Chuff looked over the shipment with half a smile, her eyes glinting in the aggressive tubelights overhead. The munitions were hard to come by, but quite necessary. The Ancient Empire had their own supply chains to speak of, outfitting countless soldiers and nameless apprentices with mass produced weapons and armor. regulation kits and goods. But she knew her clients better than that. They would want more specialized tools, more unique wares than what would come off of the rack. Perhaps even items that they didn’t want others to know that they had. And that is where Chuff came in, here on Dentavii.
She still remembered the Madman and his orders for such chemicals that no government in their right mind would dare to be associated with them. Yet still, she managed. Disruptors, illegal almost anywhere? Well, she had a display case hidden in the back vault. These were impolite tools for impolite jobs. She smiled, brushing a white shock of hair back over an ear that had been replaced with metal. She had heard that the event that so many of Sadow’s Elites had gone to deal with had ended. Before and after those events were always the busiest for her.
She paused, looking at the display room as she crossed her arms. The signal moved from her arm to the false wall, the vault sealing the hidden wares away behind a drinks cooler. “Special edition, indeed.” She let a smile creep up her face.
“Sos, he tells me I gotta give all tree of da Bob-ots oil dips, becuz theys expectin’ ta be busy afta the bowl. An’ I sez, wut bowl?” He stopped, slurping down a mouthfull of noodle soup as he sat on the stool in front of Squeek’s joint.
“Skreeeee eeeee ieeieieeee tstststssssss?” The Ranat responded, stirring a huge pot with a spoon long enough to be an oar.
“Yeah, that’s wut I says. But I don’t care, they pays me well enough, sos I don’t complain. But I expects we’re all gonna be right busy real soonlike.” Wiping his chin, he then smears it on his coverall.
“Skreeitcccchhh, skitts.” The ranat pauses, taking a galss jar down from the shelf and shaking some of the contents through the steam to the pot below.
“Wells, they mostly jus’ go ta the bar, sos i guess thass why they wanted da droids lubed up.” He shrugs broad shoulders, then gets up to leave, placing a credit on the bar. “Good soup, Squeeks.”
LCdr. Pavor released the valves on his helmet as he stood on the walk above the new Mark VII interceptor. The carbon scoring across the chassis annoyed him. It had gotten a little hot out there for his liking. Nothing that the Bogan II squadron could not handle, but still, he didn’t like his paint getting marred. Taking a deep breath as he put his helm between his hip and his arm, he watched as Lt. Eosora climbed up out of her interceptor. It was far from her first outing, but her first in the Interceptor. The ancient design, but fit with modern components had given the space superiority fighters a distinct look. Enemies had no idea how to handle them except to try to fire back and pray that it wasn’t already too late.
“Got a little toasty out there, Lieutenant Commander?” She bounced her own helmet on her hip as his eyes narrowed, inspecting her craft. Not a single scorchmark. Willing himself to not grit his teeth, he nodded at her.
“Simonetti needed a distraction.” He converted the grimace into a wry smile. “Plus, I wanted to really test out their capabilities.”
“And you’re satisfied, I hope?” She stopped on the expanded metal walk a few steps from him, a genuine smile on her face under a mess of sweaty hair. Pavor slowly blinked and gave half of a nod before turning to head toward the debriefing room. The Clan Regulars would be arriving on the station soon, and they’d need to clear the deck for all too many types of craft.
Selri propped the doors open to the Seventh Tooth, kicking down the stoppers with the toe of her boot. She watched as Case did the same, then his smile as he stood to the side to let her in. The Twi'Lek singer moved past him, drawing her blue hand across his chrome the way she always did, dainty and lingering as his smile bloomed. Selri kept the chuckle inside this time. She knew that Vera had no interest in the Cyborg, but he certainly didn’t know that. It made good sense for her to keep the biggest member of the security team in her camp, especially with the stories they had all heard about the Sith that were their clientele. There hadn’t been any sort of incident ever, but the stories were prolific. Besides, as they were told, the security detail were there more to keep the ‘honored guests’ of the Sith from overstepping their welcome. Selri shook off the thought, turning back to see the goofy grin on Case’s face.
“Are…are you blushing, Case?” She elbowed him gently in the ribs, the bantha leather jacket that he wore creaking fron the movement.
“Nuh uh.” He moved with her as the two followed the singer into the bar. He leaned sideways, taking a conspiratoral tone in his whisper. “D'ya think a girl like dat could ever…”
Selri’s eyebrow went up, it felt like to her hairline. “Could ever what, Case?” She smiled, watching him shrug and quickly stare at his feet.
“Nuffin.” He moped for a second, then looked back up at her. “Come on, we got work ta do. Da Sith are comin’, an’ de’re gonna be thirsty.”
Strask guided the Shadowhawk back into the bustling hangar with practiced ease, the ship’s landing gear touching down with a soft thud. He shut the engines down, the familiar hum dying out as he unstrapped himself from the pilot seat. The test flights had been thorough, pushing the ship to its limits, and now it was time to assess the wear and tear.
