Log Date: 12/15, 12/16, 12/17/99 Log Cast: Dillon, Han Solo/Vykk Draygo, Kelga the Hutt (NPC emitted by Dillon), waitress (NPC emitted by Solo), Leeni (NPC emitted by Dillon), assorted guardsmen (NPCs emitted by Solo and Dillon) Log Intro: It has been several weeks since the man who's been calling himself Vykk Draygo awoke to pain and a total lack of memory on Nar Shaddaa. He's been helped out some -- though the strange, mostly mute girl named Trinket vanished shortly after she found him and guided him to her dingy little quarters in the Twi'lek district. Trinket, though, could tell him nothing more than that his name was "Han", which means nothing to him... and so, keeping the name of 'Vykk Draygo' as his alias, he has struggled to find further clues as to his own identity on the streets of the Smugglers' Moon. So far, all he has been able to learn is that he seems to be a notorious individual indeed... but not why. And as his search leads him to a casino called the Royal Bounty, he has no idea exactly how notorious he is to -- and what degree of emnity he has earned from -- one man in particular, who takes his intrusion upon his territory sorely indeed.... ---------- The Royal Bounty - Twi'lek District The casino is boasted to be one, if not -the- finest on Nar Shaddaa. The high vaulted domed ceiling is chased in gold, decorated like a circular jewel box with sweeping gathered drapes of lushly appointed dark red velvet. The stakes are high, whether you're gambling to the left at the establishment's games, slots, or sabacc tables in the casino, or if you're trying your luck to the right with deals, partners, shipments, and exchanges in the lounge area. Wait staff circulate amongst the throngs of beings, supplying food, drink, and anything else if the price is right. Security is high, armed guards moving about in numbers that rival the rest of the staff, though they are difficult to identify. While weapons are neither demanded nor taken, each patron is warned -firmly- upon entry that damage done to the premises or prized customers will be dealt with -severely-. What that entails seems to range - anything from monetary compensation to outright execution. (OOC note: Type to use the place code) -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Dillon => Slot Machine(#1796CX) -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- ut leads to Twi'lek District. Dillon The graying hair on this man's head belie the youthfulness of his facial features. The hair is kept short in back and is rather long up top. It parts naturally down the middle and flows easily towards the back. The smooth forehead is quickly followed by thick, dark brows which rest above large, inquisitive grey eyes. His cheekbones are somewhat higher than normal and that combined with the smoothness of his skin make him look prissy. The thin lips complete the overall deadpan/aloof expression. He wears an elegant, yet simple outfit comprised of a long sleeve shirt, matching slacks, and a vest. The shirt and the slacks both looked expertly taylored, and are made of a thick and obviously fine material. The shirt snaps in the the front and has a block of gold-knitted fibers which run down the center and is tapered to match the contours of the shirt. The shirt is worn outside the slacks in jacket fashion . The vest is black and is obviously worn over the shirt and flows down below the end of the shirt, almost looking like a cape but not quite. The pants are beige in color, with perfect pleats and have no obvious pockets. He wears knee high boots, which too seem to be made of a fine material. Around his waist is a rather thick black belt which holds two blaster holsters. One holster houses a Kylan-3 hand cannon. The other, contains the popular DL-44 heavy blaster pistol. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Protective Vest => DL-44 Heavy Blaster Pistol => Kylan-3 Heavy Blaster Pistol Han_Solo(#1491POUA) This tall, rangy man is rather disreputably battered of appearance. There's a mostly-healed gash just over his left eye, but enough fading bruises surround it to suggest that it must have been quite the injury when he received it. His hair is a light golden brown, cut pragmatically short, but thoroughly disheveled and in need of a wash. Somewhere under layers of grime and exhaustion might be lurking ruggedly handsome features, but at the moment it's a trifle hard to tell. His sky-blue eyes take in his surroundings with a consistently hostile stare, and he speaks in a rough, wary baritone voice. He is currently clad in a non-descript dark brown shirt of a coarse weave, held securely round his waist by a battered utility belt off which is slung a blaster holster at his thigh. His trousers are dark green, tucked into scuffed brown boots. Over the shirt he sports a loose jacket of slate green, with a collar he wears turned up behind his neck, and a number of pockets. All of his garments are in a fairly dirty state, though along his upper left shoulder and the collar there are stains of something that might be old blood. