Log:Unwanted Sensorship: Part 1
The search for Ringo the Bothan begins!
OOC Date: January 3, 2019
Participants: GM: Artemis, Usha, Merek, Hopp_Nooram
The shuttle is serviceable: an old relic from a war gone past judging by the scuff marks on the hull and the occasional non-descript crimson stain visible between the seats, but it's comfortable enough and high quality rivets and welds suggest that someone's paying attention. Up in the cockpit, a Duros works the controls. The seat next to him is empty, as is the one for navigation or sensory control. The only other non-contractor looms in the back with the rest of the participants. Gruff and covered in no-nonsense clothing, with a bandolier and the scars to match, the middle-aged human hangs from a support bar somewhat listlessly. It's clear he's done this run before in a similar ship as he seems unperturbed by the jostling during the flight. "All right, we're approaching the blockade now," the man explains as he straightens, presumably doing so to improve the aura of command he appears to be cultivating. "I am simply Quartmaster and Beezo is the pilot." He thumbs over his shoulder towards the Duros: he doens't bother looking over his shoulder. The human continues. "You will have twenty-four hours to complete an incursion planetside. You have been provided with a rough map that shows you its location. You will have to make a stop at a nearby mining camp to get passes to get in to the underground facility or find some other means of entry." "The contact in the mining camp is named Ringo, he's a furry Bothan and wears a white jacket with a purple rancor on the back. He will be at the only cantina in the mining camp." "You have also been provided with the credits to pay him and some for whatever expenses you may incur. Additionally, one of you will be responsible for babysitting this." The man kicks a pack towards the group. "Six anti-structure mines. You also have each been given a transponder that you may use for evac assuming you're not taking on too much heat." "Don't farking call me if you are being chased," the Duros finally pipes up with the usual rhythmic rattle of vocal cords that aren't used to uttering basic. "I'm not paid enough for heroics." "Don't mind him," Quartermaster mutters, "introduce yourselves if you wish. Share your skillsets and for kriff's sake shut up when we get to the blockade."
Merek has heard about the job which is asked for. He needs to make some extra credits, also make some actual contacts. He has on what looks like tan and brown armor which is meant for combat. He looks from the helmet to others, "Ah, some guy," he says, while he checks his weapons
Usha is only half-paying attention to the briefing. She is instead has a compact mirror open and when the ship makes a hard bump, her wand smears some over her cheek, which illicits an annoyed groan. "Oh honestly!" The magenta alien gives up and puts her things away back into her pocket of her armor, which is pristine from lack of use. Quickly wiping the mistake off her face, she greets the rest with a warm smile. "Hello darlings, I'm Usha - please forgive my appearance." She delicately pats at her hair a bit, which is all wrapped up in a pretty little scarf that compliments her armor. Like hell is she going to get it messed up on this job. "I'l go ahead and do the baby sitting, I'm /amazing/ with children." Without hesitation she picks up the pack. Clearly she missed the part where there are MINES in it.
"Hello everyone. My name is Hopp Nooram and I am an addict. It has been..." the grizzled old man in the Mandalorian armor consults at timepiece of his wrist, the other hand on the top of the dome of the helmet in his lap. "Fifteen minutes since my last relapse. My skills include being older than the rest of you put together including the shuttle and an IQ twice as high as the next smartest person in this beat-up jalopy. I make drugs, which- which might contribute to my addictions, but- but- you know, it's not simple or anything like that, alright, I- come talk to me after you turn sixty and see if you don't want some hair of the akk dog, okay, is all I'm saying."
Out comes a cig, jammed into the corner of his mouth while he fires up a lighter to get it going. "Oh yeah, I also make like, bombs. But that's more of a hobby, I mean, you- you gotta find something to fill the time, am I right kid?" A punch at Merek's shoulder. "Ha ha. Yeah, you- you heard about this job too huh? I guess that's how you ended up in this ship about to do the job, right? Krif, what a- what a bizarre story. You- you carry the bombs, I'm too old for this, I just- I just want to watch, okay, I'll- I wanna push the button." When Usha grabs the pack, he squints over at her. "Yeah I'm good with this."
