Bad Puns and Awful Smells

[Darven]

(OOC: If you want in, contact me first)


There were times when wearing a sophisticated helmet with a filtering system that could distinguish between lethal and dangerous substances, and harmless ones, was an advantage; designed to keep its wearer from any harm, it let only such smells and substances in that were natural, and was unerring and unchangeable in this matter.

Which was an unfortunate downside to it. In a place like an undercity market, with thousands of creatures of all kinds of species pressing by, being able to set the HUD's filters' danger levels to something more bearable would have been useful.

The stench was horrible.

Nar Shaddaa in itself was bad enough, its streets so filthy that the hawkbats they had once introduced to it in a desperate bid to rid it of the infestation of armored rats the lower levels were suffering from had all died shortly after arriving, poisoned by something in the brackish water at the bottom of the filth down there. Or maybe they'd just got a lungful of the noxious fumes erupting every now and then in bubbles from collapsing structures far beneath the livable areas, where ancient fuel-processing factories had long been overbuilt by newer buildings. The pollution in the air - so some claimed - had started when the Hutts arrived 25 millenia ago, and remained along with them.

In this place, it all mixed and mingled with the body excretions of a thousand different species, however. And his HUD painstakingly only filtered out the lethal gases, and left the rest to permeate the interior of his helmet so that after a while he could even taste it on his lips when he wet them with his tongue.

For a moment the bountyhunter felt a strong urge to return to his ship.

Then he pushed the compulsion aside and moved forward, setting one foot after another against the throng of shoppers. His goal was on the other side of the crowd, unfortunately, and had no other access; the place was a dead end, and it was just his luck that someone had picked it to host this day's black market venue.

On the other end of the otherwise grimy and badly visited plaza a slanted, neon pink sign strobed irregularly over a cavernous door: "Progga's Hut - Bar & Eatery". When Darven had finally squeezed through the crowd - taking note of the fact that no one seemed intimidated by the sight of a Mandalorian in full armour here - he saw that someone had etched a comment into the stone underneath the sign: "eatery my ass!", and under that was scribbled in black: "never trust the food in a place that has a bad pun over its door".

Darven smiled. It was good to be home.

[Agen Riko]

It was one of those days - the sort of day when you wondered why the hell am I here? In the immediate instance, he knew exactly why. This wretched, stinking, disgusting patch of planet was - apparently - home to a bar where he stood a reasonable chance of finding decent work.

Moon, his father's voice corrected in his mind. Disusting patch of moon.

That in itself was annoying - his subconscious always corrected him in the voice of his overbearing father. Of course, further annoyance was drawn from the fact that the voice was correct, as his father had normally been. It was one thing to be pestered by the voice he'd run away from; another thing when that voice made a good point. That was the broader answer to the 'why am I here?' question - the reason why he was looking around the wretched underbelly of Nar Shaddaa instead of doing something constructive back home on Ruhe. Funny how you didn't appreciate the good things about home life until you found yourself in an even deeper shithole.

A hand rose to his face, and clamped down to shield the air filter that his armour - an antique from the Clone Wars - provided. That actually made the smell worse, if that was even possible; the smell was probably soaking into the fabric of his gloves. Fantastic. Cursing under his breath, he shoulder-barged his way past the last of the crowd, and stepped into the bar that the GPS in his helmet informed him was his destination.

The bar itself was - if possible - worse than outside. Granted, air filtration kept the worse of the outside smell at bay, but the atmosphere inside - so thick with stimsmoke that it loitered like a fog - was hardly much of an improvement. And somehow, even with the presence of artificial lighting, the interior managed to be darker than the city depths, surrounded by the epic towers of Vertical City, had been.

Agen unleashed a sigh that was thankfully consumed by the ambient noise and his helmet, before tugging the latter off to reveal his face. A barman appeared, looming from the stim-fog and dimness. "A pint of something cheap and alcoholic," Agen requested, tossing a credit chit across the sticky, beer-sodden bar.

[Darven]

His gloved hand gripped the old-fashioned, dull metal handlebar on the grimy door which gave off a screeching noise of sand getting caught in between, and it jammed midway, so that he had to push it open the rest of the way.

Convenient way to announce new guests, he thought, once inside, as he noticed the heads that had turned at his entrance.

The interior of the bar was a long and narrow corridor, with a number of more private alcoves at one side. It was painted in a unappealing mix of brown, dark red and black that always reminded him of a particularly disgusting training exercise on Kamino where they'd had to crawl through a trench filled with steaming, stinking nerf guts. Sometimes the smells from the kitchen caused him the same kind of nausea than back then.

