Log:The Recruitment of Galak Varga
The Recruitment of Galak Varga
OOC Date: October 30, 2016
Location: The Blue Light
Participants: Galak Varga, Ambrosia Greystorm
And the Resistance grows by one....
Scene Set: The Blue Light - Corellian District, Nar Shaddaa A few steps lead up through the doorway into this tavern in the Corellian District. Once inside one will immediately be bombarded by smells of smoke, people and even food. The sensory perceptions are not let down there though. Conversation also fills the air within this watering-hole's walls. There is a long bar along the back wall, furthest from the entrance, tables where patrons rest and booths on either sides of the tables.
Off to the right of the main entrance is a small set of stairs that lead up into a mid-level area where more tables are setup, but these are designed for the use of Sabacc or other games of chance. This is one of the most liveliest bars in the Corellian district, anyone who's anyone on Nar Shaddaa often comes in here.
"You figure out that sequence yet?" A husky voice queries over the Blue Light's din into a com bud on her shoulder. The Major is slumped in a booth along the leftmost wall on the lower level, near the back. She listens to the muffled reply while pinning every body that filters in and out of the establishment with a squint-eyed once-over. "Copy." She kills the transmission with her thumb, then drains the remaining froth in her glass before thumping the glass bottom on the table once to snag the attention of a passing server droid. She sets the empty atop its tray and places her order for a refill.
Entering into the Blue Light, a figure dressed in the light armor of the Wayward Guild passes through the door and begins making his way through those crowded about to belly up to the bar somewhat near Ambrosia. Upon receiving the whiskey slid his way, Galak glances left and right, eyeing those who are enjoying the establishment alongside him with a similar squinty eyed glare. His eyes halt their survey when they find Ambrosia, eyeing her with obvious interest.
Ambrosia tracks the familiar uniform up until he orders his drink, then averts her eyes just enough to not make that direct contact. One glance is casual caution, utilized by every living body on the Smuggler's Moon. Two glances amps 'casual' up to passing curiosity. But three...a few blinks failing to put the young man's eyes elsewhere...that's dangerous.
When the droid returns with a cheery bleep, she reaches with her left hand to claim the ale and tip it some creds. Her right remains in her lap, fingers edging beneath the leathery flap of jacket. Just in case.
Galak's attention never wavers from that of the old Resistance officer. Lifting his glass, he makes his way closer to the woman, holding his hands to either side as he does so to ensure that the woman can see that he has no weapon in his hands other than that stout and cheap grade of whiskey in that glass. "So..." he says quietly, a faint smile on his features as he turns to face the bar and crosses his arms atop the bar before him, now beside Ambrosia. "A wanted criminal with a hefty bounty on their head walks into a bar..." he chuckles as he turns a sideways glance upon the woman, "Is there a punchline here? Or do you think you can take me before I take you?" He squares his shoulders, turning another look upon the woman, but the smirk on his features gives him away and his jest is likely plain to see.
"Oh, there's a punchline, son." Cept Greystorm isn't smiling. Her left hand rises with a little quiver - nervous nerves or damaged ones? - to deliver a healthy swallow of booze down the hatch. The other one keeps out of sight, for now. Her head tips slowly to the right, jaw twitching.
Galak grins, a light chuckle escaping him before he says, "Well then, I suppose it is good for one of us that I am not here to try and collect on any such bounty... I can't say that I was not looking for you, however." He takes a slow sip from his drink as his eyes look Ambrosia over. "I wonder... was it an organized effort to strike against the Hutts? Or was it simply a wrong place, wrong time that led to your mug being plastered all over the news with a price tag attached?"
Ambrosia's tongue pries something out from between teeth as she purses her lips in thought, keeping the Waywards whelp under her scrutiny. "I'm no stranger to bad press. 'Fraid I can't take total credit for this, though. Maybe a little bit." The humane, cutting down twitching corpses off nooses bit. "Why. You fancy yourself a journalist? Ax must be taking on aaaall sorts of sorts."
"Journalist? Do I come across to you as a face you see on the holo-videos speaking for whichever side is paying me?" he says, looking a touch affronted. Galak drops an eye in a wink before he says, "Actually, I just stepped away from the Waywards as of..." he lifts his left hand to peer at an old and beaten up watch. "An hour ago? Ax told me that the Corellian District would be a good place to start looking for those fighting against the Hutts. Those resisting, if you will. And here I find you... a wanted terrorist sitting in a bar."
"And here you find me," the Major echoes softly. Her gaze goes back on the level, head tipped back against the wall and boots slide off the bench opposite her, one at a time. "You think we'd be hiding behind masks like the First Order troops? No. We're actually people." Her right hand finally joins the party and gestures harmlessly to the now vacant space.