Quartermaster's judgment is unspoken and instead betrayed by the pressing of his lips together until they become barely a line amongst the other creases on his weather worn face. The white streaks of starlines fall away as the shuttle lurches out of hyperspace with a rattle of metal and the creaking groan of durasteel long past its best before date. In the distance, through the viewports, a bluish-green hued planet can be seen in the distance flanked by several moons. "Bith spit," Beezo curses. The exclamation is enough to draw Quartermaster's attention such that he steals a glance over his shoulder out the front cockpit viewport as he continues to lean casually using the support bar overhead to keep him from succumbing to the ship's artificial gravity. The reason behind the curse is readily apparent as a derelict interdictor cruiser chugs in to view. It's clear that it's also a salvaged tub, half of it out of commission to even the lay viewer, but some of the turbolaser batteries are clearly functional and in the current bucket the group is riding in even the tiniest amount of navy surplus salvage could wipe it out of existence. "Identify yourself and transmit your travel permits," a metallic voice resonates over all available frequencies with the force of someone that knows they're in the biggest ship in the sector. Nervously, the Duros reaches forward and presses a few buttons, gangly fingers shaking and unsteady. "Erm, this is the Bouncing Beezle shuttling in demolition workers as scheduled." Quartermaster just shakes his head.
Merek picks up his rifle and begins to check the pack within it, then he looks to the others towards the front, blinking at Hopp with that light nudge from him, "Ah, right... I am just here to make some credits, you know, things like that." He looks then to Usha as well as the other man with a nod, while he looks to the front at the conversation.
"Aren't we all though, darling?" Usha says idly to Merek as she too takes a quick opportunity to smoke a quick one before the job. "I highly doubt anyone's here for the thrill - Mama needs a new pair of fur boots. Light me up Hopp?" As always, she's forgotten her own lighter and expectantly waits for the old corpse to help her out in this bind. "Demolitions workers?" The Zeltron asks in confusion. Yeah, she definitely wasn't paying attention to the briefing. Or the job listing for that matter. But she doesn't question it. "Okay yeah, demolitions workers. I can be that."
"Right, right, things like that, of- of course," Hopp agrees, with a dry chuckle that reminds the listener of two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together. When the broadcast regarding demolition workers goes out, he yells towards the cockpit, "Yeah! And- and we want our pensions! It ain't right!" Ignoring the request from the Zeltron, he puts the lighter away, flicking his cig butt into a corner. "I'm guessing we're not going to keep up this farce for too long, huh? I mean, they're gonna take one look at her and the jig is up, so..." The helmet in his lap is fidgeted with meaningfully.
"You are clear, Bouncing... Beezle," the voice on the other side of the comms finally responds after a pregnant minute. Beezo allows the breath he'd been holding to leave his lungs at that point, his posture softening as he sinks back in to the pilot's seat as he realizes he'd stiffened up. "Please be aware that large electrical storms are forming near the mining camp. It is recommended you depart immediately after your passengers disembark or you remain in port until they pass." "Affirmative, thanks for the heads up," Beezo responds before throttling up the shuttle and veering left in to the planet's gravity well. "Hopp Nooram, was it? Not very good at following directions are you? This is your last chance for questions," Quartermaster notes as he seats himself and goes about the practiced process of doing up his five-point harness. "Hold on to your lunch, this trip's always a rough one on good days." As the ship descends in to the atmosphere, the heat shields buck and roll like a non-descript Jedi riding a Reek. Anyone not properly buckled in will have a bad time and even those securely pinned down may wish that they had reconsidered their meal choices. Quartermaster presses back in to his seat, stabilizing his upper body by planting his combat-boot adorned feet as hard as he can manage on to the ground. Beezo appears to be having an easier time of it.
Merek settles back, and doesn't seem too bothered with their landing. He seems to be used to ships, while he relaxes a bit and places a hand upon the rail meant to assist for when landing. He looks to the others, "Alright, I'll be here to assist if required."
Usha gasps when the cig is flicked into the corner and with a pout she insists, "Rude! There are definitely /lady/ demolitionists out there!" She pauses to look over at Beezo and ask, "Right?" With a sigh, she gives up on the cigarette too, putting it away instead for her little powder pouch. They were warned about a likely exciting landing. In one well-practiced motion, she gathers some of the spice onto her pinky nail, delivering it to her system with a quick SNORT SNORT before offering some to the Quartermaster. "Will this Ringo character be with us the whole way or is he just giving us entry?"