Descending the ramp, Strask took in the organized chaos around him—Naga Sadow troopers moving with purpose, crates being shifted, and droids wheeling supplies across the deck. It was a scene of controlled activity, and in its way, it felt like home.
As he began a walk-around inspection of the Shadowhawk, his copilot droid, O-66, emerged from the cockpit, its black-as-night frame blending into the dimly lit hangar. The droid’s eyes flickered briefly as it approached Strask, the glow minimal to maintain its stealthy appearance. “Initiating After-Action Report,” stated in its distinctly analytical tone, one Strask had grown accustomed to over time.
“Thruster output efficiency reduced by 8.2% after the last maneuver test,” O-66 droned, as it projected a series of statistics onto Strask’s datapad. “Wear patterns suggest that the starboard stabilizer will require recalibration within 12 flight hours. Minor scoring was detected on the port-side armor plating. The recommendation is to inspect for microfractures.”
Strask nodded, inputting notes into his checklist. “Noted. What about the targeting systems?”
“Operating at 97.6% accuracy,” O-66 replied, “Anomalies detected in the sensor suite when engaging high-speed maneuvers. It is advised to recalibrate for optimal performance.”
As Strask moved to inspect the maneuvering thrusters himself, the droid seamlessly switched to self-repair mode, extending a slender limb to clean some accumulated carbon scoring off its chassis. Strask smirked at the droid’s efficiency. “Always thorough, aren’t you, O-66?”
“Efficiency is paramount,” O-66 replied flatly, already running another diagnostic.
Satisfied, Strask made a few more adjustments on his datapad and continued with the checklist, finding a strange sense of comfort in the droid’s detailed reports amidst the chaos of the hangar.
“Thank you.” The cloaked man smiled as he waved to the captain. He stepped down carefully as he disembarked the shuttle ramp. “It is always great to be back.” Drawing himself up, Cimozjen gave a sigh of satisfaction.
It had been some time since he had been to facility. He took measure of the hanger. It didn’t take long until the urge struck Cimozjen though.
He really needed a drink.
Malisane was stood outside the bar, his cloak drawn round him as he watched the people entering and leaving the establishment. He had his hood pulled back unusually, but his presence was so regular now on the facility that his ravaged features caused no alarm. His head turned as he saw the miraluka pilot approach, carrying two large trays from Squeeks. She handed him one and they walked across the area and sat on a metal bench across from the bar entrance. The elders gaze passed over the collection of food before he picked up some meat on a skewer and began to eat.
Cerys did likewise as her eyes passed over the area, the view a mix of swirling colours and trails of life energy and the dull coldness of metal as her force sight interpretted what was in front of her. “I am bored of this place Adept,” she commented, “I almost miss shipping supplies back and forth. When are we going somewhere interesting, or at least back to Aeotheran?”
Malisane placed the empty skewer back on the tray, making a free space for waste in the corner. His sense of order made him despise littering. His head turned to the pilot. “You wanted to rejoin me Lieutenant,” he replied, “the only way I could convince Warhost personnel to release you while continuing to pay your salary was to request a security consultant for the bar. I no longer have the influence on the Shar Dakhan forces to assign you to them. You need to spend at least some time here to justify it.”
She finished chewing “I suppose so.”
He picked up another skewer. “We may not be here for long anyway. I had a message this morning from the Dakhan Quaestor. There has been an ecological disaster there of significant magnitude. I suspect my services will be needed. I await further news.”
Pavor moved to the Commander’s station quietly, Eosara a half step behind him. Commander Marshall stood at the electronic podium, flanked by the black and red armored Sadow Troopers. Pavor came to a stop, clicking his heels on the deckplate. “Commander Marshall.” The greeting was precise, despite the irony of his name. Pavor had sometimes wondered how they would have handled it if he had joined the Ground forces instead of the naval academy. Marshall Marshall would have been hard to say with a straight face, he presumed.
Marshall looked up, an eyepatch over the man’s right eye, barely supressing the stark white eyebrow that matched the man’s hair. “Lieutenant Commander, excellent. We have several Small Council VIPs inbound, and more expected.” He gestured at the console in front of him, then nodded his head toward the rapidly filling hangar. “A couple of Masters, a Lord, a Duke, and a few Warlords, no doubt. If we manage a Pontifex, I’ll have a full bingo card.” He chuffed a bit, looking up to see Pavor’s stony face. “A full station, and a lot of attention on us, at any rate.”
“As your briefing indicated, sir.” Pavor nodded, glancing over toward the hangar. He recognized some of the ships, the X-70B Phantom a pristine example of the old beauties. Those Sith knew how to fly in style. “What are your orders, sir?”
Marshall looked annoyed at having to make a decision, his eyes darting back down to the console. “Stay ready. With so many VIPs up here, we’re becoming more and more of a target. We may need you to deploy quickly.”
“Understood sir.”
“Skrreitsssssschies scheeeei iiesseekkk.” The Ranat spoke as the worker stepped back from his booth with a full belly and a few coin lighter. His attention drew back, then followed the Ranat’s gaze toward the far side of the promenade, where a Miraluka and a excessively pale and scarred human munched away on ronto pikes.
