Four Sith Walk Into a Bar...(Ardy)

[Regnier]

Just another cantina in Anchorhead, filled with criminals, smugglers, mercenaries, pirates, drunks, and just about every other type of disreputable creature in the galaxy. One such character of ill-repute, a dark-skinned human male of thirty or so who could easily pass for a decade older, sat at the bar, his shoulders hunched and his head held close to the bar-top, an unidentifiable liquid in an tankard resting a few inches from his fatigued and rather scruffy face. He bore no markings, save a three-week old beard and a look of general misery, his hair, dirty and unkempt, hung half-way down his back loosely, covering most of his face, and his clothing appeared as though he had been dragged around the dunes behind a bantha for a few days. He didn't even appear to be armed, as nearly everyone else inside was, though it was more than a little difficult to tell for sure due to his loose, but layered, attire. Just one of the many patrons at the bar contemplating their dislike for the planet they were currently residing upon, he was sure.

The man hated Tatooine. Exceedingly. He hated the sand that got everywhere, the perpetual heat, the incessantly gibbering Jawas no matter where you went, the always-hostile Tusken Raiders, the constantly complaining locals and passers-by, the 'gamblers' that always cheated, and the alcohol. Head unmoving, the man's eyes flicked towards the tankard, then back to the droid that was operating the bar. Especially the alcohol.

Was there nothing worth drinking on this giant ball of sand some humorous fellow had decided to call a planet? The only choices were foul tasting and spectacularly strong or just foul. Someone else at the bar had commented that the drinks tasted like Rancor piss. He wasn't entirely sure that wasn't exactly what he was drinking.

Unlike most of the others sitting at the bar, however, the man wasn't drunk, though even a trained eye would have a hard time guessing as much. Quite the opposite, actually. Though his tankard had been refilled four times already, he had ingested closer to one. It was easy enough to engineer a few spills, a few slight nudges that suddenly made your full drink belong to your neighbor and his nearly empty mug belong to you...as well as an array of other tactics that weren't really detectable unless someone who knew what to look for decided to watch you and you alone for a little over a half an hour straight. Which would be about as entertaining as watching sand dunes shift.

The four things he hated most at the moment, however, had very little to do with Tatooine. Ord Mantell, Nar Shaddaa, Tatooine...it didn't matter. A change of scenery would hardly have improved his dour mood. No, what he hated most at that given moment were the four sith Intelligence Operatives in the cantina, each as invisible as the next, unless you had been playing the game as long as he had.

The two male mercenaries, both at least near-human, sitting in a dark corner discussing their last job, both wreathed in heavy suits of battle-worn armor and copious quantities of weaponry, the female Falleen that was currently making a killing at Sabacc near the currently empty stage, and the most important, the ragged drunk sitting at the bar contemplating what he hated most.

Nazante Vos reminded himself to kill someone in the most excruciatingly painful manner he could come up with the first opportunity that presented itself.

[Ardenator]

Ardent strode into the bar, Copler and Garner not far behind. They wore standard smuggler attire: loose fitting, grungy clothing, and low-holstered blaster pistols. It was a good disguise, and not many would see through it.

But if you watched closely enough, you would soon see past the failed attempts at cocky swagger, seeing the stiff, strong march of men who's entire lives were spent in the military. These were definitely not smugglers.

Ardent was now sporting a scar over one eye; a product of a fight with some gang members on Mos Eisley. He had caught them roughing up a family, and before he had even realized it, he had stepped in to stop them. So much for keeping a low-profile... Two of the gangsters had been killed, the other barely getting away to tell his compatriots the story. Ardent and his squadmates had had to get the hell out of there in a hurry, and now they found themselves in Anchorhead.

The trio sat at the bar, ordering a round of possibly the worst liquor Ardent had ever tasted. Is there anything good on this damned dirtball? He was starting to get annoyed with this place, that was for sure. He had spent most his life in spotless, sterilized, and orderly Capital Ships or Military Compounds. Coming to this land of dirt and grime was... a change; one he did not welcome.

For not the first time, he regretted killing that Intelligence Officer. The act had forced he and his sqaudmates to desert, leaving the Sith Empire and their lives behind. In their view, of course, they were still Elite Sith Troopers, but to the Empire they served, they were criminals.

So, here they were, hiding in a bar on Anchorhead, contemplating their next move.

What ever would they do?

