Log:Unwanted Sensorship: Part 2

First they rescue the Bothan, then they steal his hot plate and leave him for dead in the street.

OOC Date: January 10, 2019

Participants: GM: Artemis, Usha, Oozlevort, Hopp_Nooram, Hadrix_Rol, Arius T. Zaarin

With a bag of mines strapped to her back, Usha silently stands in the gentleman's refresher, parked right by the window where their trusty Bothan is getting what's coming to him right on the other side. How often she has been in a conversation such as this! Both as Ringo or as "the boss." Hazy from partaking in horridly delicious Snorg, the Zeltron turns around to whisper to her companions. "Hopp. Hey Hopp, you got any of those....whatcha call it ... the things that explode?" But he's nowhere to be found, having evacuated the refresher to approach the Ringo and the group from the outside.

Oozlevort the Gand was inserted by a different blockade runner and given a tracker to track down the mine bag and join the team. He holds it out in front of him, listening to the BEEP, BEEP, BEEP as he grows closer to the carrier of the mines. He turns alleyway to alleyway, searching.

Grumbling as he ambles along, following the tracker signal, Hadrix has his helmet on, hiding his face. A few paces behind Oozlevort, a hand resting on the rifle slung at his side, he finally mutters aloud "Can you waddle any faster, Findsman?" the external vocalizers of his helmet putting a metallic snarl into his voice.

Peculiarly, there was a third individual involved in pursuit of the demolitions satchel, accompanying the Gand and the Stormtrooper. He was tall, but no longer thin, and slightly hunched. Having since entered the twilight of his years he had long since gone grey, yet though his hair was thinning his moustache remained luxurious. He was Arius T. Zaarin, former nobility, always noble. And he fit in around here, despite not. Dressed well in Coruscanti attire, though nondescript, and with a small hat upon his head, he followed at brisk pace. "I daresay the Findsman might yet be hampered by his stature, sir," he said to Hadrix. "Unfortunately, we are bound to his pace."

Hopp is long gone, hearing neither the exchange happening in the alley between the goons and Ringo nor Usha's question. Instead, the lanky, thin old rail of a man is headed up the stairs already, and by now is stepping out into the street, his frizzy gray hair sticking up off the pate of his skull like a wire brush as he looks left and right to reorient himself and spots the flash of white down there. "And there they are," he mutters to himself, digging out yet another cig from the box that he has just completely removed the lid from that rides in his pants pocket, lodged in the corner of a wrinkled old frown where he lights it up before approaching, a skeleton in Mandalorian armor that stops short of the cluster of humanoids, long-fingered hands held at his sides, a blaster pistol riding on either hip. "Alright, you dumb punks," he grates, squinting through a mess of wrinkles that look like batwings carved into his face from the corners of his eyes. "What's- what's the deal here with- what'd Ringo krif up this time, alright, I- you know I've seen this a thousand times and- and- we all know whatever grudge you got here, it's- he deserves what you're about to give him, okay," the old coot observes in an attempt at finding some common cause with the mooks. The cig flares, and smoke falls from his mouth, filling the tense gulf between them. "I'm not here to stop you but I need a couple of minutes with the furry kid. How's two hundred credits sound, and uh. I'll make sure he's, you know, back in time to finish your playdate, okay."

"Look fellas," the Bothan struggles a bit, testing his bounds with a lurch of a shoulder here and a wiggle there but the larger, mostly humanoid being, apparently has muscle vibers built from cables or Ringo has forgotten to visit the gym recently. "I've got some credits coming in. You've just got to give me a day--" One of the well-dressed humans leers at Ringo, while the other smiles menacingly. "Just a night. Until tomorrow morning!" The Bothan clarifies, cutting down his own timeline with a frantic flickering of his tongue and a waggle of his whiskers. "Ringo," One human says, "We call," the other responds. "Bith spit on that one." He pauses to allow his partner continue. "You've run out of contraband to sell and there's nothing left," a switch again, "for you to steal from the mine to sell to offworlders. Especially with that," both humans point up to the dark, roiling sky, "storm on the way. Your timeline is quite impossible." They both sigh in time and speak in unison. "Punch him once, please." Sure enough, one of the other guards winds up and hurtles a fist at Ringo's stomach. The Bothan promptly retches. "Hmm?" Both of the well-appointed humans turns at Hopp's address, their eyes appraising his decrepit frame with an edge of annoyance for the disruption found in their crossed arms and bunched shoulders. "Two hundred?" One man tilts his head. The other grins wide and continues for his partner. "The overgrown rat owes two thousand in interest alone."

