The sounds of a scuffle outside the thick metal doors of Rusk's Cantina were normal. The cantina's massive Rodian bartender being thrown through those doors and lying in a pool of his own blood on its floor was definitely not.
Heads turned and somehow the music stopped as the small number of patrons immediately halted their hushed conversations. Hands instinctively drifted toward holsters. The double doors swung in and out two or three times as the fetid air of Coruscant's Dacho District, aka "The Dead Sector", wafted into its already-smoky interior.
Rusk, a large and (even for his species) ugly Houk hissed an intelligible curse between his teeth as the assailant strode confidently through to the center of the barrom floor. He'd seen some rough customers in his time. Living that far outside the law in the lower levels of Coruscant meant that only the very desperate and very dangerous would darken your door. But he'd never seen a soldier, in full armor, beat down his bouncer and simply walk into one of the most notorious nests of thieves and murderers on the planet.
He wasn't just some bounty hunter in scrapped armor. And he wasn't just some ground-pounder, either. He had the distinctive walk of the template, of the original. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, and separatist operatives around the galaxy had learned to recognize the uniform, the swagger, and the body language of the Alphas. They knew their designations, their nicknames, and had been counting down from one hundred since the war started. Most of them were dead, a few had deserted, but only one was on active duty.
Even 40 was aware of the risk he was taking by going into the Dead Sector. But the signs he had picked up after breaking into Senator Amidala's apartment indicated escape... and the only way he figured she could manage it was illegally. There were only a few smugglers desperate and dangerous enough to get out of Coruscant at the moment, only a few information brokers wanted enough not to immediately turn them over, and they were more likely to be in a dive like this than anywhere else. So far a good portion of his list of suspects appeared to be in the room. If was particularly lucky, the more bloodthirsty breed of mercenaries who made their living fighting the Republic would still be out on the Fringe.
No such luck. A heavily armed and heavily scarred Wroonian near the back of the cantina stood and walked toward the center of the room... openly wearing an armband identifying his affiliation with the Confederacy.
"Easy there, Cyango..." Rusk spoke up, setting the glass he was drying back onto the battered bar. "...keep 'em holstered before you get us all killed."
"Shut up, Rusk," the Wroonian spat, as he stood in front of the bar. His long white hair was interrupted by a large scar above his left temple, and his bloodshot eyes stood out from his craggy azure face. He squared off a few long paces away from the trooper, who had stopped just short of the unconscious bouncer. A sneer that was a bit of a smile twisted his face. "Know who I am, clone boy?"
"Bish Cyango," 40 acknowledged, "Murderer. Terrorist. Funny seeing you on Coruscant... but I didn't come here for you."
"Well ain't that a shame."
The former separatist pulled a handful id tags from a pouch from the same belt that held his double blasters, and tossed it to the stained floor at Taung's feet. Four of them were immediately identifiable as Alpha tags. The crowd held their breath, hands hovering over weapons as the sound of metal clattering on metal punctuated the silence.
Taung stood as still as the grave as the bar fell silent, everyone preparing for the violence that was sure to follow.
Alpha Forty let the silence go on for an uncomfortable twenty seconds or so.
"I thought so. Go find a playground to terrorize," said the ARC, waving his hand dismissively as he moved to the bar.
"I ain't done with you yet, clone boy," he growled, and his blaster almost seemed to leap from his holster to his hands. He fired and the bolt sizzled past Taung's head, grazing the armor, blackening the plasteel. Everyone inhaled sharply at once and Cyango laughed. It was an ugly guffaw.
The next blur of motion made the Wroonian's quick draw look sluggish by comparison - in one fluid motion Taung spun, jumping to the tabletop nearest Cyango; he landed in a crouch as glasses and bottles of liquor scattered everywhere, drawing his rifle with the speed and assurance of someone who used it on a daily basis.
The barrel rested right above the bridge of the blue-skinned man's nose.
"You can either drop your weapon or die right here. I don't really give a damn which one you pick, but you better choose quickly, because I'm here on business."
Cyango's blaster clattered to the floor as he immediately loosed his grip. The second he drew slowly with only his thumb and forefinger on the butt of the grip, and let it fall as well.
"Now then," growled A-40, to the breathless crowd around him, "I hear tell that one of you scumbags is trying to sneak away from Coruscant tonight."
There was a sound of barstools scooting across the floor. Looking over the struggling Cyango's shoulder, Taung could see that the patrons at the bar were quickly distancing themselves from a large Devaronian with a golden earring.
"Villie buys two rounds for house and theez thanks he get? Karking bishwag bastards, all of youz!"
"Villie," Taung muttered under his breath. Of all the sleemo scumbags he could have found it had to be Vilmarh Grahrk.
It wasn't that Villie was particularly intimidating, good in a fight, or had contacts... he just tended to turn up at a bad time and he always made a situation worse. If this was the piece of filth smuggling Amidala and Retrac off-planet then they were in dire straits indeed.
He contemplated shooting Cyango for his audacity as a lesson to the rest of the lowlifes gathered in the cantina but decided the flimsiwork probably wasn't worth the hassle.
