Log:Pakko Panic
Pakko Panic
Overview
Patrons at a dive bar get between a pair of mercenaries and their quarry.
- Date: February 4, 2021
- Rating: PG - Violence
- Plot: Not Applicable
Participants
Amal Jha, Amallia Madine, Colo Nell, Hahtavi Kora, Risani, Sela Modonric, Shaali Brak, Tarion Tavers, Xyomara, Zevin Daodhri
Log
Even in the deep dimness of the bar, it was impossible to miss the pale on pale white figure, perched half in and half out of the chair she had claimed for herself. Despite the fact that she was at one of the tables far from the bar, or the entrance, or that she spoke so lowly that there was no trace of word or accent when her lips moved. She sat nearly still, in sharp contract to the frenetic movements of the rodia who was sitting across from her. Where the rodian's arms fluttered and spun, the echani's hand only slid a small data chit across the table before she rose to her feet, an unconscious flick of her shoulders settling the duster around her legs. Amal did not look back as she stepped further into the meat of the bar.
Huff. Pant. Gasp. The Farghul's legs fire like pistons as she propels herself forward with as much alacrity as she can manage along the mean streets of the Corellian district. Each step comes with a twinge of protest from muscles nearing the end of their stamina, each coil of fibrous tissue to bind up kinetic energy less vigorous than the last. In pursuit, some ways back, more lightly armored mercenaries give chase. They are slightly slower than the fleet felinoid making pulling out blasters untenable, much to her benefit. Unfortunately, they have the advantage of communication and it is unlikely that Risani will be able to evade them forever. Her yellow-flecked eyes flit from shadowy alcove to establishment until some lark has her focus on the dive bar known as Pakko's Place. With violence she revectors and hurtles herself down the laneway and in to the establishment - fortunate that the door is always open.
Risani gauges the room in a heartbeat with a swift sweep of her gaze. Two things catch her gaze: an abandoned burnished bottle still carrying the room temperature fluid that the patron found too disgusting to finish, and a tattered cloth. She snatches them both and, without asking for permission, slides herself in to the seat Amal had abandoned, nearly taking them out in the process. Draping the fabric over her head as a makeshift hood, she tries to recompose herself and steady her breath.
"Shhh," Risani hisses at the Rodian, her index finger pressed against her lips. "Stay quiet and I'll show you something nice, okay?" Winking, the felinoid hunches over her stolen drink and side-eyes the doorway.
A Mandalorian kitted out in heavy black battle armor, T-visored helmet, jetpack with rifles and grenades along his belt sits along the back wall, his back angled towards it. He is at a small table that is currently occupied by another, a Twi'lek male with dark blue skin who's speaking low with him. The Kora listens to him and gives a faint movement of his right gauntleted hand to encourage the other to continue.
After a few more moments, the Twi'lek man pauses and waits on the Mandalorian. Hahtavi finally moves his gauntlet to his belt and withdraws a credit chit that he tosses lightly onto the beat up, scarred table. The Twi'lek scoops it up smoothly as he rises from his seat and turns to depart the dimly lit establishment, leaving his drink unfinished.
Long legs shift to stretch out into the floor, the Mando getting comfortable as he watches those who go and those who come in, studying them in silence. Just i time to see a golden Farghul burst in through the door looking harried and urgent. Unseen behind the visor of his buy'ce, his gaze follows Risani's movement to the seat Amal herself just vacated.
Ah, Pakko's Place. A hive of scum. The villainy wandered off several years ago looking for better quality booze.
The scum clings to the floor, and down there in it is a man in grey armor, a full-body suit that covers his less-than-full body. This, of course, is renowned bounty hunter Tarion Tavers.
He sits up slowly when the Farghul enters, rising one vertebra at a time like something from a zombie film, his single hand raised over his head as he stretches, mouth pulled wide in a yawn before he smacks his chops together, eyes blinking blearily as they swing around the room searching for the cause of the in-draft of air and /danger./ He's very attuned to danger. Anyone can tell by the way he lazily picks at the crust in the corner of his eye and flicks it off into the ether.
"What's going on? I'm allowed to be here, I bought a drink same as anyone else," he protests immediately with the quick defense of someone who's been ejected for vagrancy more than once prior. When no hands grip his collar, he sits up a bit more sharply, gathering his wits as rapidly as a bantha crossing a dune.