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => DL-44 Heavy Blaster Pistol => 90 Galactic Standard Credits It's said that even the most notorious characters in the galaxy can simply melt into the collage of violence and neon that comprises Nar Shaddaa. Nevertheless, there are still a handful of very select group of beings--lying on either side of the morality continuum--for whom no populated planet could afford such a luxury. It is these people that The Royal Bounty lavishes with personal attention and complimentaries. Members of other Kadijic's, foreign dignitaries, and galactic high rollers get their pick of the finest suites, foods, and women that the casino has to offer. It is amongst these people that Dillon intermingles. He goes from one table to the next with a thinly disguised smile, assuring each one at the table that he/she/it is his top priority. "You are my top priority. Anything you want, just let me know and it shall be yours." He says loud enough for everyone at the table to hear, then he moves to the next table and says the very same thing. Of course he doesn't actually bring anything to them, instead prefering to let cronies handle all of the dirty work. One of the most notorious characters in the galaxy has done everything in his power to melt into the collage that comprises the Smugglers' Moon for the past three weeks. The problem, however, is that the man currently calling himself Vykk Draygo is still wrestling with the fact that he can't _remember_ his own notoriety. Even with the little problems he's having with his recall, though, it's been very difficult to miss the number of shady individuals who have been tracking his every movement each time he shows his face in the streets. He's had more shootouts than he can count in the last fourteen days, many sleepless, dream-ridden nights, and seven different attempts trying to track down rumors about himself without giving away what he's quickly realized is a severe vulnerability on his part. Tonight, this very need is what brings him into the casino. Somewhere in here is a contact -- someone, he hopes, who can provide him with a bit of enlightenment as to who, exactly, he _is_. Hutts, because of their megalomania and imposing physical features are among that select group afforded no shelter from prying eyes on any world--but then again they probably prefer it this way. In their own minds, a Hutt is the equal of any god, and because of the extraordinary intelligence of the species they are usually able to force themselves into a position to be treated as such. Tonight is no exception as Hutt presides over the sabacc table and demands and receives most of Dillon's attention. The Hutt belows out a loud *Bwohohohoho* and warbles something in hutt. "Yes your skill at sabacc is astounding. That makes 20 hands in a row you've won." says Dillon trying to neither patronize the large being or letting on that the dealer has rigged every game to allow him to win. He knows this is Nar Shaddaa -- that much he's been able to find out on his own. And he knows that the place is in control of the Hutts, what a Hutt looks like, and at least something of how powerful the race is in general. But nevertheless, that resounding, basso laughter spills down Draygo's spine, leaving a shiver of some sort of inexplicable dread in its wake. _I -know- that kind of noise,_ he tells himself as he passes the casino's front door bouncers and starts trying to case the place for a fairly unobtrusive spot to claim a seat. His blue gaze swivels in the Hutt's direction before he can stop himself, and for a heartbeat or two, his expression goes strained. _Is that the same Hutt...?_ Immediately on the tail end of that comes the urgent question, _Which Hutt? I remember..._ Suddenly and without warning the Hutt's mood turns from jovial to angry, "The woman!" he demands as a stubby hand comes crashing down on the table, sending credits flying to the floor and the Hutt's bodyguards ominously closer to Dillon. Despite himself, Dillon's face flushes, turning a light shade of crimson with equal parts embarrasment and fear. Embarrasment that his orders to have the woman the Hutt demands delivered to him have not been carried out, and fear in knowing that he could do little to prevent the Hutt from ending his life here and now. Though both emotions are present, they are kept in check "The girl needs time to dress herself appropriately for you after her show." he attempts to explain. "I told her to do something special since she has never been in the presence of someone was powerful as you." Success. The ego-feeding brings the Hutt's anger under control and seems to have bought Dillon just enough