Hopp, by contrast, seems extremely bothered, his old bones rattling around in the seat as they land, and when things finally settle down a little he lets out a tired groan. "If required?" he grunts at Merek, giving him a gimlet eye. "She's gonna carry the bombs, you're gonna plant the bombs, and I'm gonna push the button, I- I'm old! Maybe- I mean, if it looks like a good time, I'll shoot some people. But the rest of the time I'm- I'm gonna be supervising. ...Does it always take this long to land? When I was your age we /landed/, we didn't- we didn't float around talking about it!" A bony finger points at Beezo.
Beezo's response to Usha is one of the disinterested with better things to focus on than some other humanoid's insecurities. "Sure," is all he ventures and it obviously lacks any sort of veracity. Quartermaster eyes Usha flatly for a moment, burnished eyes flickering between the spice and the woman's sylph-like form. "That's up to you to figure out. You've been provided with the tools; use them." Despite the racket, the group bursts through the cloud cover and in to the hazy, humid air unscathed and missing only a handful of hull plates. As the ship rights itself, syncing up with the horizon line after banking gently and tilting up, it complains a little less audibly. With a metallic click, Quartermaster's harness disconnects and the straps coil back in to the seat. The shuttle zips in to a grubby little spaceport just outside of an prefab settlement vaguely reminiscient of a series of egg cartons stacked side by side. Beezo wastes no time in dropping the cargo ramp. Everyone is immediately assailed by the scrabbling claws of briney metallic offal and sickly humidity. The gloomy, overcast skies mix with a persistent light rain that one can't quite tell the source of despite the obvious cloud. There's a yellowish tint to the sky suggesting that this planet has little in the way of environmental controls. Large, city-scale processing plants are visible on the horizon line belching sulphurish, ochre hued smoke in to the sky. Sure enough, nearly opposite to the facilities is a huge, dense mass of roiling clouds along which electricity arcs menacingly with a ferocity that betrays the fact that it's not the sort of lightning most humanoids would be used to. "Everybody out," Quartermaster barks. "Remember, twenty-hour standard hours. Ringo. The sensor array is over there." He points and an obvious sensor dish is pointed up in to the sky somewhere beyond the camp and next to the pit that whatever the workers here were digging up came from.
"I can plant them, sure," Merek tells Hopp, while he nods a bit to the man. He waits while the ship is landing, then he stands up and walks towards the ship's airlock while he looks at the city through the windows, "Beautiful place." He clicks on his comlink while he shifts the helmet upon him to keep away the pollution of the place.
Usha blinks curiously right back at the Quartermaster, confused as to why he wouldn't want to partake in her spice. "Up to me to figure out? Last time someone put this must trust in me ..." She pauses as the powder rushes through her system, making her heart work in double time. With a much more elevated mood she assures, "It was fine. Not to worry, everything will be fine." The good feels are undisturbed by the sad state of their destination, with the electrical storm only adding to her drugged up excitement. "Alright!" she says giving Merek a rough but AMPED UP pat on the back. "Let's blow some shit UP!" Usha pulls the straps of the pack over her shoulders and heads in the pointed direction without so much as a second thought
"You don't have to tell me twice," Hopp grumbles, thumping down the ramp on his long, stilt-like legs, surveying the settlement and the storm beyond. "This is... not the worst place I've been on a job but I'm- I'll tentatively put it in the top ten," he decides, strapping his helmet to his belt by the antenna-looking thing. It's totally meant to do that. "Let's head for the nearest watering hole and find this Ringo, then, but, you know, keep an eye out for fleas. Bothans are notorious for three things: spying, fleas, and getting killed while spying or because they gave the wrong person fleas." Then he's headed into town.
Most of the buildings in the mining camp are the same: a collection of cheap prefabs and ships that had gone far past their natural life to be worth repairing to make airworthy. There are exceptions though for those that choose to look and see what's differentiating itself from the egg carton maze. One might also expect a ghost town, a derelict, ramshackle set of non-descript alleyways and equally downtrodden denizens, but this place is full of life from all corners of the galaxy. Those working here are either well paid, well drugged, or some combination of the sort as they go about their business shouting expletives, shoving each other around, drinking on the street, and otherwise carousing with with the vigor of a Nar Shadda club goer. Most carry a grin on their face even if they're involved in a brawl with other workers.