Amallia Madine's outside Pakko's Place when she catches the sound of a disturbance. That disturbance is also spelled 'Risani', and comes with the sound of huffing and puffing and alleyway scrambling that's just loud enough to lift up over the din of Nar Shaddaa's ever-charming weather. The young woman's hands are tucked into the pockets of her red jacket, acid rain soaking into her bleach blonde hair and tingling enough at her scalp to let her know she won't have to touch up her roots.
"Huh," Mollie just says, oh so softly. It's a single non-word that prefaces her pulling up the hood of the zip-up beneath the jacket. It is a zip-up that's decidedly un-zipped. Always stylish, our Mollie.
The more armored mercenaries follow shortly after, whizzing past the alleyway that Risani had scrambled into and harmlessly out towards the Noddreck Apartment Blocks. "Ah," Mollie says, and finger-guns in their direction well after they'd passed. "Methinks that to be the problem, then," she says. To Pakko's Place!
The door doesn't swing dramatically open like some Western movie. Mollie just sort of... politely lets herself in. Brushes water off her jacket, but those jeans are denim. Acid washed, if you pardon the indulgent little pun. She kicks the foot of each boot on the floor. Tap tap tap. Left. Tap tap tap. Right.
It's then that she actually spots that very same woman she'd seen scrambling down the alley. Weird! It's like she planned it.
"Good enough day for a jog. Been out for one myself this morning. It keeps the brain sharp," Mollie says, and taps on her temple. Plops her butt down on a seat not immediately beside Risani, but not very far away either.
"Your finest Corellian ale, if you would please!" she asks the bartender droid with the poor barside manner. He says NOTHING. He does NOTHING.
Mollie's eyes narrow.
"...A Pale Ale?" she bargains. The bartender droid silently pours one out and slides it over.
Sela Modonric is not scum. You can tell at a glance. By the way she kicks her hips out when she walks away from the ladies room, that delicate curve of bone and fat serving as a platform for her to place her hand on, a pastiche of the sort of hard-boiled shit-kicking name-taker one sees in a multitude of bad films. The sneer on her lip that's just crying out for a cigarette in it. It's all layered on a bit too thick, like makeup during teenage acne, trying to cover an imperfect presentation with so many layers of material that, while one can probably tell what she's doing, one might at least respect the effort. The giveaway is her paleness, like she saw something in the ladies room which has affected her for a lifetime, losing an innocence no truly jaded Nar Shaddaa veteran ever had.
The conclusions one might draw from this blatant put-on can be taken too far. A drunk with a gun and a malfunctioning safety barges past l'il Sela, on his way out to be sick on the steps. She steps reasonably adroitly out of his way, scowls at him as he leaves, and neglects to put on one of those face-saving confrontations the truly crappy and nervous might provoke. She simply gives him a look, as if a bit of grime is old to her, but not so old, not so comfortable, that she isn't disappointed in it.
Then she heads for the bar. Moving with a strong appearance of confidence. Plopping a hand on a barstool. Persevering, despite how traumatic an experience that must have been. Levering herself onto the stool, dropping her butt onto it, and looking at the droid behind the bar.
"Hey," she says. There are sounds of possible /danger/. She ignores them. Defiantly. The droid ignores her, somewhat less dramatically.
"Hey," Sela tries again. "I'll have a blue milk." The droid continues to ignore her, because, with all the unintelligible instructions he's getting, Mollie's at least makes more sense.
"Oh, hey, skipper," says Sela, cheerfully, a cheerfulness which sits as well with her earlier crustiness as bread upon an oil slick.
A step timed precisely so, allowed Amal to pass by the farghul who was entirely too intent on claiming the seat she had only just abandoned without incident, the sight of the sentient marked, but not remarked on as Amal continued through and away from the table. A deviated course towards the bar also allowed her to avoid the woman who came in bringing acid rain with her who also seemed too terrible inclined to now position herself near the farghul. When she arrived at the bar, she did the reasonable and sensible thing, and simply placed credits there for the droid to receive. Whatever it chose to deliver was, apparently, what Amal was having.
There's no way she could've vanished. The thought is clear to the mercs as they barrel past and then find themselves looking about randomly, hunting through the crowd and the openings abound for any sign of a haphazard entry. Panic usually follows in the wake of a swiftly moving interloper and, for the moment, everything was too normal. The conclusion is made: they'd been the victims of deception. With an about-face, the group breaks up and doubles back to check the sides they had overlooked in their slapdash run.