time to drag her out here himself if need be. It's pretty much impossible to miss a Hutt's angry bellow. Draygo scowls softly to himself, while just behind him, a curvaceous waitress clad in shimmersilks pauses to peer searchingly at the disheveled fellow in her way. "Excuse me, sir," she inquires in silken politeness, "can I help you? Can I get you something?" The voice snaps him out of his reverie, and 'Vykk' turns to survey the young woman. A small crooked grin curls his mouth as he rasps, "Yeah, honey, how's about a Corellian brandy, huh?" He dips a hand into a pocket for credits, thinks, and then adds gruffly, "And who's the slug over there, anyway?" Catering to a Hutt's every whim and fancy is arduous at best, lethal at worst. Trying to keep one satisfied is harder still. Take the Hutt currenly sitting at the sabacc table, he expects to win every hand and would most likely become violently incensed if he so much as lost one hand. Common sense would dictate that you rig every game to make sure the Hutt wins, but they are such megalomaniacs that they believe that even in games of chance their enormous intellects would assure victory. Thus, if the Hutt found out that you were rigging the game that too would draw a violent fury. That in itself is a quandry, now add to it that the Hutt would expect you to bow to his will and allow him to win every game. Perhaps this is why the heads of the various Kadijic's go through so many major domos. It's not an enviable position, but it's one that Dillon finds himself in now. He must deliver the woman, who he knows will not allow herself to be manhandled, or would it be hutt-handled? "When Hoth melts, that's when!" exclaims a extraordinarly attractive human woman in response to a question from one of the casino's staff. It is towards this woman that Dillon directs himself now, moving with purpose and backed by the resolve and threats of a Hutt. The waitress slides an appreciative glance up and down Draygo's lean frame, seeing a good-looking man lurking somewhere under there, and she purses her lips in speculation before accepting the credits he slides her. "That's Kelga the Hutt," she answers, tossing her head in the big slug's direction, which sets her multi-hued mop of hair swinging fetchingly around her shoulders. Draygo slides a blue glance back in the Hutt's direction, though half of his attention lingers upon the waitress. "Temperamental, ain't he?" "Oh, yeah, 'specially if he doesn't have his little amusements. Might want to keep your head down, handsome. If he gets cranky it'd be a shame for you to get caught in the crossfire." With that, she winks, sliding off to get that ordered Corellian brandy. And Draygo is left to ease himself into a chair, staring over at the Hutt. Kelga. He doesn't think he knows the name... but the behavior feels familiar, somehow. "What seems to be the problem here?" Dillon aims his question at both the staffer and the woman Kelga has chosen as his entertainment for the evening. Though his demeanor would seem to suggest he is almost oblivious to the situation, the edge in his voice serves as a stark reminder to both himself and those involved that there is more at stake here than just a night of slimy Hutt fun. "I ain't going to do it Mr. Dillon. That's what. I know that /THIS/ is a part of the job, but I can't do it, I won't do it." she responds in a strange mix of respectfulness and fear. Not convinced that her case has been sufficiently argued she continues, "I've been working my tail off here for two years now and I've never once refused to be with a client, but I have to draw a line here." Everyone within earshot can hear her and everyone knows what she's refering to, but she makes it seem as it were a part of her daily routine. "Look, you can draw any line you want, after tonight. I'll even pay you extra." responds Dillon hoping to resolve the matter as quickly and as quietly as possible. No such luck..."No!" screams the woman and brings her small hand down upon the nearest table, which happens to be the one occupied by Mr. Draygo, drawing the attention of almost the entire casino, but more importantly Kelga the Hutt. Draygo's head is among the many turning to witness the argument -- and now, as the girl stalks past and stops by his table, he can't help but get a ringside seat of the action. His blue eyes glint appreciatively at the sight of her -- she's a fetching one, all right, if she wasn't she wouldn't have this kind of job -- but as much of his approval goes towards the spirit she's exhibiting as goes to her beauty. "You tell 'em, sister," he calls out. "Girl's gotta have some standards." By now Kelga has grown tired of waiting and has sent an 'associate,' a well-armed associate, to /help/ move things along. The approach of Kelga's associate is dually noted by Dillon, who grabs the arm she pounded upon the table. His grip