Target Lock Blues

Downbeat, unobtrusive, vaguely-familiar popular music faded out as holovision screens flickered to life for the big smashball pre-game show. From his seat at the bar, Jofar "Joey" Rabeak glanced up at one screen. The usual talking heads were already babbling on as if they had any clue about what was going to happen, who would make what play, and how anything about a game played by overpaid - though admittedly hunky - meatheads mattered at all. Joey just sighed and returned his attention to his drink, a half-finished Shownar Breeze, and tuned out the new chatter about the game.

The Wandering Star wasn't a sports bar. It wasn't much of an anything bar, really, which was why Joey had picked it for the evening. Among Jovan's numerous offerings he had some favorite haunts for music, dancing, or drink specials, but how he felt that night called for none of those things. It called for the Wandering Star, and the slice of plain, unassuming, non-invasive normality it delivered.

The distinct lack of theme and focus in both the atmosphere and decor of the bar was part of its charm. It existed, and yet it did not at the same time, a perpetual limbo one could find themselves in. In many ways, it summed up the net effect of Joey's life thus far, and in some way he knew that's what drew him there that evening.

His fuzzy ears pricked at the sound of newcomers entering the bar, and his natural curiosity forced him to turn, half looking toward the door, half using the mirror behind the bar to give him a view without being obvious. Three customers were walking in, two men and one woman, and Joey tracked their progress in the mirror until they took a table by the opposite wall, clearly there to watch the game. A sip of his drink assisted in closing out the outside world once more, and his gaze turned to his own reflection, what little of it he could see between bottles stacked behind the bar. Another sigh, tail flicking idly behind him, and he let his forehead rest against one of his paws, elbow propped on the bar, as he imagined he was going to be the only one looking at himself, that evening. Just like so many evenings before.

For five minutes, Gunner paced with purpose the 30 meters between the Wandering Star and the turbolifts. He was rigid with concentration, fighting an internal struggle between his desire to try something new and his habitual need to take refuge in his quarters beneath two bantha wool blankets while he recited every roster for the Corellian Dreadnaughts in reverse chronological order. It was a tough decision to make: on the one hand, there was the tried-and-true method for coping with any kind of distress, while, on the other hand, there was the more popular option of dealing with a very specific kind of distress that was cited in all kinds of novels, and holos, by people from all over the galaxy. And today, Gunner's distress was very specific.

He'd seen her: Kiimiti Taassaura. She finished her shift in Flight Station 337 the same time she always finished. She took the same route, exiting the same turbolift, with the exact same company. That is, to say, no-one. Except, this time, it was different. He was a big Cizerack officer, dressed in uniform, who lingered by her side every step of the way. Gunner followed for as long as he could stomach it, until he saw the officer say something into Kiimiti's ear, and she laughed. Yes, this particular brand of distress was far too pronounced to be dispelled the old-fashioned way. What Gunner needed, more than anything, was to "drown his sorrows."

The Wandering Star it was, then. Gunner wasn't entirely sure how this was supposed to work. Holos had a tendency to skim on the important detail. How long was he expected to stay there? What was the most efficient drink for drowning? Was it a question of alcohol content or volume, or both? When would he be aware his sorrows were fully drowned? Did he need to inform anyone of his intentions? Again, he was plunging head-first into a new social, or perhaps in this case, anti-social convention without any concept of the rules. That was dangerous territory, especially when it was the kind of territory that was frequented by drunkards, sports fans, and... him.

Something Rabeak sat alone, perched atop one of the bar stools, blocking his view of the beer. Immediately, Gunner glanced back towards the promenade, where his thoughts drifted to the familiar turbolift, then to his quarters, and the safety of his bantha wool blankets and the Corellian Dreadnaughts. Then he remembered Kiimiti. Something Rabeak was one of the fighter pilots from Titan Squadron. He was loud, confident, and had a reputation for being a typical brash fun-loving flyboy who liked to party hard. He was scarcely seen alone. Gunner didn't like him. Or, more accurately, he wasn't the sort of person Gunner liked so he didn't waste his time trying to. Presently, his skin crawled at the thought of having to humour his particular brand of bloated overly-buoyant conversation while he tried to order his drink. It was times like these when it was important to understand your own body language, and the message it was sending.

"Barkeep," he declared, upon occupying a stool a safe distance from Something, "I want beer."

Joey's left ear perked at the sound of a familiar voice, his head slowing turning to confirm suspicion. It was Rodes, recon pilot with Rogue Squadron, with, um, who was it again? Started with a T, but the Nehantite simply couldn't remember. The Boring Bros; that was their nickname behind closed comm lines among Titan Squadron. No wonder Rhodes came to the Wandering Star. It was about as dull as he was.

A perfunctory nod of recognition was all which Joey spared before returning to his drink. They weren't wingmates, they weren't friends; they were simply coworkers, so acknowledging Gunner's presence was good enough in the moment.

"One beer," the bartender stated, setting down a mug before Gunner. "And you? Another selection from our Ladies Night list?"

Joey glared up at the bartender, then slammed back the remainder of his cocktail. "Some of us happen to like fruity drinks," he grumbled.

"Eh, guess you are what you drink," the bartender chuckled.

The Nehantite's tail lashed behind him for a moment, a biting curse ready on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it back. "In that case, whiskey sour," came out instead.

Clips of past games appeared on the screens around the bar, as the place started to grow more crowded. It was still a good half-hour before the game would start in earnest, and some fans appeared determined to become wasted early, as preparation against any pain from upcoming poor plays, or bad coaching decisions. Another glance was shot Rodes's way, as Joey never pegged him as a smashball fan. Then again, neither was Joey, and he found himself at the same bar. Were it a team Joey cared about, he might be interested in watching, but if that had been the case he'd surely be kicking back with his dad on Anauri's couch, sharing a six pack together. As it stood, Joey couldn't give a rip about the two teams on that night's bill, and the only person he knew in the room was Rodes.

"Your date stand you up, too?" Joey broke the ice, glancing sidelong at the often-quiet human. Shoulders slumped, the fighter pilot leaned on the bar, and took a sip from his fresh cocktail as soon as it arrived, possessing none of the bluster and bravado he typically exuded on the flight deck.