It doesn't take long for a pair of the mercs to appear: the wide-browed and cerulean skin of a Duros contrasting heavily against a near-human sporting a mohawk dyed in many colors. Their outfit is basic but practical enough: blasters, heat dissipation packs, and a variety of light armor. The Duros remains at the entryway, keeping watch for anyone trying to escape, while his partner lowers his weapon and casually begins to circle the tables to examine each patron.
For her part, Risani's open-ended offering seems to be accepted by the Rodian who merely sits back and watches what's going on casually. His dark eyes flicker to the merc from time to time but at least he keeps his mouth shut. Risani rummages and stuffs her tail between her legs in an effort to hide it from view then she gets to nervously bobbing one leg up and down. The bottle spins in her grip, grinding against the forearm polished material with a low whine. Smiling sheepishly, she keeps her eyes focused down as if playing the ostrich in the sand might allow her to escape notice.
He hasn't moved, though his gaze has flicked to watching Tarion start to peel himself up from the floor - about half way. The Mandalorian's attention then skims over others like Sela coming out from the freshers, then settle briefly upon Risani once more - until the two mercs arrive.
One of them paces the room while the other thinks to block the door? Causually, Hahtavi reaches back a hand and pulls his Galaar free of the maglock against his jetpack. The rifle is held in his gloved hands without pointing it at anyone and it's not even turned on yet, but it's clear enough that if there is trouble, he's not to be messed with lightly.
Behind his T-visor his gaze studies the Duros. His own presence remains otherwise silent and relaxed, with his legs still stretched out before him as he stays seated. Observing.
One Corellian Ale, served up... well. It is cold. And she saw it poured from the tap, though she got sincere doubts that the lines have been cleaned since Alderaan was still a planet and not a bunch of debris. She catches it with her right hand and lifts it to her lips to take a long sip while mercenaries shuffle in through the front door. Well! That didn't take long. Mollie lets out a refreshed-sounding 'ahhhh' like you hear in the commercials and sets that mug down on the counter.
Thonk.
"Ahhhh, you know, it's pretty good, but it's lacking that Corellian charm. It's why I specified," she says to the robot bartender, whose processors whine internally at her obnoxious voice and accent. If only he was programmed to slap!
"But your barside manner programming schema could be using an -- Hello Sela -- where was I? Ah, right. It could be using an update. Reckon you should have a crack at him?" Mollie asks. Cue swiveling in her stool, knees pointed towards the short l'il non-scum programmer whose face is as cute as a button. Aww. Look at that face. Can't not smile when you look at that face, even when there's a Duros guarding the front door.
This is not Mollie's strongsuit.
"Oi! Could you lot kark off? You are ruining the pristinely-maintained atmosphere of the place. Sit down and have a drink and un-tuck whatever's tucked itself up your asses," she says.
Beer sip.
Amal, finding her place at the bar, standing, rather than sitting, tipped her head vaguely upward, as Hahtavi's visor panned across the bar and passed in her direction. When the two searchers made there way in, that uptick became the slightest of a negation. What she was negating, he truth of it did not make it past her lips. What did, was a shot of whatever it was that the droid had set down on the bar beside her hand. As with msot of the bar's denizens, she was all too happy to simply watch what was about to transpire.
Tarion is just waking up and there's already far too much going on in this bar for his sleep-slow brain to enjoy it. When the mercs roll in through the door, he whispers something about "the death squads!" under his breath, and then he's dragging himself to his feet with as much subtlety as he can muster and headed for the back door, scooping up his rifle with the only free hand he's got as he goes.
If Sela was really a super-cool terror, a bounty hunter or skull-slicer, she'd better handle the arrival of mercenaries, the delicate readying of firearms, the practiced swivels of eyes behind visors and the low-key preparations to fill the air with the reek of ozone and the heat of plasma and the screams of the wounded and the prRWOW sounds of somebody's life being snatched away in its prime. She'd look at Duros and Bobby and, well, act like Mollie. Invite them to join her for a blue milk.
But she can't even get herself a blue milk. "Blue milk," she tells the bartender droid, insistently. Is that a note of hysteria at the edge of her voice, while the mercs take up joint-casing position. Hardly anybody pays her much mind, a fortunate position to be in, unless you're in a small room with large weapons wielded by a social class not galaxy-renowned for carefully making sure their backgrounds are free of pesky innocent bystanders?
