The Weequay Straggler

Orum's End Cantina -- Orum's Bastion

        A pair of weapon scanners flank the door leading into the cantina, but from the blaster scoring and lack of activity whenever someone passes between them, the scanners do not appear to be functioning. Once the main conference room of a ship called 'The Craven,' the long narrow hall is dominated by a serving bar manned by both sentients and serving droids alike. Several grungy booths line the walls, their seatbacks tall enough to offer some modicum of privacy to those seeking to do business or quaff drinks in the dim light alone. Shells on the floor crunch under foot from time to time, though it is impossible to tell if the shells are the discarded remains of legumes or the casings from archaic small arms fire. One would need to stoop to find out, which is not advised.

Gideon

        At just shy of six feet, this man cuts a nearly average figure: not too thin, not too broad of shoulder. He could blend into a crowd if necessary. His skin is a deep hue just shy of umber; golden under the right lighting. Dark brown eyes are expressive under thick, highly arched brows and a wide mouth prone to easy smiles is surrounded by a few day's scruff. His black hair is kept short; neatly framing his face.

        Gideon's clothes are worn: by time and weather alike. From black slacks that have been patched once or twice to boots that have clearly seen better days. He wears a long-sleeved gray top in a v-neck beneath a black leather jacket covered in a number of straps and pockets of varying uses.

Malideus

        A few fingers below the average height of a human male, Malideus still makes for an imposing figure, with his broad chest and workman's muscles. Carrying himself with a stalker's grace, Malideus appears lithe in spite of his pronounced musculature. At a glance, he leaves an impression of health and fitness, save for his eyes, which glisten red, likes tears of unshed blood.

        Every centimeter of Malideus is covered in leather, once black but now faded gray. Boots rise to his knees, secured with thick, primitive laces, tied and retied. A well worn coat with a broad collar adorns the upper half of his body, and articulate leather gloves cover his hands. A hood and mask cover his head and face, leaving none of his skin visible, save for a narrow band of flesh around his eyes.

The cantina is not very busy at this hour, but then is it ever? Still, late-afternoon finds most folk still out and about at their business. It finds one Gideon Corrand, however, at the bar. His jacket is off and tossed haphazardly over the back of the stool next to him and the man himself is slouched forward against the bar; hand wrapped around a mug. He's staring absently at a newsfeed, but not really -actually- watching it.

The weapon scanners at the door remain silent as Malideus of the Wood passes between them. The scanners may be busted, but he does not appear to have a blaster at his hip or a vibrosword strapped to his back. Head to toe in faded black leather, his attire might cause a stir in more civilized parts of the galaxy. In this station, this cantina, with the shells crunching under his leather boots and with the low light turning the dark shades of his attire into a sort of camouflage, Malideus fits right in.

He moves across the cantina floor, his steps unhurried, and his bloody eyes shifting left and right. No one appears to be paying him much mind this time, but it never hurts to be careful. Again, the man in the black leather doesn't stand out. A lot of paranoid folks pass through those cantina doors. A lot of less careful individuals are carried back out.

Malideus takes a seat at the bar, not far from the other occupant. The bartender, a service droid with one large optic and a trio of arms that look like they would be right at home on a spiderbot, squelches a query at Malideus.

"I hate droids," Malideus grumbles under his breath. He casts a glance at Gideon and nods a slow greeting to him before turning to address the server. "Juice. No spice. Warm." In this respect, Malideus's order does stand out, drawing a glance from a patron sitting at a nearby table. Either Malideus doesn't notice, or he doesn't care.

"Thing's been needin' repairs for a while now," Gideon speaks up, voice a touch rough. Presumably from the drink, but who knows. He tears his eyes from the grime-coated display and lifts a hand to scratch at the several days growth at his cheek. Dark eyes narrow slightly. "Who the fuck orders a warm juice?"

It's possible he's been drinking a while. Or maybe Gideon is just that mouthy. It's also entirely possible that he's just that truly baffled by the order.

"Someone that's fought off two ambushes already," Malideus responds, his own voice rough, though from the bubbling deep in his chest, it likely isn't due to anything he's consumed. "Someone that needs to keep their wits about them."

Malideus turns and gives Gideon a coldly appraising look. "It's how I would drink it if I were back home. A man's a lot less likely to be hunted by another man, there. What are you drinking, anyway?"

The laugh that comes out of Gideon is almost a giggle and he terminates it with a clearing of his throat. "Ahem- juice, in my experience, is drank cold. But I s'ppose where you're from, it begets ambush otherwise?" Another throaty chuckle and he lifts his own cup for a long drink.