Usha hears the dulcet tones of Hopp Nooram join the group on the other side and she cringes when she hears the amount that that stupid Bothan owes. She checks her watch. They have 24 hours but the clock is ticking. "Just pay them off Hopp," she mutters to herself and turns to exit the refresher so that she could join him in the alley way. In her haste, she swings the refresher door open without looking and smacks straight into Oozlevort, perhaps one of the few creatures smaller than she. "Kriff! Watch where you're going, yeah?" Usha clutches the backpack of mines closer to her.

Oozlevort eventually wends his way (with two in tow) to find Usha and the tracker stops beeping. "Uh, Hello," the Gand says awkwardly to Usha, almost getting whacked by her door. "This Gand is Oozlevort... this is the Bothan?" he whispers to Usha after following her to the alley. Then, seeing Hopp conversing with six thugs, the squat alien goes to stand behind Hopp to add to the 'intimidation' factor.

"Should have let me take the tracker then, he could try to keep up - he's a findsman, I thought they had some sort of 'mystical' means of tracking their quarry." When he spots Usha, and is glad for his helmet hiding the grin on his face from Arius when the fresher door is smacked into him. Keeping pace, he notes the assailants, and the bothan they were instructed to find, and his fingers twitch a little as he moves to loom in to one side of the gand. After a few seconds consideration, he moves a hand up as if just high-gripping his blaster's shoulder strap, when he's in fact getting it closer to the T-21 on his back - just in case.

Mr. Zaarin, being ever the servant, winced in the obligatory sympathy as their guide was taken out by the... oh my goodness, what was that Zeltron wearing? Simple or not it would only take some additional accoutrements of subtle colour to enhance the overall classiness but it looked too... oh no Zaarin was judging again let's get away from this topic real fast. To the matter at hand, then. "We are not asking for his release, sirs, nor his salvation. Only a moment of his time," explained Mr. Zaarin, his voice melodic and pleasant despite carrying the gravel of age. "Upon completion we shall return him to you, in his exact state, for you to dispatch as you so desire, an agreement sure amenable seeing as you stand to make a small profit." His accent dripped Coruscanti. Maybe he should have toned it down.

"You heard the kid, he thinks he's coming into some- you know, that he's gonna make some money," Hopp grinds back to the prim-looking pair of humans that evidently share one mind as well as the command of this gang. "We all know it's a lie." It's true, actually, and Hopp & Co. are the ones paying him, but practically speaking, these sorts of things are always lies and the stupid kid, in this version played by Ringo, always owes more money to more people than he's making, even if it is true. "So you got a choice here. You can take my two hundred and take the rest of his- well, now that I think of it, I- it wouldn't be the best coat but the fur would hide some of the flea bites, and- and- well, and two hundred is more than zero, which is what you're likely to get if I walk away and leave him with you, alright." Another long, cool pull from the cig, staring down the alley without much concern one way or the other. "What's it gonna be, here, I'm an old man. I can't wait all day. Storm's coming." The others at his back may (or may not) bolster his argument.

"Look, guys," Ringo coughs and sputters as he recovers from the blow to his stomach that has him curling up despite the fact that he's being held aloft by the overly burly guard. "Just let me do this job for them, I'll get paid and we'll be square for a month." His tongue flicks out and draws over his lips to collect the bile in his fur back in to his stomach where it came from. Nose wiggling, his whiskers tilt sideways as he casts a glance at the darkening sky. The clouds are thick and the lightning that is getting closer is nearly otherworldly in its violence as electricity arcs from cloud to cloud. "Besides, no one wants to get wet and that storm is looking like it's going to be as angry as a rancor with your head up its a--" A hand flickers up from one of the humans and with equal celerity a fist finds itself in Ringo's belly once more. "Adults are speaking," the other human responds as he regards the genteel man with a certain level of suspicion. It would appear that at least one of the two alternating speakers currently in possession of the white-suited Bothan have experienced this sort of nuance before and are quite inured. "Appearances must be maintained," he continues with a sigh as if tired of this game. "And what he owes extends beyond mere credits. We have," a swap is made again, "a reputation to consider."