is tight enough to produce an instant redness on her arm, around his fingers, "Listen, you have no choice in the matter." not so much menacingly, though there is a hint of that in his voice, it's more like he's trying to help her understand how unavoidable the situation is. As Kelga's 'associate' takes another step closer, Dillon draws the woman closer to him--hoping to keep the conversation private, "Get through this night without any problems and I'll make it worth your while." This conversation takes place directly in front of Draygo's table, the woman has now been turned away from Draygo and towards Dillon. Dillon of course is facing in Draygo's general direction but until now has been preoccupied with the woman herself and with the approaching 'associate.' Dillon knows the eyes are watching, he already knew this situation would come up the moment Kelga chose the woman. He just hadn't counted on it taking this long. (I hope none of Ullo's cronies are watching) he thinks and scans the room quickly looking for 'cronies.' "Now hold on, gentlemen," drawls Draygo to that 'associate' as well as Dillon, his eyes narrowing at this handling of the girl, his lean frame still ostensibly casual of stance but a sharp glint coming into his eyes. "What's the deal here? His Magnificence over there surely's gonna get more enjoyment out of a _willing_ girl, ain't he?" That voice, the drawl, the familiarity. To Dillon, the casino and it's presents problems melt away, giving rise to a dingy jail cell on Etti IV and the ressurection of an old quarrel. His eyes quickly gaze upon the interloper, hoping or perhaps dreading to confirm what his ears have already established. In a final shock wave of recognition, Dillon's grip upon the girl goes limp--not at Mr. Draygo's behest, but rather at the shock of him having shown himself on /THIS/ moon and at /THIS/ casino. Before his mouth can move to fill the blankness left in Dillon's face, the 'associate' approaches ominously. Though he is near human, his basic is choppy at best, "You would mind your own matters if I were you." with that he moves a hand dangerously close to the blaster at his side. Draygo's blue eyes affix their sharp gaze upon both men, with no more recognition for Dillon than for the brawny fellow who's now spoken. This scruffy interloper hasn't bothered to rise from the seat he's claimed, but his left hand rests casually upon the table before him while his right appears to have dropped out of sight. "Just a concerned bystander, is all," he says brightly. "Wouldn't want the Hutt to have an unpleasant night. 'Less he likes him rough. 'Course, if he likes a challenge, maybe I can give him a better way to spend his evening. Plays sabacc, does he? With a quick *push* Dillon shoves the lithe woman at the 'associate' and manages to escalate the tension, but reduce the danger. The woman now stands between the near human and Draygo and a handful of the Casino's guards--either reacting to their trainning or an itch to use those carbines on someone--serve to deter him from taking any further action other than grabbing the woman and moving her forcibly towards Kelga. Kelga the Hutt now represents another problem altogether. By this time Kelga has managed to turn his girth 180 degrees to face the unfolding scene. He cannot be happy at the mishandling of his 'amusement,' and shows as much in his visage. Waving a member of the Casino's non-armed staff towards him, Dillon whispers an order to the staffer, who hesitates for a moment before reluctantly moving towards Kelga. "That won't be necessary." says Dillon directing this statement at Draygo himself. "Besides, you wouldn't like the outcome," he says motioning with one hand towards the gathered, and antsey guards. Without waiting for an invitation he seats himself at Draygo's table and motions to the same waitress that brought Draygo his drink, "I'll have what he's having. So," he pauses to again turn towards Draygo, "what brings you this part of the galaxy?" Draygo's eyes narrow, and for a moment he tosses a worried glance after the girl. Something about her -- what, he's not certain, sets off an uncomfortable itch somewhere in the back of his still-clouded memory. Something about her hair, maybe -- dark brown. Or her build -- small and delicate. For a fraction of an instant, he thinks he sees... no, he realizes, _hears_ a female voice that somehow seems to go with dark brown hair and a delicate build, the rattle of a chain, a Hutt's booming laughter. But then Dillon's taking a seat before him, and with effort, he snaps his attention to this stranger. "What brings anybody to the Smugglers' Moon?" he parries airily, putting on another small lopsided grin. A thinly veiled grin of his own does little to hide the resentment that Dillon feels towards the man seated before him. "I should have never expect a straight answer from