"Ah, me?" There's a look to it and he shrugs, even waving at the droid 'tender to try to get its attention to order more. "The cheapest shit they've got that still has alcohol."

Malideus raises his head and draws a lungful of air through his nose, his eyes partly closed. A moment's pause, and he shakes his head. "The Paradise Garage has a cleaning agent. Comes in a black canister. They use it to break up the carbon scoring on ships that come in. Smells just like the stuff you're drinking. That stuff might kill you, but the inside of your corpse will be clean."

The droid makes full use of its three arms. It does not need to move far to reach, lift an unmarked bottle, and top off Gideon's glass. Another of its arms reaches behind it to pull a *mostly* clean glass from a counter, rotate it so it is right-side up, and place it front of Malideus. The final arm turns over and emits a popping sound as a slot opens at the end of its wrist. Amber liquid pumps from the arm into Malideus's glass, thick, and oily. The slot closes and it lowers a digit into the drink. After a few seconds, bubbles begin to rise in the opaque juice. The server draws its hand away, wipes it against a towel strapped to its waist, and moves on to another customer.

Malideus picks up the glass and looks at the contents. With his mask still in place, it's hard to gauge the man's reaction, but he does not appear to be in any hurry to lower the mask and take a drink.

"Back home," Malideus says, turning back to Gideon. "The fruit is full and sweet, but there are worms that crawl under the skin and lay dormant, waiting. Get one of these worms in your belly and you'll be sick for days. But the worms do not like the warmth. They scurry from it, squealing. It's like this station. Apply a little heat and the truth is revealed."

"Well, shit. Might be the first time I've ever been clean." For someone who might be drinking literal industrial stripping fluid, Gideon seems in high (enough) spirits. However, no one drinking such things in a place like this is in properly high spirits. He picks up his mug once it's been refilled and takes a long drink, looking sidelong at Malideus as he tells his tale.

"Hate to say it, bud, but that sounds like a pretty shit place to call home." Kicking a heel up on a stool rung, he leans his forearm on the bar and looks over to the news feed scrolling by once again. "This place ain't pretty, but 'least jobs usually filter their way through now and again."

"The jobs they serve here will clean you out, too, if you are not careful." Malideus brings his other hand up and pulls his mask down enough so he can drink. The flesh revealed is gray, with visible sores appearing and healing within heartbeats. Malideus puts this glass to his lips and takes a tentative sip, wincing visibly as the oily beverage touches his tongue.

As he drinks, another figure enters the bar. A Weequay, wearing mismatched armor and brandishing a repeating blaster. The weapon scanner offers the smallest of chirps, a desperate effort to warn the inhabitants of the bar that danger is approaching. Most don't bother looking up from their tables.

The Weequay stomps to the center of the room and points his blaster at Malideus. He shouts, "Hunter! Turn around and face me!"

"Beggars can't be choosers, or so I hear." Gideon tries not to stare and fails. Eventually -- a few long seconds -- he does look away from the blistered flesh and into his own drink. He tips his cup this way and that, looking at the liquid clinging to the sides. With another 'welp, better than nothing' shrug, he hefts the mug and downs a good bit of it.

It isn't the chirp of the scanner that alerts him (if he hears it, he pays it no mind; he's a man who keeps his own weapon on hand, after all), but the shout. Turning on his stool, mug still held aloft, he drops his free hand to the blaster at his thigh; thumb flipping the safety. It gives a low whine as it powers up. "Who the fuck are y-" And -then- he realizes the Weequay isn't there for him and he just goes quiet and leans back against the bartop as if to watch.

But the blaster's safety isn't re-engaged.

The man in the black leather doesn't turn around. He takes another ship from his glass, his eyes open and staring in the direction of the server droid standing just in front of him. His other hand moves slowly up and onto the bar. No provocative motions. Nothing to trigger the fight, which is sure to start on its own.

"Let me guess," Malideus says, putting his glass on the bar. "This is about your kin. Was it one of the ones that worked with the Trandoshan and Klatooinian that killed the bounty hunter coming after them? Or was it one of the ones that tried to ambush me when I was turning in their bounty?"

Though the Weequay surely has the drop on Malideus, with his weapon still raised and his finger on the trigger, it's he that starts to look nervous. He flashes a quick glance at Gideon, the barrel of his gun momentarily twitching in the direction of that hunter before squaring back on Malideus.

"You're unarmed!" The Weequay says. "Turn around, curse you!"

"Hold still a sec wouldja?" Gideon seems to be taking a cue from Malideus' attitude about the situation. If the Weequay's target isn't concerned, neither is Corrand. He turns marginally to set his mug down, then pulls a device from his pocket. It's aimed at the Weequay.