That wasn't why this was what he considered home, however.

No - it was that scribbled comment over the back door which made it home: a sign of sanctuary, of welcome, of support. And of comradeship. A sign that this establishment was still in the hands of the network some of his brothers ran to give aid and support to any ex-GAR Mando. They'd used the credits well to set up a chain of similar bars in a dozen locations over the galaxy, which would offer free board and services to anyone of them passing through. Outwardly, these bars seemed nothing but the usual, just a bar with a Hutt owner and a pun over the door. But as long as that inscription was written over the back door, it was a safe haven for him. Even if this haven happened to be run by a disgusting green worm who could not cook. The Hutts who ran these bars were all either under some obligation to his brothers or were being paid enormous sums to keep them content.

Still - Hutt would be Hutt, and there was no guarantee that this one wasn't going to sell his great slimy soul to someone else if there was more profit to be made. So it was better to check the place out properly before taking a seat.

The front entrance went out to a better part of the plaza. Darven slowly walked down towards it, noting that the stimsmoke got thicker the closer he came to the front. There was a bigger crowd than usual, probably due to the presence of the market outside. Of Progga there was no sight. A couple of male Twi'leks were handing out drinks, and a grubby-looking female of the same race was walking around trying to look like a competent server.

For a moment the bountyhunter just stood there, watching the crowd, scanning it for any known faces, but he didn't recognise anyone. A man in an old set of trooper armor sat at the bar, but he hadn't seen it before, and the head sticking out of it looked young from the back. The armor seemed a little too big for its wearer. Some young wannabe, probably.

With a sigh that no one could hear apart from him, he turned and walked back the way he had come until he reached the door to the kitchen. There he stopped, and considered the risks of going further for a moment or two, before shrugging finally and pushing the door open a few inches and calling: "Progga?"

A foul-smelling cloud of brown smoke was all he got in reply.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"No no no! The gold protocol droid's vocabulator did its best to sound flustered. "Master Progga wanted the dricklefruit on the cracknel, not the elba grain!"

A Trandoshan growled something back at the droid, its long claws looking almost ridiculous as it shook them at the droid.

"I know, it's traditional to put the dricklefruit on the cracknel. But Master Progga wants to try something different! The customers won't know the difference...or...so he tells me.

Another growl mixed with a hiss and the Trandoshan cook shook his head and started on the recipe again, ignoring the green smoke which started coming from the oven.

"Ah Master Darven you've returned! If the droid had lips, Darven was sure he would have smiled. "Master Progga is in the back kitchen, trying out his new...recipe. Parwan nutricake with a brazen fatty acid sauce. He'll be delighted to see you...if he doesn't poison himself that is.

The Trandoshan hissed as flames suddenly sprang up from the oven and the smoke changed from green to orange to yellow to black. "Dear oh dear. This way please."

Progga Nokko Thesla's brown tail flopped as he worked in front of his kitchen set. A member of the Nokko kajidic, Progga had little care for the rest of his clan, prefering his pots and pans and 'recipes'. The creds had been fronted by both the GAR organisation and the Hutts, but only the GAR knew that. As far as they were concerned, as long as Progga never bothered to sell them out, he could 'cook' as much as he liked. His brown head turned towards the door.

"H'chu apenkee, Darven. Kee chai chai cun kuta?"

The droid translated, either necessary or unnecessary he didn't know. It wasn't his job to. "The great Progga Nokko Thesla greets you Darven. And asks what you are doing here?"

[Darven]

One whiff and the sight of the ugly colorless slosh bubbling in the pot the Hutt was holding in the crook of his arm was enough to make him regret following the droid into that part of the kitchen. He should have thought better of it once he'd seen the color-changing smoke emitting from the oven. The fact that the substance in the pot was bubbling inspite of there being no heat source alarmed him more than the horrible stench and sucking noises coming from it.

"Ahhh.... I'll talk to you out there. If you don't mind."

It wasn't an order, but Progga knew better than to leave him waiting. Darven backed out of the back kitchen, and hastily made his way through the front part and back into the bar proper.

Once there, he sat down at the bar itself - now deserted completely, at least in this part of it - and waited.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

Progga slithered out ten minutes later, two bowls of 'something' in his chubby hands. Darven was about to respectfully decline the food, until he noticed one of them was full of fruit. The other had to be that detestable concoction the Hutt had been working on earlier.

Outside of his distate for being a true crime lord, Progga also escewed from the use of a hoversled or power chair. He was completely fine with using his stomach muscles to 'walk' across the bar's floor. Which made him even stranger to his clan.