[Regnier]

Vos also hated that the two operatives masquerading as mercs had full helmets and he didn't. He was pretty sure the Falleen felt the same way. All four had the tiniest earpieces possible; it was physically impossible to see them unless you actually pulled the operative's ear back and peered into the ear canal, which was highly inadvisable if you valued your health at all. But only the two could actually speak without being heard by anyone but those they wanted to hear.

"Everybody see the three that just came in? Those were soldiers if I've ever seen any."

"None of our people planetside. Any guesses?"

Vos himself only looked up once one of the men had sat next to him. He squinted at the man briefly before returning his rapt attention to the insect crawling across the bartop in front of him. It was the size of his thumb, and had rather large incisors. It looked distinctly hostile, as well. He blinked as the clawed fist of the Trandoshan sitting on his other side impacted the bar with a resounding thud. The large reptile hissed something in his native tongue, before returning to his drink, leaving only a puddle of black, a few limbs, and a few tiny pieces of carapace.

"A few. Didn't catch their faces, though. But I'd say it's a prety good chance they aren't ours."

"Opinion?"

Vos motioned the metal bartender over as he half-listened. He didn't know any of his counterpart's names, and neither did any of the others. Just codenames that would be discarded after the operation.

Hawk, the one who had first noticed the trio, was the most experienced in this line of work. Easily in his fifties, making him the second oldest, Vos had a strong suspicion based in fact that he'd been doing this for a very long time. Omen, the other 'mercenary', was the most gear-headed and technologically inclined of the four, as proven when he had hacked into the main command systems of the cruiser that had ferried them off Muunilist and accessed every available file on their destination and any other sith operations nearby, including the highly classified ones, such as theirs. They actually knew a great deal more about what was fully going on thanks to him. Far more than they were supposed to, anyways.

"By the looks of 'em, I'd say they aren't your regular grunts. They aren't black ops, either, they aren't hiding what they are well enough. My opinion, we've got ourselves the kind that are dangerous in a straight-up fight."

"Then I doubt we'll have to deal with them."

But it was the other one, the Falleen, that Vos was wary of. Spade. She was a different kind of dangerous. The other two knew how to kill quite efficiently, he could tell, but Spade...she was a natural-born killer, dangerous to the bone. She was distinctly un-military, as well, which gave Vos the suspicion that her last line of work had paid a lot better than any government. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned just slightly to see her walk into the 'fresher. A few seconds later, her voice, cold and calculating, came over his comm'. She sounded a little more...aggressive than usual.

"I caught a look at one of their faces. The one sitting next to Joker." Vos' eye twitched slightly. He was going to have to find whoever had decided on the codenames. "You won't believe this. His name is...Copler, I believe. Former sith Elite. Worked under a man named Kuundra..."

"Kuundra? Why do I know that name...?"

It was amusing to watch someone in full armor choke. Hawk emitted no sound through his helmet, but the action was fully visible. He set his hands on the table and stared at the man across from him through a mirrored visor. "You're sure?"

"Positive."

Vos simply hiccuped, completely unperturbed by the information. On the inside, however, his mind went into overdrive.

"Damn...Omen, Joker, you remember Chief O'Hara?"

Then it was Omen's turn to choke. "You've got to be kidding me...I can think of more than a few people that would be very happy to have that son of a pregnant dog's head dropped on their desk."

"Agreed. I'm one of them. Who else feels like killing someone today?"

"Hell yes. Been dyin' to end somebody."

"Count me in. Joker, turn around if you're in."

Vos drained the last of his tankard, his thoughts racing. Inside of the ten seconds since the Falleen had identified the man beside him, he had already thought of about fifty different possibilities. He could use this man, this Copler. He also highly doubted he'd be able to sway the others against violence, either. He turned slowly in his seat, leaning heavily into the bar.

Looked like he'd be killing someone after all.

Hawk and Omen stood up and started for the door, rifles held casually in hand, as Spade returned to her spot by the stage. "Spade, take the one in the center. Omen, help me with the one on the right. Joker, take the one beside you, alive. I want one breathing so we can try and find his other friends."

As soon as the two 'mercs' passed him, they both silently raised their rifles, barrels towards Garner's back, not even slowing, the Falleen materialized a Verpine pistol from under the table and was drawing a bead on Kuundra, and Vos slid forward off his seat. Time seemingly slowed for the Kiffar as the four professionals were less than a second from doing their jobs very well. Before his feet even hit the floor, a pair of blasters snapped out from underneath the folds of his garments. Before the Falleen had flicked her safety off, both pistols were already dead on target. Her eyes widened in the millisecond it took her to realize the separate targets were both Omen's head and herself.