“Oh him?” He was burly and had an accent that betrayed a working class heritage for generations. “He’s da boss uv da bar.”
The Ranat’s whiskers twitched for a moment as he thought, then stilled as he cleared the bowl from in front of the worker. “Skrit kkitttssi.” Squeeks had seen him a dozen times before, likely twice that, actually. He knew he ran the bar, but he was wondering what else his laborer friend might know.
“Well den, why doncha ask? He keeps a tightcrew, ya know. I think he’s one uv dem Sith, but I dunno fer sure.” The man shrugged. Not like it mattered to him, anyway. The pay was the same. Squeeks watched him leave, making a mental note to ask Case about his boss the next time he was stuffing his face.
Vance strolled confidently into the bar as he adjusted his belt slightly. He smiled as his long pink sephi ears picked up the sounds of conversation at tables, occasional clinking of glasses, and hubbub of bar activity as he entered the place. He sat himself down at a smaller table before leaning back a bit to relax. The smell of a nice spiced cigar wafted in his direction making his nose crinkle a bit as he leaned back a moment to relax. He ran a hand through his long dark purple hair, brushing it back behind his head now exposing both of his pink long pointed ears. After looking at the menu,he ordered a tatooine sunrise and let his violet eyes scan the room to see if he could recognize others. “Tasha why do you always make me go to these?” he murmered as he chuckled softly.
Adept DarkHawk Sadow leaned back in his seat aboard the sleek Sith Fury Interceptor Reaver, watching the asteroids float dangerously close to the hull as General Tytus O’Baieron expertly navigated through the Dentavii asteroid field.
“Sure you don’t want me to take over? You’re aiming for a new dent every minute,” DarkHawk quipped, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Tytus smirked, his hands steady on the controls. “Relax, old man. You’ll be sipping Corellian ale in the Seventh Tooth before I even scratch the paint.”
"That’s what you said last time, and I’m still cleaning asteroid dust out of my armor,” DarkHawk shot back, though his lips twitched with amusement.
The Reaver banked sharply as Tytus pushed the ship through a narrow gap between two jagged asteroids. The view of Dentavii Prime, the largest asteroid in the field, loomed ahead. The massive rock had been converted into a bustling repair facility for Clan Naga Sadow’s fleet. But today, their mission wasn’t repairs—it was drinks at the newly commissioned Seventh Tooth Bar, a personal project of Proconsul Lord Muz Keibatsu.
As they approached the docking bay, Tytus slowed the ship, docking the ship smoothly into its cradle.
“Not bad. I might keep you around,” DarkHawk muttered as he unbuckled.
“I live for your approval,” Tytus replied dryly, following him out.
They made their way through the corridors of Dentavii Prime, the familiar hum of the facility alive with workers and droids. Finally, they reached the Seventh Tooth, its sign above the entrance glowing against the dark interior.
Inside, the bar was a masterpiece of luxury—a stark contrast to the utilitarian surroundings of the repair station. As they entered, they spotted several Sadowan members already gathered. DarkHawk clapped Tytus on the back. “Drinks first, war stories later.”
The wheeled droid spun on a coin to set down the pair of drinks in front of the Sephi and Twi'lek. Vibrant blue cascaded down to deep red within the glass, a narrow straw in each, and a tiny plastic spear holding bits of tropical fruit plopped down on each. The Bob-ot waited for a moment, touched the edge of a metallic widebrimmed hat on its crown and buzzed away. All three of the Bob-ots were mostly identical, wearing gunbelts that held only refreshment guns rather than blasters, reminiscent of the Ancient Clan’s own Space Cowboy which they were patterned after. There were minor differences. This one had a white hat. One of the others had what looked to be a blue flight jacket on its torso, and the third had a metallic hood over its head. There was probably some significance there to older members of the clan, but they didn’t seem to talk much about it.
The hatted Bob-ot rolled from where Tasha'vel and Vance stood to where the Consul and Tytus had just arrived. “Drinks is the Magic Word.” The droid pulled its weapon and spun it around a digit before reholstering it, a drip of soda sliding out toward the floor. “What can I get you?”
Malisane had seen the Consul and his pilot enter the Seventh Tooth. He glanced at the display on his wrist communicator. “That is fortunate timing,” he said as he stood up and dropped his tray with the food remains into a nearby waste bin, “we should hurry inside.”
“Why?” Cerys asked.
“The caberet is due to start.”
The mirakluka followed him inside and they pushed their way through the crowd to stand near the bar, where a droid passed him a glass of slightly cool water with several pieces of floating vegetation. Cerys ordered and quickly received a long dark cocktail. They turned to the stage where Nova, the glamourous gammorean head waitress and occasional relief manager was stood in front of a red curtain. She held her microphone in one huge green fist and began to speak into it, a serious of grunts interspersed with the words “Seventh Tooth,” followed by more grunts of rising pitch finally ending in “Sax Rebo Band!”
The curtain quickly rose to reveal several twi'lek dancers flanking a tall ithorian singer, a mon calamari flutist and a toydarian floating behind a large blue organ. As the famliar opening tones of Lapti Nek began to wash over the crowd, Cerys turned to the Adept. “Even I can see they are not very authentic.”