He rumbled another Huttese greeting, which Darven returned with a nod. "Murishani. Kee chai chai cun kuta?"

The droid translated again. "The Great Progga Nokko Thesla is honored to have you in his presence and asks why you are here?"

[Darven]

"Slana'pir!" he told the droid after a few seconds had passed. There was no need for a translator in this conversation - Progga spoke Basic quite well for a Hutt, but the worm liked to play pretend.

A small rumble from Progga and the droid did as he'd been told, and retreated back into the kitchen.

"The Great Progga Nokko Thesla will remember who his lorda is, and that any murishani with this face will get board and fare. I'll take both, and some information from you."

He took off his helmet to show his face.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"Hee hee hee hee hee. Ho ho ho ho ho." Even Progga couldn't laugh like a normal Hutt. He raised his bowl up to his mouth and took a sip. A string of coughs suddenly came from his mouth as the concotion rolled down his throat. It was obvious whatever Progga was planning, hadn't turned out as well as he'd hoped.

Another round of coughs followed, then Progga turned his attention back towards the Mandalorian bounty hunter. "I would...never." His Basic was semi-halting yet almost smooth-like. "For-get...who funds...my...cooking skills...Darven What...do you...need?"

[Darven]

With some amusement he watched the Hutt down the vile stuff. Either Progga wanted to save face in front of him or this was a common enough occurrence. Hutt stomachs were said to be extremely resilient. This close and without a helmet, the fumes from the brew were making his own eyes water.

But he wisely held off on any comments about Progga's cooking skills.

"Are there any others on the planet?" He meant the other clones, and Progga knew it, too.

The Mandalorian was hoping to find someone from the network in the vicinity at least, so his request for information on the DeVille bounty could be passed along faster.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

The protocol droid suddenly turned as if it was going to say something, but a flick of the Hutt's eyes caused it to not speak.

Progga took another drink from his awful concoction and didn't choke this time. When he opened his mouth, Darven saw smoke coming out of it. "No, Darven. No one is here at all."

[Darven]

Darven nodded, in acceptance of the fact. It would have been extremely lucky if he had - there weren't all that many of them left. It was one of the downsides of the network; and the next generation was slow in taking up their fathers' tools.

His eyebrows rose and fell as the only outer sign of the displeasure he felt at having to go through the Hutt himself. But it was a necessary evil; and one the Hutt was paid handsomely for, after all.

He took a step forward, being careful not to get too close to the escaped puffs of toxic smoke erupting from the Hutt's mouth.

"Pass this along then: I need any information they have regarding a woman both the Imperials and Black Sun are looking for."

It went without saying that this meant that the bounty was his to hunt for, and along with her name Progga would pass on his claim to his brothers - some of which were bountyhunters like himself.

"Her name is Lilaena De'Ville," he said to the Hutt, being careful to pronounce the name correctly and distinctly.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"Haven't heard of her." Progga responded, his eyes again keeping the droid from speaking first. "One of the other Hutts...Gorgja perhaps, may have, but I haven't."

[Darven]

Bemused, Darven watched the odd exchange between the droid and the Hutt as he listened to Progga's reply. The poor thing seemed to feel a powerful need to speak for its master, inspite of having been ordered to shut up.

But he hadn't expected the name to ring any bells with Progga, so there wasn't any point in keeping the Hutt from his work. "I'll be in town for a while - when you've received word from Gorgja let me know."

It wasn't a request. This was what the Hutt was getting paid for, after all.

"What room?"

He was going to take a quick nap and a shower, before going out again to look for some replacements for the Sarang's systems. And still he hoped that if he stayed a few days, he might bump into a brother; it had been a long time without news of Kyrimorut.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"Room 224." Progga took only a moment to decide where he wanted Darven to stay. He knew Mandalorians didn't care too much about lavishness or comfort or he would have offered the master suite. But, as Darven said, he only needed a quick nap and a shower. "The droid will take you there." Progga took another drink from his cup. "Hmm...needs more spices...Gahlash! Prepare my pots and pans!"

"I'm terribly sorry Master Darven." The droid and the bounty hunter started walking towards the suite. "But Master Progga isn't normally this...distracted with things. You see, several days ago he received a message from Jaarhu the Hutt about possibly cooking for a banquet in his honor.

"And you know how Master Progga feels about his cooking and having hutts from other clans coming here." It the droid could have smiled, Darven believed he would have.

"But Jaarhu seemed quite insistent on coming here. I believe he may be trying to convince Master Progga to stop being so legitimate."