Not that it mattered much. Two blasters whined abnormally quietly in perfect sync as soon as they'd found their targets, instantly ending the lives of both field agents as neat holes were drilled through their craniums. Hawk came around fast with a stifled curse, throwing his weight into a well-aimed troll-club with the butt of his rifle at the new threat to his existence. Vos simply flowed around him like water, moving just out of the way of the blow and moving behind the man in two fast steps, firing three times before he'd come to a stop. He fired once more into the corpse for good measure. To him, he'd done nothing particularly impressive, but in truth, he'd just killed three extremely well-trained Intelligence Operatives in less than two full seconds.

Everyone in the room looked up, but soon returned to their own affairs. Nobody knew who'd been shot, nobody cared. The Trandoshan that had been sitting beside him simply cocked his head and eyed him suspiciously.

The droid bartender stopped and looked up. "The owners of this establishment would like to remind all patrons that the discharging of blasters while on the pre-" The droid's toneless monologue was cut short with the whine of a blaster, followed shortly thereafter by the complete disintegration of its head.

Vos shrugged as he lowered his pistol and glanced at the large reptile. He turned his gaze to the Falleen with a smoking hole in her forehead and scratched his scalp. "Did I do that? Heh, oops..." He muttered drunkenly. The Trando grinned and returned to his drink again.

"If your name is Copler, take your friends outside and wait if you wish to survive the day. Believe me when I tell you there is no room for mistake on any of our parts." He said, his voice low and level, quiet enough not to be heard by even the Trandoshan, but loud enough to be heard by Copler. With that, he knelt at Omen's corpse and started digging through his gear.

[Ardenator]

They hadn't been in their seats five minutes, Ardent guessed. He was only partially into his drink when the blasters went off. That usually wasn't a big deal; on Tatooine, if you weren't the one getting shot at, you usually didn't have to worry. But these shots came from the man who was sitting right next to Copler. That was a little too close for comfort. In an instant, all three men were up, pistols drawn. Ardent would prefer a rifle, and full Sith battle armor, for that matter, but he'd have to make due.

They were turned around, formed in a small Delta with Ardent at the head, by the time a helmeted mercenary was going after the seemingly drunken shooter. In the space of seconds, the merc went down, four blaster bolts in him. After that, things seemed to calm down, and the three soldiers slowly relaxed and returned their pistols to their holsters.

Ardent turned toward the bar and began to sit again when Copler stopped him, taking hold of his shoulder. He leaned close, whispering in his ear. "The shooter just told me we need to get outside, now. I think what just happened may have involved us."

Ardent nodded and lead the way to the door. He didn't need that much of an excuse to get the hell out of that place. Once they were out in the sun, he gestured to the spaceport. "Copler, run down there, suit up, and prime the ship. Tell the others to do the same and stand-by. Garner and I will wait here for the drunk."

Copler nodded, taking off at a run for the ship. Ardent led Garner around the corner into a shaded alley; deserted and with plenty of dumpsters and other objects for cover. He took them behind an old junk pile, and crouched behind it, waiting for the man to show himself.

[Regnier]

Alright, Omen, where’d you put those detonators…?

Vos continued digging through the field agent’s pack, tossing various pieces of equipment off to the side, pieces that almost instantly disappeared into the folds of a Jawa’s robe. Finally, he stopped as his hand found what he was looking for: a Merr-Sonn Munitions Class A Thermal Detonator. He knew Omen had rigged all of his charges with security trips, but the man had never explained how to bypass them. Not that he blamed him, of course, he did the same, but it was irritating none the less. Fortunately, he had ways around such things. The benefits of not being as human as his counterparts had believed. Still kneeling over the corpse, he slid off one of his gloves and gently set the device in his bare palm. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The world around him faded, the sounds of the cantina faded, as the ‘memories’ of the detonator flashed through his mind, and…

His eyes snapped open as he realized the trap wasn’t on the grenade itself, but in the pack he’d already removed it from. Cursing in six different languages, the Kiffar shot towards the door with remarkable speed. He made it three steps out the door before the cantina evaporated in a brilliant flash that propelled Nazante into the wall of the building opposite the cantina, which was now no more than a smoking hole in the ground. No bodies, no evidence left behind, and a lot of casualties. Vos pulled himself out of the pile of junk he’d landed in, pushed himself sluggishly to his feet, and leaned back, his spine giving off several loud pops. He felt…singed. And woozy. The outer-most edge of the blast had just caught him, but it was enough. A few inches more and he could have been quite dead. Just another day at the office...gods, I hate my job. He stared at the lack of a cantina, swaying ever so slightly and willing the world to stop spinning, ignoring the trickle of blood running down from his scalp where he’d hit the wall. He shook his head, muttered something only a Squib would understand, and looked around. Copler was nowhere in sight. Hopefully he, or at least one of his friends, were still nearby. He was taking more risks than he could count just by thinking about this, let alone doing it, and he was looking at a lot more than a simple blaster bolt to the back of the head if he got caught.