"I could tryyyy," Sela tells Mollie, elongating the vowel in a way that is more stressed than playful. Looking at the captain and smiling with a hint of animal fear, a little bit of the frenetic, as things go on around her and she tries to act like she isn't noticing in the way nobody actually would. She looks at the droid again. She says something in binary, which is posed this way because her player isn't sure if she can manage both Basic and Binary in one pose.
And she is given a glass of something which, at any rate, is blue.
"Ah delicious I do like being good," she says of the mystery drink she barely touches with her hands and certainly does not lift to her lips, as normal people do.
Another Mandalorian shoulders his way in past the Duros guarding it, this one in black-purple and blue. <"'Scuse me."> He pauses just inside, looking over those sitting around as well as the mercenaries making their way through. <"Jus' what're y'all doin' here? I know you, sir, are /not/ the bouncer, cuz there /ain't/ one here."> Zevin has the confidence of a regular. He raises a finger to point at the Duros, though still looking in at the rest of the bar and what looks like it might be a sweep. <"Don't 'spect yer workin' for free, so-">
<"Any a' you Guild?"> A bit of a non sequitur.
The Mandalorian is eyed as he approaches but the Duros does not accost the newly arrived Mandalorian. He merely steps aside, allowing whatever it is Zevin wants with the bar. His question is answered simply: a shake of the head. Basic is hardly the alien's preferred language.
The prismatically frocked mercenary is plodding in his trip about the bar but he's efficient enough. Those that do not look up and reveal their lineage from beneath obscuring garments are given a forceful tug. There are protests with each yank, hands scrabbling up to ensure that they return to their semi-anonymous garb, but nobody's gotten overly pushy just yet. Especially since he's avoided those that are very much more heavily armored than himself and his companion. Risani's foot bounces with each heavy footfall and, inevitably, Bobby finally rounds to her table. He reaches out a hand.
The Farghul tilts her head back and takes a swig from the borrowed bottle, washing her mouth with piss-warm, cheap, flat ale no doubt combined with effuse from its previous owner. It takes little motivation for her to turn and spit it out in a fine mist at the merc. The hard part is to stay focused while she fights back her gag reflex.
Lurching forward Risani's deft fingers curl about the merc's blaster pistol and with a deft application of a pressure point slips it out of the man's hands as he staggers back. Reflexively, his hands reach out but it's a clumsy thing as torn as he is between the desire to wipe his face off and reclaim his weapon at the same time. By the time he can open his eyes, Risani is perched on her seat with the pistol drawn. She tilts her head a little to the side to eye the Duros who has already raised his weapon.
"Hah, losers," Risani chides as an impish grin flits on to her face. She pulls the trigger. The bolt goes wide and the recoil knocks the pistol out of her hand. She squeaks.
"Umm, sorry?" Risani's grin turns forced and her eyes widen. There's a jingle of jewelry as her head tilts to the right.
Things are certainly heating up! There's a blaster switcharoo, an actual discharge of a weapon, a verbal insult that's followed up with an apology. Mollie's brow continues to quirk until it appears it might drift off of her face and up into the sky or something. The draw of her Caelli-Merced from her thigh holster is as confused as it is reflexive. A slow and gradual slide of the weapon from the synth-leather until it's pointed at the Duros. Then Risani. Then the duros. Then Risano. Never Zevin, though. That's bae.
"Alright, alright. That's quite enough of that. Some of us honest folk are trying to get good and drunk in peace. Look at my mate Sela. Innocent as a fresh baby and smells just as good as one. You're scaring her. Hasn't even touched her blue milk," Mollie says.
"Zevin, quit standin' around and hit one of them or something. The duros looks especially keen. Face only a mother could love, and still I'm not sure I'd go that far," she says. Flicks the gun towards the Zuros. Go on. Hit him.
Behind closed doors, Colo's been talking out the latest contract with the proper owner of Pakko's Place. Presumably it's Pakko, but rumors have it that it's his brother Okkap. Rumors are rumors, however, so why should it be that Colo comes out with anyone at all? He's mid-sentence and strutting out the door with a gleaming grin on his face and his obscured, erstwhile business partner behind him when the blaster goes off. "So, I think we should cut security costs altogether. The sentients around here might be a rowdy sort but they'd never--" *PEW*.