Malisane’s cold blue eyes turned to face her, “They are more than satisfactory entertainers,” he replied, “judge them when you have heard them.”
As they approached the bar, Tytus signaled the bartender, a rugged-looking Rodian with a knack for mixing potent drinks. “A Corellian whiskey, neat, for myself,” he began, his voice dripping with aristocratic eloquence, “and for my esteemed companion here, a double of your finest Kashyyyk rum.” He threw a glance at DarkHawk, a smirk flickering across his face. “After all, he’s earned it just by enduring my flying.”
DarkHawk chuckled, fishing a cigar from his pocket and lighting it with a spark from his fingers. He took a long drag, letting the smoke curl around his face as he relaxed into his seat. Tytus, always the storyteller, leaned in slightly, a glint of nostalgia in his eye.
“You know,” Tytus began, sipping his whiskey, “I once found myself in a rather tricky situation over Dantooine. My gunship was surrounded by six rebel fighters, all intent on reducing me to space dust. Naturally, I managed to outfly them all with just a few evasive maneuvers and some creative use of the asteroid belt.” His forehead wrinkled, pausing for effect. “And I do mean creative. Though, it’s not something you’d find in any training manual.”
DarkHawk grinned, then nodded appreciatively, the cigar smoke blending with the ambient haze of the bar. As other Sadowans entered the Seventh Tooth, greeting each other with hearty laughs and exchanges, DarkHawk turned to the bartender, raising his hand. “A round for everyone,” he called out, eliciting a cheer from the crowd.
In the background, the band struck up a lively rendition of Lapti Nek, the upbeat rhythm echoing through the bar. The Sadowans joined in, some tapping their feet and swaying to the music. For tonight, at least, they were just comrades enjoying a rare moment of peace.
A lot of people here.
The Dark Jedi considered the situation from the entrance to the bar, feeling a pang of anxiety. He hadn’t been around in quite some time. Would he be recognized? Would they know who he was and want to kick his ass, or would they know who he was and toss him out on said ass. Neither? Both?
His eye was drawn to the familiar form of the current Overlord. He drew closer, slowly, as he watched Tytus and Darkhawk chatting.
What will he say? What will he think?
Increasingly anxious thoughts threatened to stop his forward momentum.
Just get a drink. Just calm the nerves. You got this.
Stepping up carefully so as not to jostle the Summit head and his man, Cimozjen lifted a hand to flag down the bartender. “Some whiskey, please.”
The drink arrived, and as the Dark Jedi relished the taste, he looked over at the Clan’s Consul. He gave an uncertain smile. “So, sir, how do things go in the big chair?”
DarkHawk leaned back, savoring the smoky taste of his drink as he spotted Master Cimozjen Kurios weaving his way through the crowded bar.. With a grin, the seasoned Force Sorcerer made his way to their table, his presence as commanding as ever. As he approached, Cimozjen’s eyes sparkled with a familiar camaraderie, one that DarkHawk recognized from the many battles they’d fought side by side. He rested a hand on the back of a chair, nodding in greeting.
“So, sir, how do things go in the big chair?” Cimozjen asked, raising an eyebrow as he took in the relaxed scene before him.
DarkHawk smirked, gesturing for him to sit. “Ah, you know, the usual. But without boring you with Clan duties, Ty here was just telling me how he damn near single-handedly wiped out the Rebels from existence.”
Cimozjen took a seat, his gaze sliding to Ty with amused curiosity.
Ty rolled his eyes, his tone dripping with his signature regal sarcasm. “Yes, yes. I only almost wiped them out because someone had to leave something for you to do, DarkHawk. Otherwise, you’d be out of a bloody job.” He leaned in, flashing a wry grin at Cimozjen. “In all seriousness, though, it was hardly a fair fight. Those Rebels were running scared before I even got started.”
Cimozjen chuckled, settling in as Ty continued his tale, weaving humor and bravado with a flourish.
Tasha'vel took her drink and sat silently drinking it, observing the other tables. She wasn’t in a real mood to talk, but turned to the Mercenary beside her. “I bring you here for how well you speak and carry on with more diplomatic matters, Vance.” She continued. “I am known as a Sith, a cold assassin, not meant to be exactly friendly. It’s a reputation that at the moment I need to keep for now. That’s why I need you to be my friendlier merc. People tend to gravitate towards nicer and happier people.” She smirked slightly. Vance leaned back again with drink in hand listening. “Well you did get me free Miss Versea, so I do owe you one. Suppose I can charm a few and get some information for you.” The Sephi winked, bringing the glass of Tattoine sunrise to his lips. “But of course not totally free. I do expect a little pay.” She nodded. “That part is easy.”
Malisane watched the tribute band playing for a few moments. He was not fond of the music, he preffered more relaxing simple tones to mediatate to, but it seemed to be having a positive effect on the mood of the bar. His gaze took in the Consul talking with his pilot and the force user he had met in the pizza restaurant in Kar Alabrek the previous year, and his former Aedile sat elsehwere with her Sephi associate. He had no desire to make conversation with either group, and decided to step outside for a walk, leaving the miraluka to her own devices.