[Darven]

He wasn't truly paying any attention to the droid's prattling, until that very last sentence made him refocus sharply.

"And would he?" the bountyhunter asked the droid with a hint of a smile playing around his tired eyes.

Not that Hutts ever were legitimate. That was part of the advantage of using Hutts to run these establishments - their various criminal activities and contacts was a valuable source of information and material. Hutts literally drew the scum of the galaxy to them. Skirata had once called them "practically a living, breathing scum-wanted ad".

Idly Darven wondered what this Jaarhu's claim on Progga was. Hutts seldom bothered to meddle in the affairs of other clans - and other Hutts. He'd never heard of one called Jaarhu.

"Where does Jaarhu live?"

It would probably not be a good idea to meddle in Progga's affairs, but the thought of someone trying to "convince" Progga of anything made Darven a slight bit apprehensive. Maybe it would be good to prolong his stay.

[Progga Nokko Thesla]

"Master Progga hasn't bothered to tell me where Master Jaarhu lives, Master Darven, but I believe he operates off of Klatooine." The protocol droid's answer seemed to ring true. "I do know Master Progga has been very agitated about Master Jaarhu's visit. I believe he wants to make sure Master Jaarhu would be uninterested in doing more business with him.

"Without killing him with his cooking of course."

[Darven]

His visits to that planet had been rare and brief, so perhaps it was no wonder he'd never heard of Jaarhu.

The droid's last statement brought out the grin properly. With something of a dry laugh the bountyhunter said: "It's a good thing Jaarhu's a Hutt, then."

He was going to make sure not to be around when Progga was doing the cooking - the Hutt's concoctions were bad enough when he wasn't trying to drive away his customers; if the noxious fumes from that brew were any indication of what lay in store for Jaarhu, the bar wasn't going to be safe to set foot in for anything other than Hutts.

Yet the entire matter was intriguing him to the point of deciding that he'd stay for the outcome. The CNSF wouldn't like it at all if one of their "agents" got a bit too independent, especially not in a place as busy and important as Nar Shaddaa. Perhaps his presence might make some difference in keeping Progga set on the right path; if not - then at least there would be someone to handle damage control. He hoped he'd get word about his merchandise before then.

-------------

At the door to room 224 he had the droid stand back after swiping the access pad once with a card; swiping it once more with his own card, he tapped a new access code into it which allowed him sole access to the room beyond the door. It shouldn't have been necessary due to his status, but he'd always gone with the old addage of better being safe than sorry. And Hutts - even ones more at home swinging a cooking spoon than a crimelord's whip - should never be trusted.

He sent the droid downstairs again after checking that the old card didn't grant access anymore, and only then let himself into his room. It was as spartanic as he was used to; indeed, this was more or less his room whenever he stayed here. Therefore he made sure to scan it for observation devices first thing, but found none; one of the Hutt's underlings must have been by in the time since his arrival and taken them, because he knew that the Hutt's eyes were usually everywhere. No one stayed here unsupervised.

To the naked eye the best feature of the scarcely furnished room - nothing but a bed, a chair and a table to it - was the door to the balcony on its far end; this balcony was just large enough to dock an airspeeder to it, as indeed there was one parked there right now, courtesy of another helpful employee of the Hutt's. To Darven, the room itself held a few more attractions: behind hidden panels in the wall that he doubted even Progga knew existed lay caches of weapons, replacement parts, and other useful things. There were a number of identical rooms to this in Progga's hotel, and access was only possible by a DNA probe along with the altered code at the door; once inside, all it took was a simple verbal command to open one of the panels. Darven didn't know how Progga assigned these rooms, but number 224 had all but once been his, so he'd begun to think of it as a kind of "home".

The former soldier didn't bother with the panels now, however; he carefully removed his weapons and armour plates, then peeled off the bodysuit and his underthings. After a short time in the tiny 'fresher's sonic shower, he washed his clothes - a habit trained onto him at Kamino - and hung them out to dry over the chair. Then he took the bitter-tasting pills that helped him fight the daily battle against the onset of old-age, lay down onto the narrow bed and closed his eyes. Sleep came upon him quickly, these days, and within minutes he was fitfully dozing off.

----------

Five standard hours he was back downstairs in the bar, enjoying a meal that wasn't of the Hutt's cooking, and engrossed in the data on his pad. He'd slept for three hours, then taken the speeder back to the Sarang's docking berth. It had taken an hour to track down the dealer able to do what he wanted to have done, and another half an hour to close the deal. He'd come back to the hotel to eat something and get some of the replacement parts from the room's stock before heading back to the ship and supervising the modifications done to the Sarang.

