notallofus | (no subject)

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They finally depart the crawler at sunset, just outside Mos Taike. The Jawas settle in for the night, planning to make their rounds among the moisture farmers and the town's small market in the morning. Tsedec leads them out, shaking each of their hands and bowing quickly before heading back into the crawler. In the distance, the twin suns burn white and orange, the sky now dusted in purple and gray, the shadows of the dunes and of the small farm homes that dot the landscape cut darkness across the bright sands.

No more than a klik away is Mos Taik – compared to Mos Elrey, it looks rather run down. It's also surrounded by walls, but they're lower, and clearly chipped and crumbling in places. There are fewer earthen towers, most buildings also low to the ground, and while there had been plenty of activity outside the walls of Mos Elrey, here there's only one other vehicle, a speeder just at the wall, two figures piling sacks into it. Beyond the city, much, much farther in the distance, a cliff rises up from the sands, and perched on it the dark, miniscule outline of what must be the Hutt's palace.

But Kanan only glances over this, before turning back, out to the desert. Something about the color of the suns, the shadows, the wind rising over the desert makes Kanan pause. He looks out to the horizon, to the twin suns, one gleaming white hanging high above the other, deep orange and already beginning to fade as it dips deeper in the sky. The wind ebbs, but then picks up once more, whistling around them, chilling the otherwise warm evening. And beneath it – Kanan can hear it, like a voice, familiar yet changed somehow, calling out to him across the dune sea –

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"We've seen worse."

Though usually 'worse' had the decency to keep the lights dim. Still, she leads the way through the bar, dodging the occasional stumbling patron or remains of shattered glass on the floor, until they make their way to the bar. Fortunately, the bar's not too busy, and they get their order quickly enough - Jawa juice for Kanan, bantha milk for Hera (no drinking before piloting), and skewers of roast dune lizard that Hera's hopoing is something like the meat the Jawas had been sharing last night. The smell, at least, is promising.

With their places collected up, "Maybe it's a little darker in that corner?"

Kanan squints a little into the distance, because maybe, sure --

"It's as good as any place else, even if we have to rig my cloak up as a blind," he says after a moment, shaking his head a little.

"Here, you navigate, I'll block anything incoming."

"Great."

The corner she had in mind means another walk across the barroom. She steps carefully among the tables, trying to avoid stepping into spills or the wafting clouds of smoke from deathsticks. The sloping wall and ceiling cast a few shadows over the corner, and once they reach the small, empty table, Hera sets down her mug and plate, and shoves the chairs further into the shadows.

Kanan stays standing until the table is situated as Hera likes it, and she's well-settled. Then he puts down his own mug and plate, tilts his chair just a fraction more out into the flow of traffic than Hera's, and sits himself down.

"No, you're right, it is more shadowed back here."

That's something.

"I can almost see the food I'm about to eat."

He tries to keep his voice down, just in case anyone in the vicinity has a fierce loyalty to this place and its decorating choices. (Stranger things have happened.)

Hera spends a few minutes with her meal, taking deep sips from her Bantha milk and sliding bits of meat from her skewers. It's not particularly seasoned, but it is well-cooked, not overdone and charred and chewy in the right ways. And after thin meals of protein, it's all a welcome change.

It's to give Kanan time to eat, too, before -

"Our next job needs to be a real one. We used a lot of fuel getting here."

Edited 2018-12-31 01:05 (UTC)

Kanan, too, finishes chewing his actually textured food, swallows, and takes a sip of his drink.

Then --

"Yeah. We could probably pick up something here, but the pay will be awful for any of the things we're actually willing to do. But maybe it'd get us to a different planet where we can nab something better?"

"I think we could make it to Bothawui. Lots of options there."

They continue on, slowly working through their meals and going back and forth about whether they should pick up something here or use the fuel they have left to get to a nearby system. It's enough for them to mostly block out the commotion around them, which includes at least one more broken glass and a shouting match over Dust Juice.

What does catch Hera's attention is a hush over the cantina. She glances up, instinctively toward the door, figuring a new patron might have caused the sudden silence.