He slowly walked down the long corridor past the clinic and turned into the hangar. He frowned as he recognised the noghri mercenary talking with a repair tech. He still did not trust the noghri, who still appeared to be employed on a month by month retainer to the Clan Summit and had no long term loyalty to Sadow. Whatever duties he carried out for the Consul was a mystery that unsettled the Sith. Slowly he walked over and listened to the conversation.
“Look we can service your ship, but we have to fill in the correct registration form This isn’t some back street swoop garage.”
“I have given you my name,” Sarthis replied in a quiet gravelly voice.
“Two names pal,” the tech replied, “the computer needs both.”
“I have no second name,” the noghri replied, “Sarthis is the name i was given, and Sarthis is all I am known by.”
Malisane decided to intercede, “Make up a second name,” he told the noghri, “it does not matter. Do not waste this mans time.”
Sarthis considered this. It was clear imagination was not his strong suit. “By what name of the small rodents known that scurry amongst the rocks on Lor Zatean?”
The Sith thought for a few moments. “I do not have a name for them. I just catch them to make stew. However I believe the ancient ekind referred to them as the veruk'mar.”
The noghri nodded, “Then you may put my name as Sarthis Veruk'Mar.”
The tech looked from the mercenary to the Adept and back again. “Hey works for me pal.”
The Seventh Tooth Bar was lively, the band continued to play another masterful piece. Tytus regaled Master Cimozjen with yet another tale of battlefield glory. DarkHawk smirked into his drink, letting the sound of Ty’s voice blend into the hum of the room. But as his gaze swept across the bar, he noticed Adept Malisane Sadow, another Son of Sadow, slipping quietly out toward the hangar area.
A sense of curiosity stirred within him. Malisane wasn’t one to leave unexpectedly and at least without making his presence known. Unless something important was at hand. DarkHawk leaned closer to Ty, who was mid-sentence, grinning at Cimozjen, before excusing himself. “I’ll leave you two to reminisce. Something I need to check on,” he said, standing and stepping away.
Exiting the bar, DarkHawk made his way to the hangar. The air smelled faintly of coolant and engine oil as he approached, hearing voices in the distance. He spotted Malisane in discussion with Sarthis, and a repair tech who appeared frazzled.
DarkHawk overheard the tech saying something about full names, registration and job priority.
“I told you,” the tech stammered, “we have a backlog of repairs, I can’t just—" Before the tech could finish, DarkHawk intervened, his voice commanding. “Is there a problem here?”
The tech froze, turning to face him, wide-eyed. DarkHawk crossed his arms, his presence looming over the situation. “This is a Sadowan ship, and you will prioritize it. No red tape, no delays,” he said sharply. “Log the make, model, and repair itinerary. Any issues, you deal with me or the repair facility manager. Understood?”
The tech nodded quickly, stammering, “Y-Yes, sir. Right away.”
Satisfied, DarkHawk nodded to Malisane and Sarthis. “All sorted. I’ll leave you to it.”
Returning to the bar, DarkHawk found Tytus still in full swing, gesturing wildly as he recounted his gunship days. DarkHawk shook his head with a chuckle, slipping back into his seat. Some things never changed.
Tasha'vel glanced about and spotted Cimozjen listening to another man’s stories. She quietly sipped her glass and tapped her fingers to the music playing. Vance meanwhile finished his drink and decided to get up and take a walk. Perhaps he could get to know some of these Sadowans better. He decided to walk over to the table Tasha had been watching. He saw that the current Overlord had just sat down. Giving a politeand friendly grin to the table, Vance bowed slightly before introducing himself. “Well if my ears didn’t decieve me, it sounds like this table is telking quite a few interesting tales. So much so I just couldn’t help but come over. Name is Vance, I am a little newer to Naga Sadow, but I take from the look that you would be our fine Overlord am I right?” Meanwhile Tasha'vel raised her eyebrow at Vance, but remained quiet and kept sipping her Tattoine Sunrise.
The band transitioned into a more soothing sound of melody. The low hum of conversation filled the cantina as DarkHawk and Master Cimozjen sat engrossed in Tytus’ latest war story, their attention fully captured. Tytus leaned back, a smirk playing at his lips, as he recounted one of his daring flights through a barrage of enemy fire. Just then, a tall, rugged figure approached the table, interrupting the tale.
“Eminent Vance Whitlock,” the man introduced himself with a casual air, offering a nod to DarkHawk. “I couldn’t resist joining in when I heard our fine Overlord was here.”
Before DarkHawk could respond, Tytus burst out laughing, cutting the tension with his usual flair. “Fine Overlord? Bloody’ell, Vance. He is about as fine as sour Bantha milk.”
DarkHawk nearly spit out his drink, barely containing his laughter. A smirk curled the corner of his mouth as he composed himself, taking a deliberate drag from his cigar. “Ty here loves to embellish the past, but don’t worry, his stories get better with each drink. Why don’t you join us?” He motioned to the empty seat, the atmosphere now thick with camaraderie.