you." he says with obvious disdain. "I must admit, you look...and smell much the same now as you did when last we met." The waitress soon arrives with his drink and he promptly waves her away. As Dillon wave the girl away, Kelga and his entourage have left the sabacc table and move towards a side door with the auburn-haired woman in tow. Her kicking and protests are enough to draw attention similar to if nor more so than that of the previous scene. She draws the attention of all except Dillon, who still remains fixated on Draygo. For a heartbeat, Draygo's face goes entirely blank -- and a hint of something that might be alarm and which might be relief flashes across those azure eyes. The girl, despite his concern for her, is abruptly forgotten in the wake of a new realization. Forgotten, too, is the Corellian brandy he'd ordered. _He knows me. Play it cool. Play it cool. Play it cool..._ The blankness fades, replaced by a knife-edged grin. "Well, what can I say. Can't find a decent 'fresher in the Twi'lek Sector unless I pay through the nose for it. Thought I'd come in here and win a few hundred, and _then_ worry about a bath. Sorry if I," and he drawls this last sardonically, enunciating each syllable with exaggerated precision, "of-fend." Draygo's last comment provokes a dark and sinister laugh, smaller in scale but similar to the bellow of a Hutt from Dillon. "A little too late to worry about offending general." he says as if intimately familiar with the man before him. His Corellian brandy not forgotten, Dillon takes a sip from his glass. "Your response to the woman and her," he pauses looking for the right word, "situation intrigues me." His demeanor now changes; going from someone used to being tread upon and beaten down to one holding the upper hand and /knowing/ he does. "I see you still haven't learned to let things that are unavoidable be. You still foolishly attempt to alter the course of that which is unalterable. Much like I believe that you will attempt to some how leave this Casino once I assure that you will not do so, or at least you will not leave here unescorted." He lays out his plan before you, "But as I did in the past--only to be rebuffed by you" his disdain is only too plain now, "I will attempt to help you." "One hand." he says simply. "You beat me in sabacc and I allow you to walk out of here the same way you walked in. Data. Information he desperately needs. Draygo's mind locks on the 'General', sending a surge of startlement through him that doesn't _quite_ make it to his face. _General? General of -what-?!_ All at once he lets out a short bark of laughter, eyes widening in incredulity. "_General?_" he echoes. "Uh, much as I'd be delighted to go a round of sabacc with you, pal, you sure you ain't mistaking me for somebody else?" Dimissing the man's comments as attempts to squirm his way out of a precarious situation Dillon appears to ignore the question, though the annoyance in his voice says otherwise, "One hand." he reiterates. "You win, you walk out of here and I forget you ever walked in. I win and I don't." he states simply. "Now," he sets forth the full terms and conditions, "as a show of good faith you will surrender your weapon. I still value my life and wouldn't want to tempt you into shooting me should you lose. I too will surrender my weapons." Here he pauses to study the man, gauge him if you will. Why all the misdirection? I've been straightforward and he has little choice but to accept, "Do we have a deal Solo?" Something is most decidedly odd here. Although those are _certainly_ Solo's features, his hair is paler than it should be... and since when were his eyes blue? He looks leaner, dirtier, and more battered than anyone claiming to be a General of the New Republic ought to be -- and last the word had it, this man was commanding the ground-based forces of that entire section of the galaxy. But even though the steady stare he levels upon the man before him is familiar in its keenness, there's been absolutely no sign of recognition in his rugged countenance. Moreover, as the name 'Solo' is uttered, there's the slightest knitting together of his brows, the sublest little signal of something that might almost be confusion in his expression. It's mostly hidden by the casual mask -- but it's there. "Contrary to popular belief these last three weeks," he drawls, "I don't shoot a man just because he beats me at sabacc. You lay down a hard deal, Mister -- what name _are_ you usin' these days, anyway?" Growing tired of this game, Dillon motions to an attentive staffer, "Tell Adar to bring his deck." he says to the staffer, "But sir," the staffer protests, "there are people at Adar's table. Boussh's group just left and he's by himself." he suggests. "Tell Adar to bring his deck to his table." Before the staffer can again protest, Dillon adds, "I will not repeat myself. Do you understand?" The question is delivered threateningly and with out responding the staffer follows orders. "It is unavoidable." he says playing on his previous statement. Still, an inkling of doubt does manage to surface in his thoughts...