"C'mon, be worth somethin'." He's checking the latest (or at least as of his last download) update from the Guild on active bounties and seeing whether or not this challenger is worth anything. "So, that weather, huh?"

The Weequay's anger raises another tick with each second Malideus refuses to turn and face him. It spikes even faster at the obvious dismissal from Gideon.

The Bounty Hunter network takes a moment to come online. It's spotty, even during the best of times, but in the Cantina on Orum's Bastion, the reception is particularly bad. It does connect, however, and a number of images, names, and their living and dead values flash on the screen, sliding through in rapid succession.

Just when this Weequay's face appears on Gideon's screen, giving his name... Bellon Quan... the Weequay's patience is finished. "Curse you!" he shouts. And squeezes the trigger.

Malideus reacts before Bellon's weapon discharges its first energy bolt. Malideus lunges across the bar, grabs the server droid, and spins around. The droid screams digital protestations, two of its arms whipping to catch and hold the bar in vain.

The Weeqay's weapon fires three rapid bursts. Malideus pivots on his stool, angling the droid this way and that. The first blast takes off one of the droids arms. The second reduces its optic to a puddle of melted silicon. The third pierces the chassis, fusing its power core in a brilliant display of sparks.

The price on Bellon Quan's head is 750 alive, 250 dead. It's uncertain if Bellon knows this. All he seems concerned with at the moment is the bark and woof of his blaster.

"Come on you piece of bantha poodoo!" Gideon swears as he smacks the side of the device. It steadies the picture for a moment and he's already ducking off his stool. At least the guy has pretty good situational awareness. Once he confirms just who the Weequay is and that there *is* a price on its head, he grunts and shoves the reader back in his pocket.

"Fuck, man, you really did hate that droid." As if just now realizing that the bartender had been used as a shield. Gideon's got his own blaster out and levels it at Bellon Quan. He fires off two quick blasts: both meant to disable rather than kill, if he's on target. One for the Weequay's shooting arm and another aimed at his legs.

Gideon's hungry enough to not be picky about how much he brings in, but a bounty *did* just walk in and he's got a- "Oh hey that means I don't have to pay my tab. Thanks!"

Bellon manages to get off two more shots. Malideus uses the droids dead body to absorb one of the blasts, then slips off his stool and ducks the last. As he lets the droid corpse fall to the ground, he gives one of the remaining arms a quick tug, ripping it out of the socket, and brandishing it like the galaxy's most awkward club.

Fortunately for Malideus, he's not forced to actually wield the droid's limb in combat. Not yet, anyway. Gideon's first shot flies true, catching the Weequay's trigger hand. Bellon screams and involuntarily releases his gun. Before the blaster can hit the filthy floor, Gideon's second shot clips the Weequay's right knee. A few centimeters to the left and it could have done real damage. Maybe even taken part of the leg off, if the Weequay was unlucky.

Not that his luck was much good to begin with. Bellon Quan falls, clutching his smoking right hand to his chest. After a moment, he manages to get his pain under control enough to shout, "Who are you people?!?"

Thumbing the safety back into place, Gideon returns his blaster to its holster with a flourish. Probably a bit too cocky for someone having just waltzed in to try ambushing someone, but he can't help himself. Taking up his leather jacket, he checks it over for damage before throwing it on.

"Maybe they'll get a living bartender in here next," he tells Malideus before waltzing his way over toward the Weequay. The device comes back out of his pocket and from another pocket in the jacket: a set of restraints. "Name's Gideon Corrand. There's a handful of creds on your head, Bellon Quan, and I sure would like a decent meal."

As he kneels to start trussing up the Weequay, Gideon glances up and toward Malideus. He shrugs. "Got no clue who that guy is other'n he likes warm juice. Ain't that some weird shit?"

With his mask still down, Malideus is unable to hide the look of distaste that twists his mouth. He looks at the droid arm in his hand, shakes his head, then tosses it behind him to land on the other side of the bar.

"Guess that droid was good for something," he says quietly. He leans back, picks up his glass, and drains the rest of the juice. He then pitches the glass the way he'd tossed the droid's appendage. It hits the floor on the other side of the bar with a satisfying crash.

In some circumstances, Malideus could make a partial claim on the bounty. He didn't take the shot, but he drew the fire. As he watches Gideon bind the Weequay, he shakes his head again. Not this time. Not again. He brings one hand up and pulls his mask back into place, once more hiding the painfully writhing flesh of his face.

As he walks past the bounty hunter, he says quietly, "Another time, Gideon Corrand." Soon after, he's passing between the weapon scanner at the doors.

The pain from the blaster wounds and the shock of getting bound holds Bellon's tongue for a while. Finally, he responds, "Warm juice? Disgusting!"