As Vance settled in, DarkHawk leaned in with a raised brow. “Heard you’re attached to Lady Tasha these days,” he remarked. “Good hands you’re in with her. Stick close, and you’ll learn more than you’d expect.”
Vance nodded appreciatively, and soon the four were deep into conversation, drinks flowing and cigars glowing in the dim light. Tytus, fueled by the growing company, continued his exploits of Imperial Navy days, his animated gestures drawing chuckles from the group.
Amid the lively chatter, DarkHawk noticed Lady Tasha, his former Proconsul, watching them from across the room. He raised his glass toward her with a subtle nod, acknowledging the shared history with a knowing smile.
Gathering himself, Cimozjen cast an eye at the Sephi-looking fellow. He had a very friendly air about him, but he felt remarkably reserved.
A man with secrets.
He knew how that felt. If only the Sadowans knew the half of it.
He stepped over slowly, trying to effect the most warmth he could into his words. “Hey Vince, wasn’t it, ” he flashed an overly wide smile and extended a hand as he watched the man for a reaction, “how is it going? What brings you to our little drinking hole?” He tilted his head slightly as he put on a confused look. “I don’t think that I have seen you around before.”
Vance raised an eyebrow to the man. “Vince? Heh, that’s a good one, eh nah I go by just Vance.” He shook the man’s hand, noticing the overly wide smile. Something about him just sort of fascinated him. “Well I am a Mercenary of sorts as this friendly Overlord stated I am kind of on Tashas payroll. I tend to do the job given try not to ask too many questions if you get my drift.” He smiled taking a glass of whatever was poured and took a drink as he leaned back slightly. “I learned the more questions you ask people,the more liable you are get hurt in some places.As for what brings me here, I’m just trying to get to know others I could work with later. Though you yourself, kind of intrigued me a bit. You seem to be hiding some things just based on that smile.” He chuckled taking a sip. “But that’s of course none of my business.”
Cerys sat down finally on a stool at the bar, feeling a little weary. She had enjoyed the dancing, even if she’d had to firmly fend off the moves of a Warhost Major. She admitted the Adept had been right, the tribute band was a good one they had certainly got everyone enjoying themselves. She glanced to the group of Clan members talking animatedly with the Clan Overlord, all glowing brightly in her force vision. She knew many from her previous time as Malisane’s pilot, especially the Overlord and his own pilot, but did not want to join them as a lowly Lieutenant she felt out of place.
She looked up as a large darker shape stood over here. “Hi Nova, can I have one of those spiced fruit cocktails, oh I see you’ve already got me one. Thank you.”
The Gammorrean waitress nodded handing her the drink, and then spoke loudly in a series of grunts.
Cerys sighed. “I have said before i am not really a security consultant you will have to speak to the Adept if you have concerns.”
Nova’s tone rose further as she pointed a finger at the miraluka as she continued talking.
The miraluka raised her hands in defeat. “Alright, I will speak to the Adept on your behalf.” Nova grunted finally and left.
“She seems troubled,” a gravelly voice commented from below her elbow.
Cerys startled and looked round, to see a hooded figure studying her. “She is no bother,” she replied. The noghri made her a little nervous. Like the Maurader Adept she did not know why he was here so often, and he seemed to study everything intensely.
Sarthis looked over at the gammorean head waitress who was now serving another customer and then back at the miraluka. “You seem to understand Gammorean remarkably well Lieutenant, as do most people here. Is it a common language in the Orian system?”
Cerys thought for a few seconds, “No I do not, and it isn’t. I never really gave it much thought. She talks and we understand. I have never heard her speak Basic.”
Sarthis looked at the hefty waitress again for a few seconds. “That is interesting, thank you.” He turned and walked away.
Cerys watched him go, and then shrugged and sipped her cocktail. She was considering having an early night.
Cimozjen gave a chuckle.
Was that line of getting hurt in places a threat?
“A ‘mercenary of sorts’ you say? Man, it seems like you have a remarkably slippery way of talking about yourself.” He took a sip of his drink, looking into it to effect a sense of ease. He looked back up at Vance and smiled again.
“Where I come from, questions can be an interesting thing. Some folks avoid them out of an interest of their own privacy. Others, well, they have something to hide. Or sometimes it’s about a painful past. It’s usually a roll of the dice either way.” He shook his head as he took another drink. “Man, I need to get a couple bottles of this. This is good.”
He placed the glass down with an audible clack and motioned to the bobot nearest him. “Can I get another of these?”
He looked forward, smiling in spite of himself. “I am flattered you find me interesting. I am but that which I appear to be. I find that those who have something to hide tend to be the most interesting.”
He glanced sideways at Vance. “Or the most dangerous. Such as is the case with the Versea’s dark paramour. Or perhaps, others i find myself in current company with. I find woman and intrigue go hand in hand, but they are far from mutually exclusive.”
“Well,"He winked to Cimozjen. "Got me there, though I kind of like studying and observing both men amd women. There are some very interesting individuals here that I haven’t quite observed yet or met to see what they are like."He took another drink. "At any rate, you may say you are what you appear to be, my friend. However,” He gave a mischievous smile and wink as he spoke in a lower tone. “I think we both know that is only what you want to show to others right now. He took another drink, still leaning back till he had finished it and sighed happily. "You are right on one thing though, this is some good stuff!”
