the menu."

His accent blunted consonants and subtly muted aspirated sounds. Vig made the seat below him seem absurd and so the bar took much of the duty of carrying his weight, forearms resting on it as hands clasped. The man waited for his drinks -- and for whoever the contact was. They had to know who they expected -- there was no one like Vig on Nar Shaddaa or hell, the whole damn galaxy. Not one.

[Rugs]

A familiar warmth settled into the back of Io’an’s mind as he reclined in his hard wooden seat. A buzz, just creeping past the edge of recognition. After only a couple of drinks. Amusing, in a way. But suffering through the Archeri Plague for the better part of a year hadn’t left much time or strength for drinking, and he’d never been much of a heavy drinker in the first place. As it turned out, so long away from alcohol withered away most of the tolerance he’d built over the years.

Ah well. He eyed the empty glass longingly. Another crush would be great, but he’d put it off for now. A clear head was better than a fogged one, especially when dealing with relative unknowns. Maybe if he doesn’t show up.

No such luck. Near as soon as the thought finished drifting through Io’an’s head, he felt the Force stir beyond Last Call’s old walls. Io’an had always had a knack for feeling the currents of the Force, around himself and others. Above the steady noise and din of all the life crammed around him, he could feel a certain, unmistakable resonance in one soul outside that illuminated them above the others.

A Force sensitive.

The man burst through the door. His size alone confirmed his identify.

Viggo Loroto, Io’an thought, watching the big man lumber to the bar and call for his drinks. Force sensitive. Interesting. For a time Io’an watched silently as Vig was given his drinks. He wondered how long the stool — which looked minuscule beneath the titan of a man — might hold before failing.

Briefly, Io’an wondered if some twists of fate conspired to bring Force sensitives together under Lidah Faine’s leadership. Himself, Vance, Janus, Jazen — even if the last was still missing in action after the Archeri crisis. And of course, the woman herself.

And now you. He lowered the empty glass, focus settling on Vig’s back. Perhaps.

Io’an inhaled deeply and touched the Force. His senses reached toward Vig, felt the echoes of power in the man, and made a subtle contact. He didn’t press into Vig’s mind, didn't seek out deeper thoughts or the ones drifting on the surface. Instead, he created an impression, a subtle teasing in the Force that might draw Vig’s attention behind him, to the table where he sat. If taking hold of the Force didn’t get Vig’s attention to start with, anyway.

Regardless, it was here and gone quickly. Should big Vig take notice, Io’an would motion for him to come have a seat at his table. If not, well, he had other methods to get the man’s attention.