"Oh you're the others, well thank goodness, it took you long enough to get here," Usha says moving with the rest of the group out to the alleyway. She doesn't say it but her Zeltron sensors pick up some sort of judgement coming from someone in the group. Does she have a stain on her clothes. Upon joining the party, she purses her lips in thought until it breaks into a dimply smile. "Gentlemen. I know I don't look it, butI understand the predicament you have here. And I must say that my colleague is certainly low balling you. But please don't hold it against him, he's not too bright in his old age," she points a magenta thumb in Hopp's direction. "How about this - we'll give you 1,000 credits for him. Just for this moment. We do our deal. If you still wanna kriff him up later and collect 2,000 from him, that's none of our concern. How's that sound?"

There is limited consideration from the pair as they both appear to come to a mutual agreement without much in the way of fanfare. They both glance at each other, sharing a long stare that holds as much tension as a trashy holonet romance, before nodding in unison. "We find this," One pauses and gestures to the other. "Amicable. Credits and the Bothan shall be released temporarily to your custody." Outstretching his hand, one of the pair awaits delivery.

Oozlevort was going to draw his little blaster and start shooting, but things seem to have resolved. "Then we shall... pay the man?" The Gand looks between the various team members, assuming someone has the petty cash.

Shaking his head as diplomacy fails, Hadrix keeps himself in check for the moment. Yes he could have opened up on the alley, he's a good shot - he starts to shake a little, like a race-beast straining at its' lead - but then the goons take the deal, and the crush of iminent violence quashed washes over him. Again he's glad for his helmet being on, so that people can't see his face.

Mr. Zaarin had taken a step back at this point, as the unfortunately under-accessorized Zeltron made a canny offer. He would not be the one to pay, oh no, Mr. Zaarin never paid for anything himself. That was what masters were for. "We must exercise patience, sir," he said to Hadrix, having learned from their initial meeting how chomping-at-the-bit he must be. "This could turn out most fruitful for all of us."

"Low-balling?" Hopp demands bad-temperedly, his wiry brows jumping upward, unable to hide his frustration with Usha's counter-offer. "They- they got this thing called 'inflation', for one thing, okay, and- and you could start there before you go making age-ist remarks like that, alright, Pinkie," the old man grumbles at her, sticking just his thumbs into his belt and tugging it upward from where it had sagged somewhat. "But if this is how you want to play it, then we'll see how it works out, but- but don't say I didn't say so later." Shaking his head, the old fellow shakes his head and steps forward on long, stiltlike legs. "Be ready to shoot this place to shit if they try anything," he growls before stepping off, making short work of the distance with his wide stride, shoving out a pair of grudging credit chits, 500 each, to the pair, one for each of them. "There, now, give us the kid and, you know, at this point I'm less and less concerned with whether he gets back to you or not, I'll just say that, I mean, let me just say, the two hundred would have been free money, it- the kid, you know, he'd have got back to you and I would have guaranteed that, but- but- but now I- you two, you know, you're young, and- and you want to see some change in the world, I get that, you look around at the way things are, and- and- but- you know, we were young too, okay, and- it just doesn't work that way, okay, things are how they are for a reason, and- and- listen, are you going to take the money or what, the clock's ticking here, I'm an old man, I don't have a lot of time left, I- I see a lot of myself in you two and I just want to say don't take it for granted, the time, it- it goes right past you, and- and- you- take the money."

