[Novgorod] Grognar's Last Chance Shop & Gulp

Space was sometimes a lonely place. Light years of bleak nothing punctuated by flashes of war, supernovas, and solar flares. When one had the time to think about such things, they had the faintest comprehension at how big the galaxy was. When you were a sector away from a habitable world in all directions, that feeling of enormity only grew. It also made logistics an issue. Do you have enough fuel and supplies to not die in a floating derelict in absolute zero? Hopefully. War also made this problematic. Not all ports are friendly ports. For ships of the Alliance, the number of safe harbors is very few. You find the ones you can, or you find the ones that take all comers.

"Well...that's cerrtajinly a space statjion."

More or less. What lay before the Novgorod was a sprawling, slap-dash cobblework of airtight structures that hung motionless in the ether. Some bits were new. Some had a patina of rust that had somehow managed to etch themselves on in a past life whenever the superstructure was in an atmosphere that allowed for oxidation. All over the big ugly hulk, pin-pricks of light could be seen from windows, so the thing had power. If you didn't get that clue from the windows, the hundred or so neon signs blinking around the damn thing made sure of it. One in particular, which hung separate in the reaches of space a few kilometers away, announced where you were.

"Grrognarr's Last Chance Shop & Gulp, huh?"

Captain Raurrssatta flashed an uneasy grimace at the thought. His ship needed fuel. They were a ridiculous leap away from official Alliance support, and since it was their business to fly sorties, a lot of their upkeep had to be done on the fly. That included fine establishments like these.

Of course, the crew would relish the notion, even if it was a chance to stretch their legs for a few hours on a piece of shit like this. Getting off the ship was an imperative that was unavoidable at times.

"Malljin, get us clearrance to dock, jI guess. Make arrangements to rrefuel."

Cirr tapped his comm, patching him in to the rest of the ship.

"All hands, thjis jis the Captajin. We'rre puttjing jin to dock. Grrantjing a two hourr furrlough to all crrew."

He paused, and added.

"Don't get jinto too much trrouble. Raurrssatta out."

Murray's ears pricked up, instantly.

He had no idea what a furrlough was, but it had the word fur in it, and in his experience such things couldn't possibly be bad. His mind contemplated the possible options - was this perhaps a Cizerack tradition; some sort of banquet or other festivities to celebrate the docking process?

Murray's extensive studies of galactic culture had sadly been limited somewhat by the data made available to him back home: plenty of holomovies set in the Tapani Sector, where honour and chivalry and sword prowess were still regarded as traits of high prestige indeed; but alas, very little about the curious traditions of the Cizerack, or indeed any other social or racial group that was not both human and well-spoken.

Of course, the Captain's request that they evade trouble was puzzling indeed. In hindsight he considered it strange that any sort of festivities would posess such a specific time limit; perhaps Cizerack tradition dictated as much so that the residents of whatever station or other spaceborne structure they had docked aboard would not be too adversely affected by being drawn into the festivities and neglecting their other duties?

Or perhaps something else was at work here. Perhaps this furrlough was not a pleasant festival, but rather an extensive spar between crewmates to help vent the frustrations that had collected over a long voyage. He had seen a holobroadcast once where such a thing had occurred: the humans had attached large red paws to their hands, and had proceeded to beat upon those with whom they had grievances. At one point however, a human who he believed was male had ended up embracing a human who Murray believed was female.

At the time, he had wondered if perhaps the entire process of physical combat was in some way a strange human marriage ritual. But that was preposterous: what kind of marriage proposal did not involve the presentation of assorted berries and appropriate bedding materials?

Contemplation furrowed the Squib's furred brow. Whatever this furrlough was, it presented a mystery that required solving. A mystery that only someone with his wits and swashbuckling prowess could possibly resolve.

Scampering from his bunk, Murray rummaged through his storage chest, searching for his most prized posession. He found it: a laser-sharpened micro-foil that had been forged by his own hand; an ellegant weapon from a more civilized age. Feeling as if, for the first time in weeks he was fully clothed again, he slid the weapon into it's destined place on his belt, and placed his finest feather-plumed hat atop his head.

Satisfied that he looked every inch the mystery-solving hero he aspired to be, Muridaemus-musculus burst from his quarters, with every intent of taking this furrlough entirely by surprise.

On his way to his own quarters to change into civilian gear, Cirr spotted a blur of movement across the deck, at about ankle-height.

"What the?"

A Cizerack's first instinct when encountering something of that sort is wholly unpleasant for whatever small thing is the recipient of such attention. It wouldn't be the first time he'd "handled" a pest problem on his frigate, though such occurrances were rare now that Lyanie was aboard (explaining that one would be difficult no matter what).

Murray would be lucky that Cirr simply swooped him off his feet and held him at eye level.