By contrast, the mining pit and what can be seen from what's labelled the spaceport is organized and efficient. A network of machine and flesh working in remarkable harmony to ship around some curiously orange-limned mineral. Most of it seems to be offloaded to enormous machines that feed a pipeline that leads off towards the processing plants in the distance. The security also appears to be paying attention: wandering about in small groups they seem keen to not get involved in the carousing in the streets provided they don't appear to be killing each other particularly quickly and they're not getting near the obvious money-making operations near the pit itself. "Good luck," Quartermaster calls with a curt salute. He grabs on to the overhead support bar and immediately, the shuttle lifts off even before the cargo ramp has fully closed. It twists and darts back towards the cloudline with the massive storm at its rear still approaching the city.
Merek walks with the others while he nods to Usha when she pats him, "Alright, well first thing is first, we need to find some of those passports," he looks then to Hopp, "Should... You do all the talking?" he knows that is not the best idea, although that might be fun. He shifts one of his paws to the hip while he looks to the horizon.
"Well, he said the Bothan would be at the only cantina in the camp, but ..." Usha steps began with a steady, confident stride until she passes a few of the non-descript prefabs and the identical looking alley ways and corners in between. "Honestly, everything here looks exactly the same. We'll be lost here forever ..." In frustration, she scratches at her scarf-wrapped hair until an inebriated looking Squib passes them by. Quickly, she follows after him before he gets too far away and inquires, "Sir! Sir!" Her magenta hands flail to get the tiny, furry alien's attention. "You wouldn't happen to know where a girl could get a drink around here, would you?"
The squib staggers forward until the strangely alien voice knocks him out of his malaise with a twitch of the ears and a sloppy whirl of his feet. The about-face nearly knocks him on his rump but he's kept aloft by an idea and the coy smile that slides on to his fuzzy face. "For a kiss, maaaaaaaybe?" The Squib chuckles and belches polluting the already acrid air with a strangely effluvial, tinny scent. Leaning forward, the Squib makes puckering up noises as best as he can with his muzzle.
There's a long moment while the other two are talking that Hopp actually spends in silence, just sort of... taking it all in, bony fists resting on his hips. "...On second thought, this place... I love this place. I- I want to stay here and live her forever now. I- I don't think I'm going back, pinkie, look- look at the people, they- they hate each other and no one gives two shits about it, and- down there, the- the mine, it- it's beautiful. I can't go back. Go- go on without me, okay, it- I'll be alright," the old coot grates, wandering up to the nearest egg carton and running his crepe-skinned fingers over its nondescript surface. "You're perfect," he whispers lovingly. Whatever accosting is going on behind him is ignored. He's having a moment!
Merek looks to the Squib when it seems like he is making issue with Usha, and also he will look to Hopp with a lift of his brow. He wiggles up that nose of his a bit, while he looks to the squib for a moment, thinking about what he can do, but doesn't cause any issues while he sees how the woman will handle it.
On the one hand, Usha has given away kisses for much more insignificant reasons. On the other hand, none of the interested parties has ever sported such rancid breath as this Squib does at the moment. The Zeltron looks to Merek, who takes no action, and then to Hopp, who falling in love with this camp like a basic biatch in Paris. "Eh alright, I'm going for it guys." Bracing herself, she aggressively pushes the tiny creature back up against a wall, painfully digs her nails into his fur, and says, "Okay... you ready?" She puckers up with the most awkward of faces seeing as she's trying not to breath.
The furry beast seems to roll with it; his inebriated state greasing the wheels as Usha betrays the entire Zeltron species' carefully cultivated sultry image with one clumsy advance. Thump thump thump. The Squib's tail wags like a jackhammer. He pants with reckless abandon in anticipation of his good fortune!
Merek sighs, while he takes a moment to place a hand upon Usha's shoulder, "He's drunk, I don't think he will have any good directions," he says, as he looks to the squib, though if she wishes to still do it, he won't keep her from it.