Both humans cock their head quizzically at the geriatric man's rambling advice: one favoring the left, the other favoring the right as mirrors are wont to do. The gesture is short-lived as the rumble and roil of the clouds finally reach a threatening crescendo that threatens to crack the entire sky in half. "Release him," one human orders. "Forcibly," the other adds. And with an unceremonious toss, Ringo finds himself careening through the air and then rolling to a rumpled heap at the foot of the group of random people. The pair of humans pivot on the ball of their feet, raise their chins with a very stately air cast about them, and then wander off. Their burly guards fall in to line wobbling back and forth to compensate for their top heavy physiques. "Urgh, great," Ringo rights himself and examines his suit. It didn't survive the fall well with bits of fur poking out from here and there. "Thanks for that, but who the kriff are you? We've got the whole color of the rainbow here, green, pink, white, and grey?" The last is directed at Hopp, the rest you can figure out.

The euphoric smile remains plastered on Usha's face as the deal goes smoothly. "Hoooopppp, I know what I'm doooooinnggg," she says in a quiet, sing-songy voice. Whatever she drank is hitting hard. Stepping up to Ringo, she gently dusts off the shoulder of his suit and help straighten him out. "Do the names Beezo and Quartermaster ring a bell to you? Because darling, you're our ticket into the mines, we've got a job to do and /you/" The Zeltron boops his little nose before pushing him toward Ooz, Hadrix and the rest, "are going to help us." She makes a sweeping gesture to the rest. "But considering that we just saved your hide, you're gunna do your job first and we pay you after." This is supposed to be threatening. But given that she's under the influence of Snorg, it really comes off more Disney princess-like.

Oozlevort, the squat little Gand, takes hold of the Bothan's arm and drags him away from prying ears so that they can have a PRIVATE (amongst the team, that is) conversation. "Yes, this Gand and his associates are requiring your expertise, Mr. Bothan. You will assist Beezo's associates, yes?" Beezo's associates being Oozlevort and the team.

There's a sigh at the man in mando kit yammering, but it is little more than a shift of shoulders and a slight raise in the chestplates of Hadrix's armor while he watches, hand still creeping eeeeeevvver so slowly towards his repeater cannon. He gets an idea, and his physical demeanor shifts. Anyone empathetic nearby may likely note the sudden vicious shift in his entire being, an animal sort of excitement as the T-21 comes out, holding it by the pistol grips and cassually putting the massive barrel over the snout of the bothan. The man's externals click on and theres a sound like a rasp of someone shivering as they take a hitching breath before the metalized snarling voice rasps out "It would be prudent to do as they ask."

"I am of a mind to consider that she, in fact, does not know what she is doing," counseled Mr. Zaarin to Mr. Rol, his glorious moustache partially hiding his expression of extreme distaste. He glanced over to his armoured compatriot (British note: armour means armor) as he had his moment of... let's say simmering rage. "While ordinarily I would advise a gentle hand, against a create of such flighty disposition a threat is appropriate to keep him grounded."

Returning to the group, Hopp properly surveys the others for the first time. "Oh krif, they- they sent this old codger along? Pinkie, he's got to be older than I am. What the hell kind of geriatric convention is this?" No age-ism though! "Alright, listen up the rest of you, I- I just had a moment back there with those two weird kids, and I'm feeling a little sentimental about it. I feel like, maybe me and them, maybe we- maybe we could have been a family if things were different. I- I'm having a hard time here, team, this- this place is having strange effects on me. I think it's the buildings. They're so symmetrical. So efficient. And the law enforcement could give a rat's hat about who does what, I mean- sure, there's giant thunderstorms that apparently have the ability to frighten even hardened criminals from the streets and we should probably be doing something to avoid that, but- wait." Pausing, he scans the others, eyes alighting on Hadrix and Arius. "Alright, you two... I'm probably okay. Just... just be sure you don't bend down unless I do too, I don't want to be the tallest one here." A bony finger pokes into Ringo's back. "Alright kid, we just paid five times more than I personally believe you're worth so that we can give you even more of our tiny budget. Don't make me regret this any more than I already do, or we'll take you back to those two."