"Oh, jit's uh, Rregan's frrjiend, uh..."

Awkward. He felt like he was chatting up an appetizer.

"...be carreful on the deck, okay?"

"Unhand me, foul -"

Standing at a mighty three-foot-seven, Murray towered above many of his own species; but the unfortunate problem with human giants and their similarly scaled non-human companions was that most species looked remarkably similar from the crotch downwards. Especially if they were all dressed the same, as was the norm aboard a military vessel such as this.

As such then, Murray could obviously be forgiven for not instantly recognising his Commanding Officer. Perhaps it would be wise if Alliance uniforms were modified to display rank insignia on the trousers as well, he idly mused, and made a mental note to suggest exactly that the next time he found himself in the presence of anyone who could actually bring such a thing to pass.

That didn't lessen the embarassment of course, but at least he had realised before he'd drawn his blade and stabbed the vile brigand repeatedly in the eyes. Being hoisted aloft was a humiliation and a dishonour, and had anyone else been responsible for his current undignified circumstances he would have slain them in their boots.

"Captain, my Captain!" he exclaimed, wriggling free of Cirrsseeto's grip and landing on the deck with an audable thud.

He offered the Cizerack his humblest bow. "My apologies for -"

He found himself at a loss, and so settled on the most generic apology he could think of. "- whatever offence I may have caused."

"What have you got there?" a voice said from behind the two. Onashi exited the turbolift and walked up, smoothing out his jacket with a lazy hand. "Don't tell me we have a pest problem."

He squinted curiously at the little squib in the Captain's hand and comprehension dawned.

"Ah, it's not a pest. It's food, isn't it? I didn't think you went for snacking in front of all the troops. It's good to see you still mingling with the common man, Captain."

"We don't rreally uh..."

Embarassed and a little offended by the mild racism, Cirr coughed, smoothing out Murray's ruffled fur.

"...do that."

Well depending on which parts of the cluster you go to... nevertheless, Cirrsseeto was in no mood to linger, and walked with the two members of his crew toward the umbilical that lead off the ship.

"jI don't suppose jI have to guess wherre you'rre headed, Onashji?"

"I'm going to see if they sell a particular kind of smoking leaf here, or perhaps a synthesized strain if they don't have anything natural," Onashi replied. "And then I will head to a bar or other similar establishment, drink until I am intoxicated, and will then likely make some choices regarding sexual encounters that I will either like or dislike immensely whenever I wake up."

He smirked lazily.

"If that was your supposition, then you'd be right, Captain."

Walking down the corridor and also preparing to leave the ship, MARCUS pondered Onashi's bizarre intentions.

"All three of your intended tasks carry significant risk of causing bodily damage. Why is this your intention?"

Two hours?

Two WHOLE, precious, wonderful hours?!

Oh, she could do a lot in two hours.

Mara smiled to herself as she rushed around her quarters, pulling out clothes she hadn't worn in what seemed like forever. It wasn't, after all, often that she even had free time that was hers to do with as she pleased.

Well, within reason. Her career couldn't take anymore serious hits. But...if an opportunity presented itself...

She shook her head, leaving her long auburn curls loose down her back. Her outfit was definitely not Alliance issued, in fact, the only thing that was were her ID tags. Mara didn't bother with weapons, but strapped her comlink to her wrist in case something happened. You never knew...and with this crew, it was practically a given.

Her heels clicked across the decking of the Novgorod as she left her quarters and made her way down to where the umbilical joined the ship to the station. Onashi, Cirr, Murray, and MARCUS were ahead of her, and she lengthened her stride to catch up.

"You say that to a mercenary," Onashi said, looking at MARCUS with curiosity. It was a droid, but unlike any he'd seen before. "My whole life is a series of very dangerous activities and all of them carry a serious risk of bodily damage."

Tallen caught them up, and Onashi whistled in appreciation.

"Looking very good there, Tallen," he said. "I wonder if you'll find anyone worth dropping that dress for in that place. Or is it that you're wearing it for someone on the ship?"

He only cared insofar as the answer would tell him whether he should keep up and try to take the shapeshifter to bed, or if it would be too much work.

"Thanks, Onashi."

Mara grinned, offering the mercenary a wink as she looked him over. Well, he didn't look too bad this time. She might entertain a thought or two for a moment, but likely not much longer than that.

Glayde would never forgive her. And, contrary to popular belief, she did have -some- standards.

"I'm not wearing it for anyone in particular...but I did dress to see if I could raise a little ruckus..." Mara glanced up at Cirr, her smile still bright. "...but not too much, I promise."

Cirr's blue eyes widened, caught up in implications he probably wanted no part of. Instinctively, he looked to see if Lyanie was on his six, before covering the whole act as non-chalantly as possible.