The blaster bolt strikes where it strikes, as the Maker intends, and leaves Colo both wide-eyed and steadily backpedaling, both in conversation and physical step. "Look, let's go over that contract again, okay, I think maybe I missed a clause or two." With that, he gulps and tries to shuffle the proprietor back to the backroom.
Whatever the drink was that had been purchased with her credits, was finished in one more swallow, before Amal pushed off from the bar. The draw of the weapon, the poor shot, the loss of said weapon, caught at least peripherally, but as this was decidedly not her problem, no more than any of the people directly involved or trying to be involved were her problem, Amal began the trek along the outside of the bar towards the exit.
It's a good thing that the merc doesn't try to harass the seated Mando in the black armor - nor attempt to make him remove his helmet. That would /not/ have gone over well for him, no. Amal's subtle body language isn't missed since she passes near to the man he's been mostly watching. Though it's hard to tell what Hahtavi's watching when his HUD gives him a 360 degree view of his surroundings when he wants it. He's also marked targets for tracking.
Even so, he stays seated in a relaxed manner, rifle in his lap and now clipped to his tactical rig in case he needed his hands free fast for other things. Zev's arrival gains a smirk that can't be seen behind his bucket's visor, yet it is followed with a barely there upnod for greeting his vod.
All else going on with Risani, the mercs, the other patrons of the bar, and Colo's arrival all continue to be observed without Hahtavi making comment nor disturbing himself to move. This hunter looks comfortable.
Sela grabs her blue (to call it 'blue milk' would be to give the house more credit than it deserves). She pulls it towards her. She gives it a sniff. Risani opens fire and the echo of ricochet fills the room and the acrid reek of gunshots. Sela jumps. The glass of blue goes up into the air. It comes down into Sela's hands, exactly as levelly as it rose. Her fingers clutch around it like an engagement ring from the love of her life. The viscuous crust at the top, a solid-powdery layer that definitely can't be bug poison because who'd bother in here, wavers and teeters on the surface of the unmentionable fluid, and the computer programmer manages not to spill any of it on herself. Nor on the counter, which doesn't matter as much.
"Amallia," says Sela. Sounding a bit tense. Innocent as a fresh baby indeed. Admittedly she's looking fixedly forward at the bar droid, who she once thought was stressful.
"I'm all right," says Sela, not all right. "Thank you, Amallia."
Despite being hardened to violence, Bobby still flinches as his own blaster pistol is discharged at near point blank range. Death, it seems, still has a way of tearing through the calcified layers of the soul to get right to the core of one's being. When he emerges unscathed, he can't help but allow a relieved grin to tug the edges of his lips upwards and reveal poorly maintained teeth. Someone does not brush regularly.
Bobby shouts and pivots forward, whipping his core around to build up speed for a haymaker thrown at the Farghul's fuzzy face. Apology not accepted. Risani yelps and teeters backward on her chair to avoid the swing. At the last moment, just before the chair clatters to the ground, she leaps up and on to the edge of the booth on all fours.
"I guess that's a no?!" Risani cheekily states before she chooses the better part of valor: running! Uncoiling her legs, she bounds to the side headed towards the counter of the bar.
The Duros oofs and drops his own blaster as Zevin blindsides him. There's a struggle then but he is definitely outclassed by the better armored, and probably better trained, bounty hunter. He squirms on the ground, unable to get his footing, before choosing to try and twist to throw a hook at the man's face.
"Colo is here?!" Mollie says, swiveling her head to look over her shoulder just as she squeezes the trigger at the man swinging an elbow or a knee or trying to bite Zevin or whatever futile thing he's trying to get up to. The Caelli-Merced doesn't kick when it fires. It just hucks a hot blaster bolt that poings harmlessly into the wall. Leaves a singe mark, but, you know. "Colo! Why are you everywhere and nowhere? Worst accountant, I swear," Mollie says, and then turns back to look at the flailing man beneath Zevin. She sighs, levels the shot, and pulls the trigger. It crashes into the man's back and singes through armor, burrowing somewhere into his spine. If he ain't dead, he's definitely not feeling very good.
"I feel like no one is listening to me," Mollie complains, and turns to look at Bobby Bigsnacks. She rolls her eyes and opts to throw her blaster at him instead of actually shooting him. It sails high through the air above him and lands harmlessly on the floor. Makes a really loud -CLUNK- though.