"Get out," he growled. The Wroonian instantly scrambled away and out the door and Taung relaxed his muscles, stepping down off the table to the dirty floor. He held his rifle casually as he stepped in front of the Devaronian.
"Are you going to tell me what I want to know or do things need to get ugly?"
Posts
The sounds of a scuffle outside the thick metal doors of Rusk's Cantina were normal. The cantina's massive Rodian bartender being thrown through those doors and lying in a pool of his own blood on its floor was definitely not.
Heads turned and somehow the music stopped as the small number of patrons immediately halted their hushed conversations. Hands instinctively drifted toward holsters. The double doors swung in and out two or three times as the fetid air of Coruscant's Dacho District, aka "The Dead Sector", wafted into its already-smoky interior.
Rusk, a large and (even for his species) ugly Houk hissed an intelligible curse between his teeth as the assailant strode confidently through to the center of the barrom floor. He'd seen some rough customers in his time. Living that far outside the law in the lower levels of Coruscant meant that only the very desperate and very dangerous would darken your door. But he'd never seen a soldier, in full armor, beat down his bouncer and simply walk into one of the most notorious nests of thieves and murderers on the planet.
He wasn't just some bounty hunter in scrapped armor. And he wasn't just some ground-pounder, either. He had the distinctive walk of the template, of the original. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, and separatist operatives around the galaxy had learned to recognize the uniform, the swagger, and the body language of the Alphas. They knew their designations, their nicknames, and had been counting down from one hundred since the war started. Most of them were dead, a few had deserted, but only one was on active duty.
Even 40 was aware of the risk he was taking by going into the Dead Sector. But the signs he had picked up after breaking into Senator Amidala's apartment indicated escape... and the only way he figured she could manage it was illegally. There were only a few smugglers desperate and dangerous enough to get out of Coruscant at the moment, only a few information brokers wanted enough not to immediately turn them over, and they were more likely to be in a dive like this than anywhere else. So far a good portion of his list of suspects appeared to be in the room. If was particularly lucky, the more bloodthirsty breed of mercenaries who made their living fighting the Republic would still be out on the Fringe.
No such luck. A heavily armed and heavily scarred Wroonian near the back of the cantina stood and walked toward the center of the room... openly wearing an armband identifying his affiliation with the Confederacy.
"Easy there, Cyango..." Rusk spoke up, setting the glass he was drying back onto the battered bar. "...keep 'em holstered before you get us all killed."
"Shut up, Rusk," the Wroonian spat, as he stood in front of the bar. His long white hair was interrupted by a large scar above his left temple, and his bloodshot eyes stood out from his craggy azure face. He squared off a few long paces away from the trooper, who had stopped just short of the unconscious bouncer. A sneer that was a bit of a smile twisted his face. "Know who I am, clone boy?"
"Bish Cyango," 40 acknowledged, "Murderer. Terrorist. Funny seeing you on Coruscant... but I didn't come here for you."
"Well ain't that a shame."
The former separatist pulled a handful id tags from a pouch from the same belt that held his double blasters, and tossed it to the stained floor at Taung's feet. Four of them were immediately identifiable as Alpha tags. The crowd held their breath, hands hovering over weapons as the sound of metal clattering on metal punctuated the silence.
Alpha Forty let the silence go on for an uncomfortable twenty seconds or so.
"I thought so. Go find a playground to terrorize," said the ARC, waving his hand dismissively as he moved to the bar.
"I ain't done with you yet, clone boy," he growled, and his blaster almost seemed to leap from his holster to his hands. He fired and the bolt sizzled past Taung's head, grazing the armor, blackening the plasteel. Everyone inhaled sharply at once and Cyango laughed. It was an ugly guffaw.
The next blur of motion made the Wroonian's quick draw look sluggish by comparison - in one fluid motion Taung spun, jumping to the tabletop nearest Cyango; he landed in a crouch as glasses and bottles of liquor scattered everywhere, drawing his rifle with the speed and assurance of someone who used it on a daily basis.
The barrel rested right above the bridge of the blue-skinned man's nose.
"You can either drop your weapon or die right here. I don't really give a damn which one you pick, but you better choose quickly, because I'm here on business."
Taung clicked the safety off.
"Now then," growled A-40, to the breathless crowd around him, "I hear tell that one of you scumbags is trying to sneak away from Coruscant tonight."
There was a sound of barstools scooting across the floor. Looking over the struggling Cyango's shoulder, Taung could see that the patrons at the bar were quickly distancing themselves from a large Devaronian with a golden earring.
"Villie buys two rounds for house and theez thanks he get? Karking bishwag bastards, all of youz!"
It wasn't that Villie was particularly intimidating, good in a fight, or had contacts... he just tended to turn up at a bad time and he always made a situation worse. If this was the piece of filth smuggling Amidala and Retrac off-planet then they were in dire straits indeed.
He contemplated shooting Cyango for his audacity as a lesson to the rest of the lowlifes gathered in the cantina but decided the flimsiwork probably wasn't worth the hassle.
"Get out," he growled. The Wroonian instantly scrambled away and out the door and Taung relaxed his muscles, stepping down off the table to the dirty floor. He held his rifle casually as he stepped in front of the Devaronian.
"Are you going to tell me what I want to know or do things need to get ugly?"