"Look, go have fun, that's an orrderr. jI, uh, jI've got a few errrands to rrun."

He quickened his pace, finally reaching the exit onto the station. It gave him a little pause. It wasn't as filthy as Nar Shaddaa, but it wasn't hardly a stay in Theed, either.

Bette had wandered the station for an hour. There was, point in fact, nothing interesting there. The Shop 'N Gulp was a pile of modules tacked together with varying degrees of success and livability. It was dirty. It was full of interesting beings, most of them alien.

It was also the only place she had been able to limp to with the Maneater after she'd lost an engine after an op. Shadow Squadron had jumped to their rendezvous, and she had fallen out of hyperspace halfway there. The Defender was holed up in a mechanic's hangar, the greasy proprietor under orders to work on nothing else until he had completed the repairs to the fighter's systems.

It was probably the most expensive ship he'd ever touched. After hanging around for a while had only made him overly nervous, Bette had taken to wandering the space station. And now she was looking for a bar. Why not? No one had answered her calls yet, the rest of her Squadron wouldn't even miss her until they arrived at the rendezvous. Flight Commander Davis walked into a likely establishment, and ordered a beer.

After what would be considered poor excuse for half an argument, Miriya sighed, deflated, relented, then attempted a different tack.

“Alright…” She narrowed her eyes slightly, nipped in a bit of lower lip between her teeth and hissed out air between those teeth. “…here’s the deal, prettyboy.”

She raked a hand through her hair, then both hands and drew it all back into a high ponytail.

“I need this. I’ve been good, I’ve behaved for long enough.” Satisfied that the tieback was firm enough, she glanced out the door to the ‘fresher room at Xander, then in the mirror in front of her. “You let me have this, just a drink or two and I’ll let you queer-eye me… someday.”

She grinned slyly, snatching up a nearby bottle of spray hair gel, spritzing here and there to assist any little flyaways in laying down, before lightly passing a comb through to make sure they did just that. Finally, she yanked a moderately-sized purple bag out of the 'fresher room cabinet and began to apply the lightest bit of make-up.

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

Well, at least he didn’t accuse her of looking like a trampy nerf-herder or something, this time. He might have even grunted something about her wardrobe being passable. That alone could be construed as progress, on his part. He seemed to give in when she’d traded her usual combat boots for boots that were purely for either looks or poking someone’s eye out. The leggings were a sort of faintly sheening black, topped with short, dark denim shorts and a lighter coloured button-down shirt that altogether betrayed the fact that she did in fact have a waist – something for which her usual I-don’t-give-a-shit spacer fare offered no assistance – and was altogether in more than decent shape.

It didn’t take long for her to find the bar, as if she had a sixth sense for drinking establishments and take up residence on a vacant barstool. In short order she’d elected to start with a beer, showing at least some sensibility in that fact, as making a bee-line for the hard liquor would only get her sauced much faster than would be a good idea. Upon the first sip, her body loosened and she released a near-pleasured sigh of relief.

"Step aside, lads..."

Ledo brushed past Cirr and Onashi with purpose, not seeing any need to mingle while still on the ship. Once he got a little rocket fuel in him, then who knew. But he was making the most of his time off that Alliance love boat.

The station was a dilapidated, seedy little dive, and that suited the pirate just fine. He took a moment to breathe in the scents of engine grease, sweat from a few dozen different alien species, a faint aroma of vomit/urine, and the promise of alcohol further down the pathway of neon lights.

Like a locked-on proton torpedo, Ledo found the bar, slapped down a chit at a free stool between two ladies. One, a no-nonsense brunette (looked military, or maybe just a hard case spacer) and the other, a girl who looked a little too good for the rest of the company on this shithole.

"Gundark rotgut!"

The barkeep made a face.

"Look mate, I know we don't look like much here, but that's too disgusting for even this joint."

Ledo sneered, options turning in his head.

"Wha'eva's cheap, then."

Bette looked sideways at the grizzled spacer who took the bar stool next to her. He looked like he should smell bad, but he didn't. She wasn't in the mood for idle conversation, so she ignored him and the pretty blonde who had entered the bar and was on the other side of him.

Actually, that was a lot of action for such an out of the way space station. Bette sat up a little straighter and looked out the wide front entrance. There were no doors to block the view - a metal grate was rolled up that the proprietor could slam down into place with a push of a button when it came time to close up. Out on the makeshift promenade there was a growing trickle of people walking by. Some were dressed in Rebel Alliance colors.

She sipped her beer carefully and pointedly turned back to the bar, using the mirror that backed it to keep an eye on the entrance. Thankfully she'd left her flightsuit in the cockpit of her Defender. Black pants, boots, and a white tank top were nondescript enough that it shouldn't scream IMPERIAL.