"Ugh," she says, and turns to look at Sela and her beverage. "That looks disgusting. Please don't drink that. Will you promise me?" Mollie asks. Her right hand lifts into the air, palm up, for some weird reason.
Well, as the shooting and fisticuffs started, that was one problem sorted. And having made her way to the door, Amal stepped out. No need to get involved in something that was most assuredly not her problem. best of luck, folks! The echani who was not the one riding a Duros to the ground stepped out.
So far, Zevin is doing a fine job of handling himself and then his ship's captain is joining in to whup some shebbs. So there's no call for him to bother himself with lending them back up. The Mandalorian garbed in black armor merely watches. Who knew that Pakko's came with it's own entertainment.
Hahtavi's gaze slips from one point of interest to another, watching among other things, how Risani moves. There's just something about Farghul that are easy on the eyes.
One boot is picked up and shifted. Not to get up though. Hahtavi crosses one ankle over the other. If he otherwise stays still a while one might think he was settling in for a nap. In the midst of the fight.
The door opens to admit one Shaali Brak, notably -not- in her flight suit. Instead, she's grabbed whatever off-the-rack crap she could find. For a top, she has a simple black shirt on that proclaims 'I <3 Nar Shadaa'. For bottoms, yellow rain pants that sit over her boots. And she currently has a rain coat folded over one arm. Hearing the commotion, and then seeing it once she enters doesn't seem to deter the middle aged woman, who draws the blocky blaster pistol from her hip and tucks it up under the rain coat. The movement is easily spotted by anybody who sees her.
With blaster shots comes stray blaster rounds, evidenced by the one that just buried itself into the wall. And that's cause to find cover, which Shaali does quickly enough. Squatting down and keeping low, she scampers across the floor until she comes to a stop by a tipped over table. It probably won't stop a blaster shot, but it's better protection than the not-even-warm shirt she has on. "I just wanted a drink," she laments, peeking over the table to watch the action.
Sela's occasional captain and occasional co-worker murder the unprintable-expletive out of some Duros who probably had a wife and a family and dreams, who was probably just working this job on the side so he could afford that cabin on Nal Ponda, by the lake, the lake where he asked his wife to marry him and she said yes though he had not a credit in the world at that point, nothing more than a rusty vibroblade, a soul full of poetry, and a willingness to do anything--anything--to make sure that she could live in happiness, in health, and in beauty.
And Sela herself's not too bothered about -that-. About the death. It's the -noise-. She flinches at the gunfire within inches of her ears, and while one hand holds the blue crud the other goes up to her ear, as if that's going to help. The crust of whatever on top of her drink, which for all she knows is very healthful, wavers on top of the unidentifiable substance like Sela's on the verge of wobbling on her barstool.
"Why is there so much," another sound in Binary, probably a cuss word from how the droid behind the counter reacts, "shooting?" Sela cries. As if it's not -fair- on Sela that Mrs. von Duros, as she stands on the shore weaving flowers into her daughter's hair, is suddenly seized by an icy hand around her heart telling her something terrible, almost the worst thing possible, has happened, somewhere far from her.
She does not verbally respond to Mollie's request for a promise. But from the way she puts the blue on the table, grabs Mollie's beer, and drinks half of it, it's probably implicit."
Rolling to his feet, with a <"Thanks, Moll."> for the roasted Duros, and a <"It'll be over in a jiff, hon"> to Sela, Zevin charges towards Risani and her pursuer. It's her pursuer who takes it poorly, being slammed up against the bar by a flying tackle. He slams Bobbie's head against the bar a few times. <"Can we just-"> Slam. <"-drink-"> Slam! <"-in peace?"> No more slams yet. <"Take whatever it is-"> He points towards Risani. <"-outside, or don't do anythin' at all, all right?">
He says to the droid without looking. <"The usual."> It reaches for a fridge below the bar and comes out with a bottle of something that claims to be Corellian. But at least the bottle seal is intact. Then he hauls Bobbie further up so they can look visor-to-eye.
Bobby regains his footing after his haymaker and violently shoves himself off of the table. The onslaught on the piece of furniture is not victimless as lukearm ale spills from a tipped over bottle and cascades in a lurid waterfall all over the Rodian's pants. He scrambles up and screeches with a staticky moan at the affront, trying fruitlessly to dry off the putrid smelling liquid before it sets. In the chase, the merc has the advantage taking the inside of the circle as the Farghul rounds the circumference of the bar. Despite the counterbalancing of her tail and the alacrity of her limbs, the human is able to beeline straight towards her unobstructed.