(What if this isn't Solo?).....(In either case he /looks/ enough like him for me to hate him.) Another motion to an Casino attendant. Dillon pulls out a Kylan-3 heavy blaster pistol, affectionately known as a 'hand cannon' to those who own one, and hands it to the attendant, "As a show of my good faith. However, if you insist on keeping your weapon I will have to insist on having the guards train their blasters upon you for the duration." he says just as Adar arrives with his sabacc deck. "Somehow," the fair-haired, blue-eyed man across from Dillon at the table drawls, casting a glance around the immediate area at the rather sizeable armed individuals who have discreetly moved up to flank their obvious superior, "I got the feeling those blasters are gonna be trained on me regardless o' whether I give up my weapon, so I think I'll just let it stay with me if you don't mind." The crooked, innocent smile that crosses his features is pure Solo, despite the odd way the man seems to be acting. But he also brings his right hand up onto the table and into view, adding, "But just to show I'm a good sport I'll even leave it in its holster." "How generous of you." Dillon says mockingly as Adar prepares the table. Dillon's thoughts once again return to the past. With this man sitting in front of him how could his thoughts not wander into a past which seems so distant, yet entirely within reach. This journey causes him to 'flinch,' if you will, as he reflects upon who he was and what he's become. How many crossroads could he have come to reach this point and never know there was an alternate route? Or has the cruel hand of fate guided him along a soletary path to reach this point in time? (This point in time)...with that thought, appropriately enough, he returns to the present...(Where I was and how I got here do not matter now. What matters now is that I'm /here/ and I know what I must do--but that doesn't preclude me from having a little fun while doing it). With that a sinister grin replaces the 'flinched' expression and he sets out with a new resolve. "It seems we find ourselves in the exact same situation but in entirely different positions; wouldn't you say?" Feeling a strange little constriction in his chest and a surge in his pulse, 'Vykk Draygo' desperately searches the short list of memories he's managed to log ever since he staggered out of the alley in which he must have crashed a few weeks ago. In none of them can he find any hint of who this man is or what might have given him the basis for such an apparent grudge. But how to get more details without seeming _too_ obvious? Doing his best to maintain his wide-eyed boyish innocence, he slouches lazily in his chair. "Oh, well, we've had such a... colorful history that it's a bit hard to put a finger on any situation in particular," he deadpans. Eyes narrowing to slits, Dillon glares at Draygo suspiciously. Something in his demeanor isn't quite right. Either he's playing this game to try to weasel out of this situation or.....Or he's trying to buy time for something. "You!" he says calling out to his personal attendant, "Quickly, empty the casino. I want everyone gone but..." he then procedes to pick out a handful of armed guards, and 3 attendants. Not a word is uttered while the staff work vigorously to clear the crowd. Some make it more difficult than others, especially those that were on a particularly good streak of luck. The former CSA ExO never lets his attention slip from the man in front of him--not even as hoards of casino patrons march past him, some giving dirty stares, other offering dirty words. He's seen and heard of too many 'miraculous' escapes to take any chances. These efforts are impossible to miss by the other man, and Draygo flashes a blue glance left, then another right, taking the measure of all of the irritated and occasionally curious customers being hustled out of the establishment. A muscle twitches in his lean stubbled cheek; is that worry in his eyes? Or confusion? His voice is still quite steady, however, as he returns his attention to Dillon. "Gosh," he airily observes, "all this for just little old me? You'd think I had a thermal detonator in my pocket or something." "I wish you did. You'd be ending two miserable lives in the process." he retorts with a contemptible grin. He takes a drink from his glass as he waits for the last of the patrons to be cleared out. "Now," he says directing his statement at the same personal attendant to whom he gave the order to clear the casino, "tell the remaining security personel that no one is to enter or exit the casino without my permission. Understood." The