[Agen Riko]

Five hours. Five wretched, stinking, tedious hours in this Force-forsaken place. Sure, he wanted work. He needed work, badly. There were only so many credits that one could scrape in with the menial thug work that he'd been doing lately, and while they paid the bills when he stayed put, they barely kept his ship fuelled and running, let alone let him out and about. Half the reason he was out here was to see what the galaxy was like beyond the trees and farmland of his boring childhood home, and he'd been stuck on Nar Shaddaa for three months now.

The only thing of any remote interest had been the other patrons. He'd been studying them closely, trying to determine their standing - both genuine and percieved - within the society of scum and villainy that existed down here. For example, the Trandoshan in the corner had barely moved the entire time, relying instead on the over-excited Rodian beside him to do his talking for him. Most of the people around here kept a wide bearth from the Trandoshan; whether it was respect or fear, Agen couldn't be sure. What he did know however was that the Trandoshan commanded respect that the Rodian didn't: every time the Rodian strayed from the Trandoshan's table that aura of space shrank; only the occasional grunt from the Trando prevented the Rodian from being lynched by the mob of patrons.

The Rodian exploited his protection to the extreme; Agen had already considered blasting the arrogant bastard a few times when the Rodian had become tetchy when Agen was a little slow moving out of his way. He'd probably be fast enough to take the Trandoshan down before he could react as well; it was the indeterminate alligence of the other thugs that gave him pause. If they stayed clear out of fear, their reaction would likely be minimal. If however it was respect, he wasn't entirely sure that he could take out enough of them fast enough to secure his escape.

One of the patrons was an enigma, however. Riko barely saw the Mandalorian - after arriving he'd passed through the bar on the way to the exit, and had recently returned. Masked figures intregued him, and with the Mandalorian unmasked while he enjoyed his meal, his intregue only grew.

Agen's father had been a Clone Trooper, copied from Mandalorian stock. Though interpred with one of the Humans on Ruhe, he still thought of himself as all Mandalorian, as many of the Clones had also done. He'd only met a few of his Clone relatives - usually fugatives from the Empire that his father occasionally helped to harbour - and never a true Mandalorian. Curiosity became too strong: he had to know which one this man was.

Drawing close to the bar, recognition swept across his consciousness. Though environmental variation made the appearence of the Clones deviate as they matured, the features of Jango Fett still showed a little on the Mandalorian's face. It went beyond that though; the scar, the scowl; Riko knew that he had met this man - this Clone - before, even if he couldn't put a name to the face.

"I know you," he said, drawing close behind the Mandalorian. He waited for any indication that the man was even aware he was being addressed. "My father is a brother of yours; his name is Riko."

[Darven]

His fork in mid-air, a piece of sausage speared on it, the bounty hunter stopped chewing and set his hand down.

This had to be the kid in the trooper armor he'd seen earlier.

A look in the reflecting glass at the back of the drink dispensers opposite him confirmed it. Which wasn't to say that he was what he claimed to be - the last time he'd seen his brother's offspring they were still young enough to be in diapers.

"Is that so..." he said, after he had chewed and swallowed his bit of sausage. His free hand had remained on the table - the only sign that he was inclined to listen rather than cut the kid off and send him packing.

"Your father here, too?"

If he was, then Progga had lied to him. And there would have to be consequences to that.

[Agen Riko]

Agen loosed a bitter fraction of a laugh. Since he'd arrived on the planet, the clone Riko had never left. At first he'd been unable to, what with Separatists controlling the skies, and then he'd been unwilling. He used his family as an excuse, although Agen never understood why they were any kind of restraint. Besides, it was hardly like they had much of a life out there; wouldn't have taken much to drag the lot of them out of that pit and set them up somewhere that wasn't so damned boring.

He wondered what the Mandalorian would think of his father now: wasting away in his cabin, training his children as soldiers and yet never leaving the isolated safety of his exile. It was the perfect irony - the man bred for war who hid away from it; the father with nothing to teach his children but the skills he had elected never to use again. It was beyond mere irony though; it was pathetic.

Pride, compassion, or something else tempered his words; twisted them into a more delicate form than the venom his tongue desired to spit forth. "My father is retired," he said simply, though he couldn't keep his hand from becoming a fist. He longed to say more - to boast about his own exploits, brag to the man who was practically an uncle that he still respected their purpose, still held on to their ideals and lifestyle. The same force of susinctness curbed his words there as well. "I am not."