"Just get it over with," Hopp calls from the periphery, pausing to crack his back with a loud pop. "Let it happen, already, this is- you got your thing, later I'll have to- sometimes the button fights back, okay," the old man continues to ramble, as his timepiece vibrates and reminds him to reach into a pocket on his leg and pop open a compartment on his pill-minder. "We all gotta do our part," and down the hatch goes the pill without a drink to chase it. "If he's drunk he'll have the best directions. We're trying to get to the only watering hole in town."
"Shut up and let me kiss this thing," Usha waves her magenta hand around at Hopp and Merek. She can't focus while you're talking! Clenching her eyes shut, she simply just leans in and plants one on the lucky fool. All the while she silently gags whilst all the hard work she spent applying her lip gloss is wasted away.
There are no words to describe how thoroughly the Squib's elongated tongue plasters the blue-hued Zeltron's face with spittle and earnest enjoyment for the contact of another warm-blooded creature that hasn't spent the entire day in the mine. He only needs the moment she presses in close to take advantage of the situation like an earnest puppy! "Awoo," The Squib goes basic instinct, struggling for a moment beneath the Zeltron's pointed grip with heavy panting the least of his fervent motions. Fortunately for Usha, the furry creature is sluggish and small enough to be restrained. "The Yellow Star of course!" He points eastward, tail flopping back and forth.
"Alright well while you're doing that I'm going to- you know, I'm going to the cantina, but you do your thing, Pinkie," Hopp announces, throwing up his bony hands into the air in a gesture of helplessness. "The- we're down to like twenty three and a half hours! That's like eighty-four thousand seconds! The- time is running out!" Another cig is produced, and shoved into the corner of his mouth as he heads for what appears to be a central thoroughfare, and the heavier traffic of both revelers and patrolmen both. Constables, whatever. By coincidence, the Squib points in the same direction.
Merek looks to the zeltron as well as the squib, while he nods a bit when they receive the information. "Well, that's one way," he mentions, while he shakes his head a bit and looks to the weather while he moves to the direction that was mentioned.
While a well-known landmark for those here, it's clear (haha!) as to why the cantina is so hard to see: it's literally transparent. Transparisteel defines this low slung building that's actually smaller than the outside buildings but it's plain to see that there's a staircase that leads deeper in to the bowels of the den of sin and entertainment. Statues, fabric finery, and golden filligree are kept in top shape by an army of droids that never ceases to scrub the pollution from the surface of the building. Outside and within, the law lingers but they don't seem to be accosting even the most violent of the guests as long as everyone appears to be fighting fair and no permanent injuries are being dished out.
"aaahhhh....." Usha's face scrunches as she stands there covered in Squib saliva and regret. And once the alien has finished, she gives him another good shove to the side before offering a curt, "Thank you." Taking quicker steps eastbound, she pulls out her pouch again taking a deep, sweet SNNOOOORRRRRTTTT as she approaches the clear establishment. "I need a drink Hopp," she says, waiting for no one while she heads straight for the stairway downward.
Shrill whistles pierce the air, well-natured shouting, and the clatter of glass and furniture alike punctuate the ambience further. Sabbac, it seems, is not a game that's played here. Instead, pseudo-skillful games of chance vaguely reminiscient of skeeball and various coin dropping plinko activities dominate the floor. Alcohol flows more or less freely, credit chits thrown about across the bar that flanks one side of the cantina resulting in large containers of brackish fluid being passed the other direction.
How any work gets done with the building being as crowded as it is is anyone's guess. Unlike the orange-uniformed individuals at the mine, one may note that everyone here is dressed in whatever rough-and-tumble wear they may have accrued one way or another. Leather slacks, tunics, and vests are favored and fit loosely. The humidity probably doesn't allow for much in the way of form-fitting attire and the Zeltron is likely the prettiest humanoid on the planet by a parsec or two if only because the woman has bathed recently unlike most of the female denizens in the crowd.
"Well that's too damn bad," Hopp growls to the Zeltron as he elbows through the door into the establishment and down the stairs as well, his knees protesting with the activity but continuing all the same. "Officer," he greets amiably before his head vanishes below the level of the floor, and then the wisp of his grey hair. "We need that money for- for ringing Ringo's bell. Anybody see that white jacket with the purple whatever?"
"Looks like it will storm within the hour also," Merek tells to the others, while he walks up to the place with them, nodding a bit. He will let them do all speaking while he watches the crowd to see if anything interesting is there.