Ringo's eyes seem distant and disinterested in the approach of the Zeltron but much like her gifted self, his nose is up to more than it seems. It wiggles and twitches with excitement causing his whiskers to jiggle like radio antenna in stormy weather. When she touches his nose, and mentions the pair of neutrals that brought the group here, he grows visibly agitated and his nose returns to a sedentary slant. "Look, you heard those two," Ringo notes with a sweep of one rodentlike arm towards the alleyway that the pair of twinned mind had wandered off with the rest of their ilk, "you can't make credits here with booze being so cheap and the mine kept tighter than spandex on a Hutt's mother by the cartels." When he's tugged aside by the ammonia huffing alien, he struggles and tugs himself away. "So you're the kriffing 'demolition experts'" Ringo air quotes accordingly before straightening out his suit as if merely padding the fabric could eliminate the frayed patches and roughly hewn threads. "Our deal hasn't changed. 4500 credits and you get what you need." Hadrix's threats of violence get a defensive posture from the rodent-like biped. "Hey, settle down. Holy sith. I'll even throw in the threads you'll need to get in to the building. Whether you like it not, I'm your only quiet way in to that diner." At that moment, the sky breaks open and a deluge of water abruptly slicks everything within view. Hot to the touch, briney to the taste, and sulphuric in smell, it's unpleasant to say the least. The orange hue of the underside of the clouds does not help with the sense of foreboding either. "With a farking day," Ringo curses, spitting wastefully to the ground. He wanders off in to the building the group is next to. The door opens easily apparently unlocked. "Come on." And there's a reason it's not locked. Everything is company issue in the low-lying dwelling: bed, table, counters, hot plate, refresher in the corner with a simple door. Nothing to steal.

As soon as Hadrix pulls out his weapon, a strange tingly sensation shoots up Usha's spine that seems to wake her up like a bolt of lightening. The cloudy haze instantly clears from her eyes and mirroring the animalistic hunger of the Stormtrooper when she steps up to Ringo, digging her nails hard into his shoulder. "Listen, you flee-ridden ponce, we'll give you the credits once you've completed the job or my friends here will skin you and wear your hide as underwear." And just as soon as it left, the haze returns. Usha resumes her sing-songy voice, "Or like we can pay you 3,500 instead to make up the difference for what we paid the creepy twins. It's whatever you want ..."

She releases Ringo, instead fascinated with the rain. While everyone is starting to make their way inside, she lingers a moment in the rain, mouth open to the heavens drinking in that delicious acid raid. "Oh my kriff guys. It's sooo gooood. It's like juiicceeeeee. It smells amazing. Like rainbows... and candy..." Someone drag her inside plz.

Oozlevort slithers inside, grasping Usha's arm with a three-fingered chitinous hand and pulling her along into the company quarters. "This job must be done fast, we do not have ALL DAY, Mr. Bothan."

Usha isn't the only one with their hands up in the air and their mouths open. Workers everywhere are dancing about in the rain having put aside their differences for the moment to partake in the veritable feast being offered for free from the air. They whirl about, gulping up what they can with some people even going so far as to sip from the puddles. The guards don't seem to be mimicking the behavior, continuing to pace along the main thoroughfares with a casual eye tossed down the alleyways.

Shaking his head, Hadrix moves to help Usha along as well. He goes quiet for now, but he still has the gun out - because... Gun. That's all the reason he ever needs, and being led into a small, barren, room screams ambush, which is why the gun is kept pointed at the Bothan. "Arius, less hoity, more toity, when you talk to these scum eh?"

"Whatever," Ringo throws himself on to the bed, spread-eagle. His view is bleak much like his outlook on life at the moment: untextured matte grey. "I'm already going to throw in the disguises you'll need and I was planning to charge you for it. It's 4500 or you can go get farkled."

Rain! His bowler hat! Zaarin let out a "tch!" of irritation as he ducked underneath the doorway (for it was too small to accomodate his 6'4" frame), aiding Hadrix in dragging the crazy Zeltron fashion disaster into safety along with him. Mood of the day: vexed. "You would do well to recall you are in a dangerous area, madam." He threw a look towards Hadrix that perfectly encapsulated the 'why do I have to deal with this sithspit' mood he was presently in. "One must never forget decorum, sir," he countered. Having escaped from the dreadful deluge, Mr. Zaarin removed his hat and examined it, by eye and nose, and his expression wrinkled as he tossed it out into the street. It would never adorn his head again.