Bobby reaches out to try and grab Risani's clothing.
Risani leaps and slides along the length of the bar, scattering beverages and glasses all over the place in a cacophony of breaking glasses and annoyed patrons.
Risani recovers relatively quickly as she spills over the edge of the counter. When she emerges, she immediately pivots to suss out the location of her assailant. With the counter between her and Bobby, she grins impishly and points. "Hah! You slow chonker!" Saucer-like ears twitching, she sets her hands on her hips and gyrates in a rude gesture despite being covered in a motley concoction of poorly mixed drinks. Then Zevin intervenes. Risani covers her shocked face with the palms of her hands.
"Oh my gosh, what the kriff are you doing?!" Risani shrieks. Happy to take the suggestion the Mando offers, she salutes and zips on out of the bar.
Bobby gasps as his torso is crushed against the counter and his lungs are forcefully emptied of air. His face comes back bloody and mangled but it's not the dull-eyes of the dazed that turns to regard Zevin, it's the manic energy of someone just getting their stride. He is happy to throw body shots in answer to the suggestion that they just all be friends.
The chiss made her way towards the bar, rolling her eyes as she notices the Mandalorians beating someone up "Look, I am sure you have a pleasant time, but I would prefer not to be shot at." she offers, pressing her cane up against Bobby, quite a bit of electricity going through him "As I was planning to get a drink. And I don't exactly like the taste of blood, surprisingly."
Shaali Brak pulls her weapon out from under the raincoat, flipping the safety on as she slides it back into the holster that rides low on her hip. She also stands back up, eyes following the form of the retreating Farghul. "I don't envy the bathroom she chooses to clean up in," muttered to no one in particular. She then begins to pick her way towards the bar, stepping over debris and the unconscious without much consideration. She needs breakfast.
One bellied up to the bar, she looks to the throng of people beating the tar out of the now bloodied Bobby. "So... come here often?" Then there's a distinct wrap of her knuckles on the bar, and she's looking for the bartender. Whose attention is preoccupied. Because gunfight.
Mollie's hand is up in the air and she's making some odd gesture. A soft squeeze of her thumb towards her palm sees that blaster flyyyyyyyy across the room and snap into Mollie's palm. Zevin is punching and Xyomara is zapping and Risani is bolting and poor Sela is chugging. Well. Things seem to be in order. Mollie tucks that blaster back into her thigh holster and tactfully takes the ale from Sela's likely-trembling fingers.
"You get used to the noise. The smell, less so," she says. Mollie slams the other half of that ale and slings Sela's arm over her shoulder. She's not a tall woman by any means, but she's taller than Sela. She hoists the girl up into the air and holds her a bit like she's a Princess or a bride or a Princess Bride (good movie).
A bit reckless with regards to her head, though. Swings her about a little too haphazardly as she talks to Zevin.
"I think this one is about to have a nice panic cry, and those are always dodgey in public. Can we have nerfloaf tonight?" she asks Zevin. Doesn't wait for a response, though. Just sort of carries Sela out of the bar and nearly bonks her noggin on the way out.
"Oh, watch your head love," she'll say, after it's thunked or narrowly thunked.
Ah, and down goes the second merc. Not dead perhaps but knocked out, ready to pick up and toss back out into the street like so much rubbush. One can sympathize if they have ever taken such work and appreciate only being tossed out unconscious instead of dead. Dead is harder to recover and learn from.
Hahtavi takes his hands off of his rifle that was resting across his lap and 'golf' claps as the two are finally put down. He finally shifts his weight and draws his legs back up, slipping his rifle back to the magnetic clasp beside his jetpack. The Kora gets comfortable again in his chair and recrosses his ankles.
Maybe Hahtavi is waiting for another contact that's supposed to meet him here. Or maybe not.
Sela manages to keep her head from thunking on anything as Mollie carries her out. Actually, for all her panic, which is being very accurately diagnosed, being carried out of a bar seems to be something she's comfortable with. She sort of half-hooks her knees around Mollie's bicep and ducks away from being concussed. So her head does not hurt. <"Don't come here often 'nough, sounds like. Nobody takes out the trash."> Zevin drags the unconscious mercenary to the door and heaves him off to one side. When he returns to the bar, he pops the bottle cap off against his forearm armor. <"Sure, sure,"> is the answer to the dinner request. Then he removes his helmet with a hiss of air, setting it on the bar.