So don’t get caught. Where the hell are those guys…? I swear, if they cut and ran, I’m gonna be pissed. Really pissed. More so than usual.

With a grunt, the last field agent standing dropped himself onto a crate sitting at the edge of the building he’d impacted, and stared into the gathering crowd, and did what he always did. Noticed everything without looking like he noticed anything at all. Except the Jawa that hoisted itself quietly onto the crate behind him and tried to pull something off his belt. In one smooth motion, he snapped his elbow back hard, grabbed for something solid, and lobbed the diminutive creature up and over the crowd, gibbering madly the entire way. He returned to his lax posture and bored expression.

Nazante Vos hated Tatooine. If the locals weren’t trying to kill you or rob you blind, the people passing through were. Even the people supposedly working together frequently ended up killing each other.

[Ardenator]

One moment, out of an alley at a dusty, sun-lit boulevard. The next moment, it was hell.

A huge boom sounded from his left, and a large concussion accompanied a brilliant flash of light, picking him up off his feet and slamming him into the building on the other side of the alley. He came down, hard. Instantly, he was on his feet and running, his companion along side him.

Being able to function after something like that was nothing short of amazing.

But then again, the were Sith Elite.

His head swam, his body hurt, he was deaf save for a constant ringing in his ears, and he was partially blind. All that didn't matter at all, however. He had spent half his life training for this; fighting in this. He didn't need his strength or his senses to know what to do.

They ran out onto the street, and Ardent was surprised by his ability to quickly analyze the situation, despite his lack of functioning senses. The Cantina had exploded, a crowd was out front, the the drunken man was sitting there among them. He felt more then heard himself shouting to the man: "Come on!"

Then he was past the scene, and all he could see was blurry tan. His feet guided him down the path to the hangar he had forced himself to memorize, and the next thing he knew he was being grasped by rough hands and dragged up an incline.

He barely registered voices. "What happened? Are you hurt?" He couldn't think well enough to properly reply.

The soldier in him responded, however. "Explosion, cantina. Man following us. Careful. May or may not be friendly. Prep for takeoff." Then he felt the hypo-shot on his shoulder, and the entire world went calm...

[Regnier]

Between the pulses of his head and ears, Vos made out shouting from outside of the crowd. He turned his head slightly in time to see the two men that had been accompanying Copler running away from the scene. Grimacing, he forced himself to his feet, and promptly dropped face-first into the sand, his head suddenly swimming, his entire body burning. The body of any species so close in physiology to a Human was not supposed to function properly after being blown into a wall by a high-explosive charge. He shouldn’t even have been conscious, and he knew it. He also knew that every square inch of his body hurt like hell, that he was stiff, his limbs felt like they were made of durasteel. His ears rang, he couldn’t see straight, and he had a bad case of vertigo as soon as he pulled his head off the ground. And his quarries were getting away.

But he would not lose this shot. Not now. With a snarl, the Kiffar pressed his fists into the ground and pushed himself to his knees. Then he got one foot on the ground, and he continued pushing until he was standing to nearly his full height. Narrowing his eyes and shaking his head, he started forward in the direction Copler’s companions had gone, rapidly picking up speed until he hit a dead run. It took all of his concentration just not to fall flat on his face again, and he still ran like a drunkard, but he was stayed upright by sheer force of will. And he was gaining on them, too, until his shoulder caught a Rodian square. Both went down, Vos rolling to a stop a few feet away; but he picked himself up, just as the Rodian came after him, yelling and cursing him up and down. One of Vos’ pistols snapped from its holster in a flash and a bolt flew a few inches from the Rodian’s head. ”Piss…off…” He growled, more irate that he’d missed than anything. Sliding the weapon back into its holster, he started running again. He kept following, until finally he was led into a hangar. Not even stopping to think about it, he ran in, stopping just inside the main door. He had just enough time to focus enough to see a few blurry forms in front of him before his body caught up with him. For a moment, the world seemed to tip sideways…and Vos went with it. He impact barely even registered, the concussion nearly taking over his senses completely. He was quite done.