The guard's keen eyes alight on Hopp's comparatively elderly figure but he says nothing even if weapons are clearly displayed on the drug dealer's person. The rules are progressive it seems.
Usha desperately wipes herself off with her sleeve, paying very little mind to the Officers seeing as she was on a (side) mission to drink her distressed state away. "I don't give a flying kriff Hopp. I don't even see someone in a tacky rancor jacket around," she says, letting the sounds of working-class pub comfort her. The Zeltron stomps her way to the bar where she orders, "2 ... no 4 shots of Mind Eraser. Fill it up to the top." She pauses however to sniff the air, catching a distinct whiff of something. "Wait..." She sniffs again. "A Bothan has been here at the bar...."
Hopp doesn't notice or care that the guards are checkin' him out. Everyone does, don't they? He's a fine old man, this is known. He's janky and gross is what he really is, but, details. "I'm surprised you can smell anything at all with all the hooch you're snorting on a regular basis, there," the old man grouches at the Zeltron, pushing bony elbows across the table and waving at the tender. "We're looking for a- a Bothan, alright, little furry guy, white jacket, purple rancor on the back, souvenir type deal, you know the kind. Probably acted like he had a chip on his shoulder or something. Maybe a bit of a complex about his height, maybe sensitive about his smell. Maybe he had some fleas, maybe he left some behind? Maybe you kicked him out for it? You see anyone like that in here the last hour or so? I got /five/ whole credits here to jog your memory, okay."
"Credits first," the porcine figure instructs with a menacing point of an index finger towards the counter. Given that that particularly digit of his is nearly as thick as the Zeltron's wrist on its own, and the scars about the hamhocked fists attached to those same large digits, it's likely he knows how to use them. "And we only serve Snorg here."
Merek walks with the others while he looks to some of the patrons, then nodding when it seems Usha has found something to tell them that Ringo was here.
"Fine, I'll take the damn Snorg," Usha relents but adds under her breath, "Kriffing philistines..." As Hopp makes his inquiries about their contact, she throws down the 5 credits along with some extra for the drinks. Flashing a few more chits in her hand she says, "We'll make it worth your while if you lead us to him directly."
As for Hopp, the borderline sentient humanoid merely scratches the top of his noggin'. He's got less hair than Hopp and likely less in the mental faculty department as well despite not being subject to nearly as much self-inflicted substance abuse.
"Uh, Rango? Ringo? Dingo? Dango? One of those righto?" His voice is deep, and rumbles with the throaty bass of an active volcano, but there's a childish twinge in it that evacuates any threat of force. The Zeltron's presence or something about her mannerisms seems to be putting him off balance. "Owes the boss money," he thumbs over his shoulder, "just left maybe." His thumb and forefinger reach up to scratch his chin. "Can't leave. Gotta provide Snorg." With a sweep of his hand, the credits vanish and three generous mugs of whatever the locals are having take the place of the money.
Five credits is a ridiculously tiny bribe and Hopp seems delighted that it might actually work, his eyes lighting up with miserly joy. "Yeah, one of those, you got him alright. We'll take this for the road," the old coot decides, pushing himself up abruptly from the bar and leaving the mug behind, preferring instead to produce a flask from inside a pocket on the other leg, uncapping it to take a swig as he heads back to the stairs. "Come on, kids. If this is anything like last week's issue of Detective Danger, there's a random encounter with the local constables waiting for us at the top. So like, hang on to your hooties or whatever they call unmentionables on your home planets."
Merek reaches for one of the drinks, while he looks at it, then he places a tip on the bar also. "This stuff looks a bit crappy, thank you," it's a compliment, he seems to have the knowledge of how to converse the barfolk.
"YOU WOT?!" The bartender bellows at Merek, mouth agape and spittle flying as he whirls behind the counter from the glass he was cleaning to shout at the man. A guard glances over. "Oh," the troll-like employee turns back and places the mug with the other mostly clean dishes. The vague clink encourages a smile to creep along his lips even if it's quickly overshadowed by the din of the game and the boisterous crowd. The guard turns back to sweeping his eyes over the crowd.