And she's right. In the doorway, there's a pale Twi'lek, dressed in long black robes, his lekku settled around his shoulders. He's accompanied by a single Gamorrean guard, a Quarren in a cape at his other side. For a few seconds, the other patrons watch the group, but the Twi'lek ignores this, moving with the guard among the tables, while the Quarren heads for the bar.

As they come closer, Hera quickly turns her head away.

Kanan lifts his mug to his lips -- even though it's mostly empty by now -- and looks over toward the commotion for just a second.

Well. This is probably not the greatest thing to happen today.

He turns back to Hera, voice dropping low.

"Are we good here?"

Hera doesn't answer at first. The Twi'lek keeps approaching, his guard still following. His eyes pass over Hera and in Kanan in their corner, as well as the patrons around them, his face impassive as he takes in these surroundings. Then, he turns, and slips into a seat at a nearby table. The guard with him remains standing.

It's a table within earshot, and Hera can't think of a language both she and Kanan speak that's unlikely to be understood. So she does the only thing she can think of. She shifts over, leaning against Kanan, tilting her head into his shoulder and facing into him so that she can whisper, as though with affection.

"He works for the Hutts."

Kanan doesn't swear. He works hard to keep his face from shifting, his expression from falling, because any change might be a reason for that potential problem to look over here. Maybe with intent.

(He also works hard not to have that shiver travel down his spine, because Hera's breath is warm.)

And then he turns into her, leaning down like he's into that, and not-so-coincidentally hiding his mouth from that side of the room.

"You have a run-in before?"

It doesn't seem likely, given that he looked them over and didn't immediately start spitting rage, but --

She shakes her head, very slightly. He won't see it so much as feel it.

"We know of him."

Bib Fortuna, a Twi'lek who worked for one of the most infamous Hutt crime lords, his duties including supplying a steady amount of slaves, other Twi'leks among them -

He'd been unpopular among Hera's circles on Ryloth. To say the least.

Kanan again tries not to react to any information Hera is imparting, nor to even twitch at the feel of her chin brushing the base of his neck.

"Do we need to go out the back?"

He's already calculating the best path he can see, including which chairs and patrons could function as effective obstacles without the necessity of throwing them at someone.

(The next step includes throwable detritus.)

She leans back from him, and offers a one-shouldered shrug.

At least for the moment, there doesn't seem to be trouble. And Hera can't quite help her curiosity.

A few minutes later, the Quarren returns, carrying a tray with two tall glasses. The drinks he's carrying look out of place in this cantina, the glasses gleaming, not smudged and dusty like everything else in sight. Fortuna accepts one of the drinks, that looks like green clouds hanging in some clear liquid, while the Quarren sits, and takes a sip of his own shimmering blue drink.

"And now,," Fortuna says in Huttese, once the Quarren sets down his glass. "About the order."

Kanan shifts a little, picking away at the last of his meal while also repositioning himself the barest fraction, just to open up his peripheral vision to keep the Gamorrean in his line of sight. His ears are open, too, listening in the hopes that maybe there'll be some loose lips in this conversation.

(Speaking of ways to get money. Potentially.)

We've secured it," the Quarren continues, also in Huttese. "There was trouble with a blockade in the Arkanis system. I apologize for the delay."

Huh.

"And where is it now?" Fortuna asks.

The Quarren reaches under the table, and after a few seconds, lifts his hand back to the top of the table, clearly concealing something beneath his fingers. He slides it across the table toward Fortuna.

"Buried, to keep it safe from the natives. This will give you the location."

"This is not what was agreed upon," Fortuna says, sharp teeth flashing as he leans forward, wearing a grimace on his face instead of a smile.

"Jabba will not be pleased."

But he slides his own hand over object anyway -- probably a beacon of some kind -- and tucks it away into a fold of his multi-layered robes.

The Quarren tries not to stiffen, tentacles writhing over each other for a moment.

"And our payment?"