"Sorry 'bout the trouble. I cannot abide such rudeness." He's got silver-white and black hair speckled throughout his buzzed beard and hair, blue eyes, and without the armor it's obvious he's older than the way he moves would indicate - late thirties, early forties. "Hope 't don't change your 'pinion a' the place. Friend a' mine's thinkin' a' investin' here, looks like, an' he'd sure 'ppreciate yer business."
He lifts a bottle towards Shaali, then takes a sip. "'m Zevin Daodhri." He points a finger from around the neck of his beer in the other Mandalorian's direction. "'at's Hahtavi Kora. An' - well, the others I knew just left."
"Yay!" Mollie can be heard, elated, as she exits the bar. "I love nerfloaf! Sela, you are going to love it. He puts a spicy and sweet and tangy sauce on top and if you make the best puppy dog eyes at him, he'll do buptatoes too. Thinly-sliced like and fried in the drippings. I'm telling you, it is absolutely bang on. Best dinner you can have. And how do you get your hair so pretty? I try every day when I'm..." Mollie's voice gets quieter as she walks away until, eventually, it fades into the sound of rain.
Hrmmm. Something finally gets through to him and the Kora's baritone rumbles through his helmet's vocoder, <"Sounds good. I've been told that my vod is a good cook. Mayhap I should come by your ship sometime to find out for myself if it's true."> A self invite? Perhaps, since the Captain slips out ere she might hear his comment.
Ah hah! Brak /finally/ gets to find out his name. This Mandalorian gives her a faint nod. He hasn't removed his helmet yet though. The food and drink here hasn't tempted him into it thus far.
An unseen brow arches and he asks of Zev, <"Who's investing in this dump? Colo?"> Haht did see him pop out of the back for a moment, then duck back out. "So he has a name," muses Shaali, eyes flitting to land on Hahtavi. That terribly amused smile spreads across her face, and she lifts a hand to give him a little finger wave. "He was being shy the other day. If that's the same man. The armor looks familiar, at least." Her hand rests back on the bar, and her fingers begin to drum lightly on it. "Well I'm Shaali Brak. It's a pleasure to make your aquaintance, Zevin... Daodhri was it?"
But then the bartender has her attention, and the drumming stops as she finger guns down at Zevin. "One of those, please." Then the finger gun change targets, and points at Xyomara, "And another for the psychotic blue person. Whom I would not recommend angering, especially if you're a rampaging Nexu." Xyomara raises an eyebrow, lowering her cane, supporting herself on it "I'm not psychotic..." she offers, with a tilt of her head "Whatever happened to give you that idea, Miss?"
"You def'nitely should." Mollie may be gone, but Zevin will authorize whoever he wants to come to a dinner he cooks, even if it is her ship. He nods to Hahtavi. "'m not bad," he allows. "Shaali? Nice ta meet you." He tips back his beer bottle for a heavy swig. "'t's news to me, but Colo sure sounded like he was talkin' contracts an' finances when he dipped outta the back room jus' then. Who knows? Maybe this'll be the next Blue Light."
It won't be the next Blue Light.
"Would kinda lose its charm then, though. This place is /traditional/. Been here for years an' years. Maybe a criminal front, maybe not, but it always stays in business somehow." He looks around at the run-down establishment. "How many bars close in their first year, yet this one lasts decades? 'ey're doin' somethin' right."
No one can see his brief scowl, <"Let's /not/ have another Blue Light. Bars on Nar Shaddaa should not be owned by pricklish jetiise."> A gloved hand that is missing a finger reaches up to break the seal on his own helmet. Hahtavi removes it, revealing a scarred up human mane's face, middle aged with sandy brown-blonde hair cropped close, broad jaw, stubble, and pale grey eyes. Something did try to rip his face off some months ago to leave claw marks that are now fully healed, as well as older more faded scars. Familiar enough, to some, less so to others.
A flicker of his gaze to Xyomara to whom Haht gives a simple nod ere his baritone rumbles, "Glass of whiskey." That to the droid.
While he waits for it, the Kora glances back to Zev, "I've heard there's an op tonight. You coming along, vod?"