The Sephie spoke in riddles. The Master hated riddles. It was like a rainy day on Corellia, a real pain in the rear quarters.
“Are you calling me some kind of a liar, Vance?” He took a drink as he considered his next words. “Because as much as I am sure that our hosts wouldn’t want me making a mess, I am more than loathe to let a thing like that just lie unanswered. You probably don’t want to make an enemy of a man you barely know.” He leaned back, letting his cloak slip to reveal the slugthrower at his side for just a moment before turning back towards his drink.
It was an old habit. He was not used to letting insults get to him. As quickly as the scowl had crossed his face, it was gone, replaced by a projected mirth.
“I do have to wander what sort of work you find yourself in. I am not in the habit of involving myself in the business of others, be they blue-twilek dames or their agents.” He glanced back meaningfully for a moment in the direction of Tasha'Vel, sure that he was heard. “I can assure you that your taskmistress and I have been acquainted in purely professional means before.” Cimozjen sipped his drink. “Though that might just be another story, for another time.” He sipped again, thinking to defuse the tension he felt building in his words.
“Surely there is some story in what brought you here, though? I mean, sure the promise of good drink and the greater mysteries of the Force drive me. I have to imagine you have more than a Twi-lek yanking your chain driving you, right?”
Vance raised up his hands. “Whoa there Detective, I wasn’t meaning to insult you. Guess my uh intentions were a little miscommunicated.” He took another drink. “Sorry if I came across as insulting, I just kind of like you a bit Cimozjen is all. As for being here, well besides Tasha, I did after all come by to meet others. I’m sort of still trying to find my place so to speak, but I do enjoy the freedom I have now.”
Cimozjen allowed himself to brood for a moment. After what felt like and appropriate amount of time, he shrugged and turned back to his drink.
“I haven’t thought about anything bleeding romantic in a long time. I am sure you are a fine enough lad, but maybe not quite to my taste.” He shrugged again. “I haven’t thought about it since m’ wife’s passing.”
He gave a nod of his head at the other chair. “Though, if you want to talk I will give the courtesy of kinder company I suppose. Not harm meant, if yer not intending any.”
“Ah, my condolences.” He replied as he finished his drink. “Nah, no harm just honestly trying to get to know people here, perhaps find some friends at least. My past isn’t much of one Cimozjen. I was a slave pretty much grew up in the slums of some god forsaken slavemaster’s planet. Tasha'vel actually freed me and helped get me on my feet working as a mercenary.So I am sort of just learning more about being free and being able to do what I want.”
“Have you thought about going into business for yourself? As nice as the Sadowans are, and Tasha'Vel certainly seems like one of the better ones in her own ways, they are still a cult of dark sider Force users. They use a variety of identifiers, be it Sith, Dark Jedi, mercenaries, loyalists, hell I think there are still a few that might consider themselves ‘gray’ rather than Dark Jedi. You always ought to work in your greatest interest of course.”
He sipped his drink thoughtfully.
“You know, I spent a bit of time in the line of command myself. It certainly isn’t all it is cracked up to be, and certainly leaves you in a harder position to keep things in perspective.”
He looked into his drink. “Then you have those like me who are more interested in the business of the common man. I have been acting as an investigator for those willing to spend the credits. Sometimes it’s your matriarch over there, other times I have been looking into whether a shop owner’s wife has been cheating on him. Not the most glorious work, but rubbing shoulders with the common citizen seems to keep things in perspective.”
DarkHawk took a slow sip from his drink, listening intently to Master Cimozjen’s words about working with the common people and the various paths a Force user could take. He respected Cimozjen’s perspective, especially his experience in dealing with the everyday concerns of the galaxy’s citizens. It reminded him of his own early days, back when he thought helping out the common man would bring a sense of fulfillment.
“Master Cimozjen, I very much respect that outlook” DarkHawk began, his tone measured and tactful, “There was a time when I tried my hand at being the helpful soul, lending my abilities to assist those in need. But I quickly realized that envy and resentment toward Force users grew too taxing to bear. Even when we tried to help, there was always a distance—a sense of distrust. Regardless of one’s path, it only takes a few—overzealous individuals seeking to impose their will to plant that seed. And over time, I felt the weight of that resentment more than any amount of credits could alleviate.”
He set his glass down gently, his gaze focused, reflecting on his past. “Freelancing was indeed a way to build both reputation and a comfortable nest egg of credits. I don’t deny it was a lucrative path. But the Clan? They offered me something beyond just credits. Purpose. Which was something I was lacking at the time. It’s not just about power, or influence—it’s about belonging, even if we Sadowans do come with our own complexities.”
He glanced over at Ty, before continuing. “That being said, with the good Sgt. Major here at my side, we do occasionally take on commissions outside of the Inquisitorius. Should the credits be high enough, we don’t mind stepping into freelance territory again.”