Fortuna taps his fingers on the table, then gestures to the Gamorrean. The guard reaches to his belt, and produces a small cloth bag, which he drops into Fortuna hand. It clinks gently as Fortuna tosses it across the table, next to the Quarren's drink.

"Ten percent. My master will not permit more before delivery is complete."

(Very slightly, Hera's lekku quiver.)

There's a brief quiver in the Force, a sneering sense of superiority swiftly subsumed in fear as the Quarren bows his head.

"Of course. Shall I wait here for confirmation of the retrieval?"

All Kanan can think is that here would be infinitely preferable to Jabba's palace.

He also reaches out to rest his hand on the middle of Hera's back, very briefly.

For verisimilitude. (And he saw her lekku twitch.)

Fortuna waves a hand, dismissively.

"We will not enter the desert before morning. Return to your ship. Or if you prefer, His Excellency's court is always hospitable."

Hera remains still this time, but at the next table, a Rodian coughs in her drink.

Kanan involuntarily ducks his head at that, hoping no one looks over at the Rodian.

Fortuna, however, does, dismissing the Quarren from his attention as if the other being weren't even there.

"My ship is perfectly acceptable,," the Quarren says, moving to his feet with alacrity, voice gone quiet. "Thank the incomparable Jabba for his consideration."

The Gamorrean shifts to keep themself between Fortuna and the Quarren, but also to give themself a line on the Rodian, in case Fortuna looks too displeased.

Or that's Kanan's guess, anyway.

The Rodian doesn't move, keeping her eyes down on her glass. Fortuna continues to watch her, long after the Quarren has fled the cantina, his nearly-full glass still on the table.

"Would you like to join me, chik," he calls to her. She still keeps her eyes down, like she can't hear him now. "If you've been listening so closely..."

Hera's going to stay silent. She is.

She was going to stay silent. But then Fortuna flicks his fingers, and the the guard takes a step toward the Rodian's table.

"Schutta meulla." Hera says it loud enough to be heard, though it's a moment before she looks up. "Nu jun rom sendrnem?"

Kanan tries desperately to keep his posture casual, in the hopes that he'll be able to take the guard by surprise if things go very badly.

He has a feeling that this particular crew paying attention to him and Hera is bad news, which only gets cemented by the increasing hush in the room, as Fortuna's attention focuses on Hera, leaving the Rodian behind.

(For now.)

"Ah, nerria riloka, how proud your tongue is, far from the tunnels of your kin," Fortuna says, mostly in Huttese.
Kanan is pretty sure at least a few of the words in there are Twi'leki, since the sound of them is familiar, even if the content is obscure. "Be careful no one tries to rip it out."

Hera keeps her eyes on him. As much as she might like to be scathing, she knows that's not worth the risk to her, or to Kanan. There's a balance, somewhere, between cowering, and the Gamorrean coming at her with his axe.

(She's also hoping that the Rodian has the sense to run.)

"On nerricho lenk."

Fortuna's face screws up in a scowl, and he spits without moisture, back over his shoulder.

"Pfah. You are a worm beneath my feet, girl. But my master does like those with your coloring . . . perhaps your own master here will be interested in a sale."

He turns his attention to Kanan at that, because whether or not there's truth in it, it lets him get some of his pride back. And here on Tatooine, so close to Jabba's palace, that is often all that matters.

The Rodian, meanwhile, slowly slips out of her chair and begins to fall back into the crowd. She's small, which makes it easier not to draw too much attention. Plus there's . . . well.

Hera.

Kanan takes a deep breath, but doesn't answer. He can feel the shape of his blaster in his mind, knows exactly where and how fast to reach for it if everything falls apart now.

Sometimes there isn't anything else.

Edited 2019-01-04 00:09 (UTC)

Hera's eyes flicker to Kanan.

Along her back, her lekku, she senses the Rodian's movements, hears her footsteps before they fade into the din of the bar.

As she looks back to Fortuna, she smiles, and shrugs. Switching to Huttese, "Sorry, it doesn't look like he wants to sell his worm."