When the rain breaks out, Hopp pulls his Mandalorian helmet off his belt and plops it down over his head, making him slightly more menacing for hiding his face and even more annoying for amplifying his voice as he steps inside. There's nothing to steal in here, we've been told, just some cheap company stuff that everyone would need to survive, but the old man takes off his backpack anyway and unzips it, picking up the hot plate and shoving it inside. "I've been looking for one like this. Hard to find the old ones and- and they don't make 'em like they used to. Just pay him the damn money, Pinkie, you- you were quick enough to kriffing spend it back there!" A beat. "Where is she?" His head pops back out the door. "Kriffing hell. Well, she's happy out there." Back inside. "Listen kid. You'll get paid. Get us our IDs, get us the uniforms, get us inside, get paid. Money, okay, or- or creds, or- or zooches, or smackers, or- or whatever it's hip to call it these days, 4500."

Ringo sits up and glowers as much as a rodent can manage with his diminuitive features and fur covering much of what a less plush covered creature would manage with wrinkles and the like. He turns to dangle his feet off of the edge. No shoes, wet fur. The smears on the bed are ignored. "You're all pissing me off," Ringo finally raises his voice and then winces with the exertion. It seems he's still feeling the after effects of getting punched in the gut. "You'll pay me as agreed, you'll go to that farking place on my own, or I'll get the attention of the guards and they can figure out why some piece of shavit offworlder is stealing company property!"

With one arm around Oozlevort and the other around Hadrix, Usha is assisted indoors. Weakly she protests, "Guys come on! Look /everyone/ is enjoying the rain." She looks over her shoulder at the workers around her, arms raised to the sky in praise for God's golden shower. Desperate in her desire to taste the rain again, she attempts to take Oozlevort's rain soaked arm and gnaw on it a while. There's a hint of ammonia to it, but the sugar sweet flavor comes through just fine. "Let's just pay 'im guysss. Or I mean, unless you're into getting farkled," she winks at Arius, "You look like a guy who's gotten farkled many a time." The Zeltron leans over to Hadrix, giggling and giddy, but quietly whispers into his ear so that only the stormtrooper can hear, "Here's watcha doooo. After Hopp gives him the credits, and he gives us our IDs, you all /pop/ him." The idea makes her giggle even harder for some reason.

Oozlevort sighs heavily into his breathing apparatus. "Yes, please, just pay. This Gand is sick of this planet. And so tired of haggling."

Hadrix growls and taps the firing stud on the blaster cannon, sending a bolt of crimson plasma ment to be used against heavy armor, or light APCs and tanks, across the room, aiming to part the Bothan's pink hair right down the middle. His externals click on and the snarl seems both his and the vocalizers now, pure, unfiltered, irritation bordering on homicidal rage pouring off the man in waves. "Enough bantering, bartering, and threatening. Pay the bothan. Ringo - if you double cross us, I promise you I will be back, you will not be able to run, you will never be able to hide, I will find you, and I will find everyone you know and love and you will watch them be vaporized one after another. Then you will be left, with a blaster bolt through your spine, unable to end your own life." he looks to the others, "Lets get on with this kriffing operation." By all the gods and devils of all the worlds he missed Oran... Oran of all people. But then he missed 1015, 5158, and the others. They knew how to keep on mission.

Arius T. Zaarin, thoroughly over it, simply sniffed in dismissal. Hadrix had made his point and this farce had gone on long enough. The Zeltron, blinded by her own pinkness right about now (and also the drink) got a Look of judgement.

"Geez, look at you, big ol' scary man. I bet you're fun at parties," Hopp dead-pans to Hadrix, straightening up and swinging his loot over his shoulder. "If you're done spraying testosterone all over the walls we've got a job to do and this kid just shit his pants, so, you know, he definitely won't raise any eyebrows at the mining facility where every little thing is monitored to exacting precision. Nice work." The helmet turns to face the bothan. "For real though, this guy is batshit crazy and he gets off on the pain of lesser creatures, which in this scenario would be you. So, let's see some progress here, kid, some industriousness and maybe we can bond with you a little and- and- and you'll have a chance to endear yourself to us with your rebellious, 'fark it' demeanor, and maybe we'll even feel a little bad if you get caught by those two weirdos again. Either that, or like, we find out if I can get your skin around that Gand in any convincing manner, up to you."