No.

In an instant, his mind snapped into gear.

You can’t fail. You won’t fail. You can’t afford to fail. Your pain is irrelevant. Feel it, savor it, use it to remember why you’re still alive…and get the hell up!

Drawing a deep breath, he rolled onto his chest, ignoring the blood as it ran into his eyes, and started, slowly and shakily, to push himself up. He’d given far too much to give up now, not when he was this close. "Don't...shoot me...just yet..."

[Neology]

Rene moved through the heavy crowds with the ease of one born to it. Her stride was smooth and unhindered by the press of confused bodies, her expression one of distant curiosity. Even so, the weight of her shoulder rig was a comforting presence - Copler had gone by her only moments ago, followed by a wave of heat and dust from the cantina’s explosion. Others on the street were now taking a little more interest in his passing. A running man is always obvious… She might have cursed mentally. The young smuggler had something of a professional interest in keeping Ardent Kuundra and his two associates alive and so far, she’d had a rough time of it. They dressed up well enough, but constantly displayed a most distressing knack for attracting trouble.

As she drew near to the wrecked cantina the woman’s sharp eyes caught further movement – someone struggling to move through the crowd from the side alley. Her breath caught at that familiar silhouette, a string of rather unladylike words dying on her lips. It was Kuundra, singed at least by the apparent explosion, and likely leading whatever trouble he was in right back to the ship. Turning to follow, her attention momentarily drawn by the blaster fire, Rene spotted Ardent’s pursuer. His haste to remove himself from the aimless crowd made him hard to miss. Hand on her compact blaster she followed, keeping a good distance though she hardly thought she needed to. He looked to be injured, but that wasn’t quite enough for a complete disregard of caution. The smuggler knew enough not to take everyone for face value - especially not the types that might be on Ardent’s trail. He’d left his story vague but she wasn’t blind; she’d seen the ship, the way those three walked.

The man had stopped at the hanger door and she closed most of the distance, catching his fall, and his words. She kept the compact blaster aimed center mass despite, something in her blue eyes gone hard and dangerous.

”If you want to keep breathin’ you’ll not move.”


((OOC: Ugh, not great, but I promised I'd post.))

[Ardenator]

Ardent numbly looked around, trying to paw his was back to the boarding ramp. He could already feel the engines beginning to start.

Everything was hard. With the adrenaline going away and the painkillers taking effect, he found he wanted to do nothing more than sleep. Fighting that feeling became one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But he couldn't go to sleep, not yet. The others didn't know what was going on.

He staggered back towards the boarding ramp, which really was only room away, yet the trip felt like an eternity. He emerged to find Rene and five of his comrades, fully suited up, guarding the drunken man, who had fallen on the ramp. He couldn't help but notice the beauty of the slight smuggler woman, in stark contrast with the dirtiness of the scene around her.

He wanted to know more about this man, wanted to know everything he did, but as he stared at his injured body he knew that now was not the time. They had three kolto tanks on board, one for each of them. They could heal up first, talk later.

Besides, Ardent needed to the rest.

"Back off guys. He's injured, bad, and he isn't trained the same way we are. He's not going to try anything now, not unless he wants to die." He came closer, next to Rene. "Here, guys, take his weapons and everything, and take him to the medical room. Have Hamstein patch him up and throw him in the kolto tank." The men obeyed him, beginning to drag the man to the medical room, where Hamstein was attending to Garner's injuries.

He turned to Rene. "Hey, thanks for your help and all... Go up front and copilot with Copler. Tell him to take us away from here. I don't care where. We just need to get off this rock."

Suddenly his legs could no longer support him, and he fell headlong into the small woman. "Maybe after taking me to the medical room first... Sorry..."