Just her luck that some Rebel ship would stop by at the same time she was forced to be here. Bette flagged down the barkeep and ordered a shot of something clear.

"Aye aye, Captain." Mara offered Cirr a salute and toned down her smile a few watts. She wasn't entirely sure why she made the Cizerack so nervous, but chalked it up to whatever current rumor was circulating about her reputation.

Fantastic.

Nodding to the others, she wandered off to explore. There had to be someone on this floating pile of junk who had a weapon for sale - kitty was in the mood for a new toy.

By the time she made her way to the bar some of the others had made a bee-line for, Mara had spent a sizable chunk of credits. There were two cubes of plasticene thermite gel that she knew they'd be able to use on one mission or another, and a pair of KD-30 slugthrowers, now safely and securely stored aboard the Novgorod.

A smile curled her lips as she chose a seat at the bar and ordered a Starshine Surprise. Beside her was a blonde woman that it took Mara several seconds to recognize.

"Miriya...long time no see." Mara said politely, not having forgotten about the first time she'd met the former redhead.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Serasai Onashi

"You say that to a mercenary," Onashi said, looking at MARCUS with curiosity. It was a droid, but unlike any he'd seen before. "My whole life is a series of very dangerous activities and all of them carry a serious risk of bodily damage."

---

Much like feeding a gundark, postulating a logical incongruity to a droid was guaranteed to get them to follow you. MARCUS, strung along with unyielding curiosity and two legs to get him into trouble, followed the mercenary along.

"Moral imperatives aside, combat as a mercenary meets criteria for task orientation. Specific objective. Specific process. Specific result. In this case, payment for services rendered. Because payment is often a means of sustaining life processes through the procurement of food and shelter, both biological imperatives, the exposure to damage for your module is accepted as an acceptable risk level.

I understand this, Onashi, Serasai. Your intended courses of action on this station do not satisfy these criteria. Explain."

When it came to seedy last-chancers, Grognar's was far from the worst Tevit had been to. For instance, there was more than one shop. There was a functioning refresher, and there were surfaces that weren't sticky. All in all, it wasn't terrible, but it was far from a first-class joint.

Not that Tevit had too much experience with those, either. Being Nehantite, the social stigma against his race had often prevented him from working into classier positions and getting invited to celebratory functions, even when it had been his work that was cause for celebration. But at last something had come across his communicator which as a legitimate chance to move up in the galaxy. No more low-paying repair jobs, or stressful hours of labor tinkering on racing engines that the pilot would just blow up in a matter of parsecs, no, this was a real job, with highly competitive pay - even if it did mean working for the Alliance.

Still, a Nehatite couldn't afford to be picky, and so there he was, waiting at Grognar's for his contact to show. To be precise, he'd been waiting for two days for his contact to show, but so far not a peep had come across his comm. Still, the Alliance wasn't known for their punctuality, and he'd been promised a sizable signing bonus, so he's stick it out for at least another day or so. And where better to kill time than at a bar?

There he sat, perched on his stool like a lazy parrot, his brown coveralls and heavy mag-boots marking him as just another one of the crowd, despite his yellow fur and long, flicking tail. He'd met two other Nehantites aboard, both contracted at below-standard wages, but to them it was at least a job. He differed from them, however, in that he not only had his freedom, but his own ship, as well. Actually, two ships, though one wasn't much good for anything but quick hops from here to there, being a racing shell. His main ship, a modified passenger shuttle, the Lunchbox, sat in a docking bay, the Mosquito tucked snugly into its own cargo hold, while his tools and equipment occupied most of the rest of the available space inside.

Nursing an ale at the bar, Tevit checked his comm once more, then sighed and rubbed his red eyes as there was still no word from his new employers. Only the sight of a small band of newcomers heading into the bar gave him entertainment, and he watched them for lack of anything better to do.

"I understand this, Onashi, Serasai. Your intended courses of action on this station do not satisfy these criteria. Explain."

Onashi strode into the station, MARCUS following him, emanating an improbable curiosity.

"Nothing of what I do satisfies any biological imperative," Onashi answered with a grin. "I enjoy it. I derive pleasure from fighting, and participating in battle. Getting paid only means that I can use my money to fix up my weapons and have the ability to travel to where I can find more conflict."

He noticed how positively ancient some of the modules that made up the station were, and wondered at how they'd managed to get them to work; it was an idle curiosity though, and there was no motivation to pursue the thought further.

He turned into a large compartment, flanked on both sides by large stalls and some few actual small storefronts, and began to look through them.

"As much as I enjoy them, I've come close to dying several times. And I've learned from soldiers that the tried and true way to confirming one's existence after prolonged company with death is to get piss drunk, make love to a woman, and walk away from it afterwards."