"Wait! Who's the boss and why does he owe him money?" Usha calls after the bartender, but snakes a magenta arm protectively around the remaining two mugs. "These are mine," she says lifting one mug to down it furiously in one go, pausing only to cover her mouth as if she was going to be sick, "Oh...these taste how outside smells." Considering it for a moment, she then goes for the second one, chugging in the same fashion. "Actually ... these are still awful but they're not half bad." Burping, she follows Hopp out, mentioning, "My mother used to call them her special pajam - wait." She places a hand on the old man's shoulder to stop him from going too far. Once more, her drugged up nostril pick up the scent of Bothan. "He didn't go back up ... he ... went this way." Usha sniffs and then points in the direction of the refresher.
Usha's voice is lost in the cacophony of sound and the miasma of the man's enjoyment of the gentle clinking of mugs.
"The refresher, huh?" Hopp replies, raising his bushy eyebrows without any real consternation, just surprise at the twist this taking. "I really wanted to love this place but, you know Pinkie, the longer I'm here the more I'm starting to hate it. Let's check this out." Pushing the door open, he tromps inside. Presumably, it's kept as clean as the rest of the place, which is really quite impressive all things considered, and Hopp takes this opportunity to check the largest stall for occupancy. "If this is open I'm gonna take a detour," he's muttering to no one in particular. "A man has needs, especially at my age, and- and most of them don't like to be ignored, okay."
Merek moves with the others after he waves to the tender, picking up his drink to sip at it, while he nods to them, "We should try to scout him real quick before he's off to do something else. With the storm, it will make it that much more difficult."
A purple sort of blush begins to form on Usha's pink cheeks. Her movement is much more fluid and at ease than it had been prior to the Snorgs. "I don't know old man. I feel good about it here. I could see why you were so into it before, you kinda just gotta live in the moment, y'know?" Her voice is hazy. Can they even hear her? Does it even matter? She walks off toward the refresher with little inhibition. Clearly its not her first time in the little lad's room. And when she opens the door, a Gamorrean angrily snorts his protest of their presence while he takes care of his business. "Gross. Someone get rid of him," Usha says non-chalantly to Hopp and Merek.
Sniffing around, she filters through the smell of piss and other bodily fluids to head toward a window. The kind that the crank will only allow you to open half way. The kind where only one part of your body fits through at a time. "He ran out through here. Probably avoiding 'the boss'."
"Yeah, I told you he went the krif up and out," Hopp retorts to Usha in a bad-tempered voice as he decides against dropping trou here in the middle of their mission. "Later," he promises the nearest toilet. "See- this is- you- you kids don't want to listen to ol' Hopp but- but this ain't my first time on the mechanical nerf, alright, you- sometimes I say things for a reason, and I mean, not all the time, because who- who would want to deal with that sort of pressure? But you know, at least seventy percent of the time I say things for a reason, and this occasion falls firmly in that cate- in that group, okay." He's already headed back out towards the stairwell. "There's no way in kriffing hell I'm fitting out that window, not in one piece. I'll take my chances with the inevitable and sudden attempt at arrest by the town guards. I mean, maybe it won't happen when I go up these stairs. Maybe it'll happen at another time, when you two least suspect it. But it will happen, and- and I'm gonna keep suspecting the entire time we're here so that- so that it's always expected, and- and the level of expectation remains constant, at all times, and- if it's constant, then- you can't LEAST expect a constant level of expectation, so- so maybe it WON'T happen! And- and- I'll change the future! I'm- I'm a time wizard, Pinkie! I'm- we're doing it!" By now he's on the stairs headed up. Who knows if they followed.
And there he is, down the alleyway from Usha's viewpoint. The Bothan dressed in slick white threads with the pink-hued motif poisoning any semblence of high roller he may have otherwise cultivated with his well-groomed coat and equally meticulously laundered threads. A full six burly thugs, shades of the bartender with various configurations of body mass, are present with two sharply preened humans clearly directing the action. Of the large males has the Bothan in a headlock, huge arms wrapped around the furry person's arms and then up to meet at the head to force Ringo in to a crucifix-like position. "You can't keep doing this Ringo. You know, borrowing money and then losing it," one of the two humans speaks. "Because we have to come to collect eventually and we," The other one continues and halts before the first continues, "always find you without anything to give us."
But the rest will have to wait until next time because this is where we pause for now.