Ty grinned, a sharp glint in his eyes as he leaned back, his arms crossed. “Ah, yes. The finer things in life. After all, what’s a bit of altruism if the coffers are running dry, eh?” His voice was regal, as always, but laced with his characteristic snark. “Just think of it as public service with a luxurious twist.”
Sarthis listened the conversation between the Naga Sadow leader and the mercenary as he sipped the thick syrupy liquor the strangely communicative gammorean waitress had served him. Remembering the reason he had come, he slowly walked over. He gave a polite and formal bow to <@524388230481707009>.
“Naga Sadow Overlord, I have the data you requested It was difficult but not overly so.” He took a small data stick from beneath his cloak and passed it over.
“I can understand some of what you say, but I have been too long a slave to sell my services indescriminatley or serve blindly. I perform the tasks that fit within my personal code of honour. I am no longer welcome on my former home of Refuge because I refused to complete a job I did not agree with and punished those who deceived me in the nature of the task and those it affected, despite the generous reward. My loyalty is for sale, not because I value money above all, but because I am free to judge the work I am to undertake and consider it’s merit.”
DarkHawk raised his glass, a small smile touching his lips as he regarded Sarthis. “You’ve done well retrieving the data disk. Your work, as always, speaks for itself.” His voice carried a tone of deep appreciation, acknowledging the effort it had taken to secure the artifact. “For that, you have the Clan’s gratitude.”
DarkHawk’s gaze softened slightly, and he leaned forward, his words candid. “You are no longer a slave, Sarthis. And since your time with us, your honor has never been questioned. You’ve earned your place here, among us, and that is something the Clan does not take lightly.” There was a deliberate pause as DarkHawk considered the implications of the mercenary’s personal struggles. “I know that the rejection of your home world can be a bitter pill to swallow. To be cast aside by those who should welcome you.” His tone darkened for a moment, before regaining its previous calm. “Regardless of how you feel now, the Clan sees no reason to turn you away.”
He tipped his glass toward Sarthis, offering a respectful nod. "I can respect a man who takes on the difficult jobs, who chooses his battles with care.” His words carried weight, reflecting the difficult path Sarthis had chosen. “Despite how you may feel about credits, know this—our Clan values the work you do. And we intend to pay you well for services rendered.”
DarkHawk took a sip, letting the silence linger for a moment, before lowering his glass. He took a long drag from his cigar, the plume of smoke filled the air and met Sarthis’ gaze once more. “The work may be hard, but it is necessary. And you have proven yourself capable of rising to the challenge.” There was no need to say more. In that moment, both men understood the respect that had been earned.
The Bobot wheeled around the bar, spinning the soda-gun on a metallic finger, then reholstering it idly. The bar was full, and for the moment, the patrons were all sufficiently lubricated. Programming satiated, it resorted to idle animations. There had been some talk about a new station above Inos in the outer orbits for some reason or another. It wasn’t the droid’s place to question, although it was wondering if it was to be reassigned. It appreciated this work environment. Regular oil baths and maintenance, minimal chance of damage or destruction. It was a sweet post.
“You look downright contemplative.” Selri leaned over the bar, grabbing a bottle of water with an outstretched arm. “What’s up?”
The droid pushed up the brim of its hat with a soda gun. “Costs of livin’, ma’am.”
Selri rolled her eyes. The droids weren’t old enough to have a full personality yet, she supposed, although rumor held that their personality matrices were based off of one of the original members of the Order. Sadowans. Sith. Selri smirked, then opened her water bottle. She didn’t*quite* understand the legends, why they were thought of as….well, villains. They had treated their people well enough. The petty politics of the Ancient Empire were so far above her pay grade that she couldn’t even see it from where she lived. She had heard tales of backstabbing, of power struggles, of machinations of manipulations that would make the most intense holodrama pale in comparison. But from where she stood, from where she lived, they had given her work and security. Food in the belly and a warm place to defecate went a long way in her book.
She looked across the bar to see Case as he lurked menacingly near the door. A few half-drunk workers had tried to get in, to have a proper look at the Sith, but they had been turned away, left to amble about the station disappointedly. She shrugged, drawing her focus back, watching for signs of impending conflict. The Sith had fractured into smaller groups, enjoying their drinks and chatting. No different from any other cantina she had ever been to. Their reputation only bothered her when she thought about it. So the easy answer was to not think about it.
The Consul paused in his conversation, a hologram erupting from a commlink in between him and his drink for a moment. The dark hair and eyes gave the Lion away. She had seen him a handful of times. He was intense to be around, but not outwardly unfriendly, she supposed. Leastways, not to her.
“Consul.” Muz’s voice paused, waiting for Darkhawk to turn his attention from the raucousness of the Seventh Tooth. “We’ve found one.”
Darkhawk paused, blinking at the holo for a moment until disbelief faded. He had waited so long that hope seemed a distant memory. Finding his words, he finally responded. “I’ll rally the clan. Rendezvous here, and we’ll go together.”
Muz nodded though the holo as the image evaporated into cerulean ether. Darkhawk leaned back, Tytus’ voice blurring in his ears as he considered what could happen next. What would happen next, if they had the nerve to reach out and take it.
Darkhawk smiled.