There's something to be said for statements and Hadrix's is succinct if nothing else, not that it appeared overly warranted at the moment. The haircut given to the Bothan makes him appear as a small, furry space alien once did in a bad 1980s movie: a runway down the middle with nearly seared flesh and frazzled edges. Unfortunately, Ringo doesn't appreciate the avant-garde fashion statement and his jitters with rage at the end of his simple bed. "What the actual crinking druk, you nerf herding sculags!" Ringo curse as he jumps to his feet and summons a fury that one wouldn't think a Bothan that wears pink would be capable of summoning. "Where the kriff did those two idiots find all of you snorg drinking Hutts for mothers? You can tell him this isn't worth it, for any amount of credits." He spreads his arms out, making himself as big as a target as possible. "Just shoot me. The guards are going to be here soon so you better get it done quick."

"Whoooaaa, whoa whoa whoa. Too much, too much," Usha frowns, in actual pain this time. Her alien empathy sensors pick up on everyone's ire and irritation and Ringo's despair, and it makes the spot between her brows pound. "Everyone just...needs to take a step back," she says, patting herself down to look for her pouch. Where is her spice? She just wants to go back outside in the poison rain with the happy people. Instead, she finds her blaster as her own complexion turns an angry red. Without thinking too much, she draws it on the Bothan and then PEW. "Someone just ... get rid of him already. Kriffing /kill/ 'im," she says to Hadrix. Finally finding her pouch, she retreats to the corner where her signature SNOOORRRTTT can be heard.

Arius T. Zaarin, over it all, sighed. He could murder him, but such horrific breaches in decorum had left the galaxy's greatest housekeeper in a mildly vindictive mood. Dispensing with a blaster bolt or anything else uncivilized, he opted to dispatch this individual with his own signature methodology. Grabbing Ringo the peasant by the shoulder, he escorted him to the door and, with a borderline cheerful "Good day, sir," pushed him out on to the street with the rest of the trash. "Now, I do believe we have a plan to deliberate, so let us not waste any more time with the rabble, shall we?"

Unexpected, when Arius moves to lead the Bothan that was shot by Usha out to go into the rain, Hadrix can only just kinda watch. Inside his helmet he opens his mouth to speak, stops, and then just kinda stares at Arius through his visor and holo-display.

"For krif's sake," Hopp sighs whenever Usha straight-up shoots the poor kid, putting his helmet in his hands. "Well you did it now! He's- he'll never work for us after this! Now we have to kill him, we don't have a choice anymore, he can finger us, he can finger all of us, he can finger you, and you, and you, and you, and me!" A finger points at each of them, and then back at himself, and while he's half-yelling this through the scratchy helmet amp, Arius T. Zaarin decides to take matters into his own hands and set the witness of attempted murder and sabotage loose into the street with the guards who would stop their mission of destruction. "What the- are you all insane?!" The view from the street is of a tall armored figure shambling into view and opening fire on a prone Bothan youth. It would not air well on local news media.

Ringo gasps as the blaster bolt tears through fur and flesh with equal voracity. The wound is apparent, a gaping circle in the Bothan's white suit that he never bothered to dodge by virtue of poor reflexes or just not caring anymore in the face of such wanton disregard for everything, this being the apex of a poor day, or some unrequited love for his misappropriated hotpot. He curls up over the wound, lurches forward, and is directed in to the street by the tender loving embrace of the well-mannered Coruscanti where he crumples up in to a heap. A low moan is uttered from his muzzle as the puddle begins to be tainted red like so much spilled kool-aid. With their primary contact left for dead, is it even possible to complete the task they've been assigned? Are the guards aware of something amiss? Will the group hold it together despite the differing approaches to tactics? Does the rain really taste like rainbows? Tune in next time.