"Sit."
Galak smirks at the jab toward the First Order and slips into the vacated bench without argument. His hands slide onto of the table between them along with his glass and he watches the woman across from him with interest. "I am looking to join the fight, but I guess we should start at the beginning. My name is Galak Varga. I grew up my entire life on Nar Shaddaa. My mother was a slave to the Hutts and worked in a brothel over in the Hutt District until she got sick and died. I was too young to be of use to them so they threw me out on the streets to die." He takes a large drink from that cheap ass whiskey and swallows the burning fluid down. "I didn't," he says bluntly. "I joined with the Waywards about a year ago, did well for myself as a bounty hunter, and now here I am. I traded in my ship for a Y-wing last week."
Ambrosia listens in silence, rotating her glass back and forth, back and forth between her palms. Did well for himself as a bounty hunter? Hell. She's got kids older than this one. Part of her lip curls upwards into a light scoff. "Congratulations. What the hell did you lose in favor of owning THAT relic? What piques my interest more though, is /why/." Leather scrapes against the faux variety as she shifts in her seat and leans her elbows forward onto the table. One eye watches him, one the door. "Why'd you ditch the Waywards? Word has it they've got a good crew."
A lift of the brow before he says, "Surronian Conqueror. Not a bad ship, but hard to modify given that it isn't of CEC build. Not bad for taking bounties, but I figure if I'm going to war, I want a war ship." He talks another swallow before saying, "As for the Waywards, I love Ax and his crew. But I want in on the fighting. He has a lot to protect."
"We all do." Amber closes her eyes for a moment to savor the next sip, less hasty now that it seems she isn't going to lose her drink to a firefight. "So." Her eyes blink back open to regard Galak appraisingly. "You like a fight. What's in it for you?"
Galak shrugs his shoulders and says, "Like I said. I grew up on this moon. My mother died because of the Hutts. Diseased in one of their brothels and untreated when she became sick. I was cast onto the street to die as well, when I became a burden. I have a score to settle. What other reason is there?"
"Thing is," the half finished ale gets plunked back to the tabletop where it sits abandoned as the old rebel folds her arms over her chest and leans back in her seat, "this 'war' is bigger than any score. Bigger'n any one of us. Any grudges. Any losses. If I put you in the field, your reasons don't get to be about you. Best you know that now, else years from now - if you survive that long - you'll find yourself bitter than you didn't get to cross all the names off your list." One brow dips sternly, her mouth set into a sideways frown.
Chuckling, Galak shakes his head and says, "The Hutt that did my mother in was Zira. She is a few Hutts gone by now anyways. So are the people who managed the house that I grew up in. People like that never seem to make it long. Not the ones on the bottom, anyways. I just don't want to see the next poor gutter kid in the same shape as I was, if you catch my drift." He looks down at his palm and considers them for a moment. "Surely you can understand that, can't you?"
More than he knows...
"Sure," Ambrosia grunts with the spirit of one who's ready to jump topics. "So you're a pilot. Traded in the bartering of flesh for cred for a feisty bird. You fancy yourself dogfighting material, Ace? Or how do you suppose you'll best earn your bread, working for the Resistance?" The call of the ale is a strong one and she can't leave it alone any longer. While he replies, the Major tips it back and drains it one lazy gulp at a time before it gets warm.
Shaking his head quickly, Galak says, "Oh no. Not a dogfighter. Not yet. I can fly the pants off of anyone in this room, but I am not too polished when it comes to aerial combat. But I am working on it when I can. It's hard to just get out and practice that as a civilian. I can fire as many rounds as I want out into empty space, but it doesn't really make it the same as shooting an actual adversary." He considers the question for a moment before saying, "I am a good shot with a rifle. And not bad with disguises and subterfuge. I had hoped to enlist as a sniper and scout while I polish my dogfighting."
Amber offers a noncommittal 'hmph' and pushes her empty to the table's edge with one finger. "Suppose Rake could use a little company on his recon outings..." she scratches at her chin. "Tell ya what. You show up between the explosives supply and armor outfitter in the Gearhead District tomorrow morning. Sharp. We can talk more then, if you're serious about signing your life away. I don't tolerate desertion, if you get my drift."
There is a nod of his head before he says, "I'll be there. Make sure you aren't late." The last is said with a faint chuckle as Galak turns up his own glass of whiskey and finishes it off before sliding his glass across the table to join Amber's. "Should I bring my rifle as well?" he asks.
"You bet." Ambrosia remains anchored to her seat, not showing signs of abandoning post anytime soon. "Along with any other tricks up your sleeve you feel like demonstrating. I wanna see what you've got."