[Regnier]

Vos heard a voice behind him, a woman, but he had to concentrate to understand the words. It was simple Basic, yes, and her voice was of no fault, but she still sounded like she was a few hundred feet away through the pulsing in his ears. He grinned slightly and spat the blood pooling in his mouth onto the sand below, swaying slightly. Or was the world swaying? It was hard to tell. "Easier said...than-"

As soon as the last word had left his mouth, his precarious balance went and he staggered a pace to his left, only just catching himself from going completely over on a pillar supporting the hangar's inner over-hang. "...done." Slowly, he pushed himself off the pillar, leaving several spots of blood behind, and instantly had to throw his arms out to keep his balance. He could hear someone else, a man, speaking somewhere ahead of him, though he couldn't even tell which one of the shapeless blurs was speaking, the blackness gradually taking over more and more of his eyesight. The words, however, he couldn't make out. He didn't have long, of that he was sure, but before he could even open his mouth, his body gave and he pitched forward, but he'd barely even started to fall, he felt a hand on each of his shoulders supporting him, so instead of slamming face-first into the sand, again, he simply slid to his knees, letting his head hang forward. He felt a light pull on the front of his equipment belt, figuring that someone was disarming him, and suddenly a burst a strength ran through his arms. He grabbed...something. Felt like an arm. "Don't...lose those..."

Two pistols, a combat knife, and a few various odds and ends that really didn't look all too useful were all that was on the belt. Honestly, all he cared about were his blasters and the seemingly very low-tech personal communicator, which was actually a high-grade signal jammer. With his words, however, he sank fully into the men's grip, the black taking over completely as the last of his consciousness faded.

Bliss. Unconscious bliss, with the troubles and worries of life invading every thought, reminding you of everything, but not allowing you to do anything about it. Unconscious was on of Vos' least favorite places to be. His dreams were only of the evils he had done, and of what would happen if he didn't continue doing them. Being unconscious while in a used kolto tank, however, was worse. As he floated in the healing liquid, his hand brushed the hard surface of the tank, and in an instant, images of everyone who had ever graced the tank before him flashed through his mind and his eyes snapped open. As consciousness returned, so did the pain, and now that he was awake, the same thoughts and memories filled his mind, and he still couldn't do anything about it.

Nazante Vos also hated whatever being was responsible for his life. In truth, he hated a lot of things, and had a knack for finding something he harbored an intense dislike for in any situation he was involved in. Namely because he was involved in them.

He glared at a bubble that floated past his face.

[Neology]

At Kuundra’s words Rene stiffened slightly, shooting him a dark look that his injured state would likely not allow him to appreciate. The weapon disappeared under her jacket just the same as the woman crossed the few steps into the hanger, closing the door to the street without a glance back. In those few movements, the space became hers. The young woman took up an aura of command, frowning at those that were lifting the stranger.

”Post a guard in the infirmary – I’ll not be taking any chances once we’re airborne.” She looked to Ardent specifically now, lowering her voice as he drew closer to her. ”You know my sister has more experience in medicine then your man.” Rene added nothing else, wondering if Ardent would accept that veiled offer or not. Truthfully, she had no great desire to put Loralie in the same room as their no doubt quite dangerous guest, but would do so anyway if it meant better care for their own injured.

As Kuundra nearly fell right into her, the woman’s general aggravation with him softened a degree. Doing her best to keep the larger man on his feet she almost laughed, in the end giving only a slight nod to acknowledge his instruction and a smirk.

”Only if you promise not to get into so much trouble. I don’t much like this habit of getting chased out of port you’re developing.”

She moved to help the man get to the infirmary, a task she was not unaccustomed to thanks to one very clumsy jedi that she had not spoken to in quite some time. A smile touched her lips at the memory. Soldiers were not always such pleasant company.

Once on the bridge Rene took her seat, barely sparing a glance for Copler as she set course for Nar Shaddaa. The woman held a certain resentment for the entire situation – until a few weeks ago she’d had her own ship. Only after a long moment did she regard the man fairly, answering the question his raised eyebrow suggested.

”What? It’s as good a place as any to hide. Besides, there’s someone there that owes me a few favors.”

[Ardenator]

Ardent nodded. "All right, let her treat us as well, then."

They made their way to the medical room, where he was promptly tossed onto a medical bed and removed from his clothing. Once all three had received proper pre-kolto treatment from Hamstein and Loralie, they were placed in each of the Kolto Tanks, Ardent in the center.

He looked around the room, dazed and surprisingly calm in the moments before unconscious took him. He watched Garner floating, already asleep, and the drunken man in the other tank, also unconscious. The drunken man seemed none too happy in his slumber, however. Ardent distantly wondered why.

He felt a short jolt as they entered hyperspace, and after that, nothing.

(Someone want to start a thread on Nar Shadda or something?)

[Regnier]

((I can do it. Won't be very exciting from the constraints of my kolto tank, but it's technically my turn so...meh))

((Link))