attendant nods his understanding, allowing Dillon to once again focus his attentions and intentions on Draygo. "Now the /real/ game can proceed." he says thinking Draygo will understand what was implied. Dillon's battered table companion gives forth an enormous lopsided grin that suggests that either he _does_ have a thermal detonator, he's wearing the expression he thinks a man who does would wear just for giggles and bluffs, he understands the implications under those words... or else he's simply _really_ looking forward to this hand of sabacc. Especially since it may well save his life, that last may well be a fair bet. He grins boyishly at Adar, too, who seems ready to deal and awaiting the order to do so. "Which set of rules?" he asks in breezy tones. "Well we've been using Old Republic Rules, but..." Adar turns to Dillon, seeking an answer to the question posed. As if on cue, Dillon answers, "Corporate Sector Rules of course. You know I wouldn't play by any other rules." and looks at Draygo knowingly. With the room cleared, the purveyor of the Casino allows himself the luxury of relaxing a little. He sinks back into his chair and raises his legs, bringing them to rest on a nearby chair. Perhaps he's only relaxing, trying to clear his mind for the /real/ game. Or perhaps he's comfortable with the position he's in now, "No matter what the outcome of this game, I assure we will not have a repeat of last time." "Maybe you better fill me in, pal," parries Draygo, that strange half-confusion still lurking somewhere behind his eyes. "I've played so much sabacc -- tough to keep track of who I've beaten and who's trounced me, y'know?" "But..." begins Dillon's mouth as a natural reflex and before his brain can fully process the information. Having processed this 'new' information he sits up and with his own half-confused half-suspicious look he eyes Draygo. This changes everything, yet everything remains the same. The earlier assumption of 'game playing' has been thrown out the window in light of this revelation, but the basis for making that assumption still sits in the chair in front of him. A long, awkward pause ensues as he tries to map out all the possiblities....(Either he's still playing a game--one in which I refuse to participate, or he really doesn't remember. If he's playing a game, how far is he willing to take it?) Perhaps he's changed his mind about clearing the Casino, maybe he wants someone outside his circle to witness his victory, but he offers this explanation for what he's about to do next, "Since so much more than credits rests in the outcome of this /one/ hand." he adds to the emphasis to the word 'one' to make the event even more tantamount, "I will let you have my lucky charm." He nexts calls to an attendant, asking him to bring 'Leeni' out. A few moments later, the attendant returns with a stunning woman. She stands just a an inch or two below Draygo's own height. She wears a bikini of sorts, probably a stage costume, and her long auburn hair flows freely--falling nearly to her waist. "She's brought me much luck, for your sake I hope she can bring a little to you." Dark eyebrows climb up over Draygo's blue eyes, towards his tousled hairline. His gaze sweeps up and down the statuesque beauty's curvaceous form, and a glimmer of obvious appreciation sparks through his gaze. But his expression remains composed, only a hint of a crooked grin curling the right side of his mouth. "Hello there, sweetheart," he rumbles to her, his voice dropping down a touch in register. A small, twisted yet triumphant smile snakes across Dillon's lips. Though he's allowed himself to be lured into Draygo's game, he changed the rules. Now, in his mind at least, no matter what the outcome of this 'mind' game, he still wins. "Now that you have you're lucky charm in place," he says glancing approvingly at Leeni as she takes her place, "and I have mine," his approving glance now turns sinister as he motions towards the guards flanking him and with blasters trained on Draygo, "shall we begin the game?" Apparently Leeni knows her job well, for she glides over to Draygo's side and wraps her arms around his neck in soft and sinuous motions. "Good luck," she throatily purrs to him, nuzzling at his nearer ear and setting off a wider crooked grin by way of reaction. He turns his head and grins up at her, the spark in his eyes brightening momentarily -- but for just a fraction of an instant he pauses, his gaze vague, ever so slightly disoriented. Then that instant passes and Draygo shifts position while drawling across the table, "Do I get to have her in my lap while your guy deals?" "You get to /have/ her." is the simple reply. Dillon nods once to signal Adar to prepare the deck, which does, changing the rules from Old Republic to Corporate Sector. Adar now begins to prepare to deal the cards, to which Dillon holds up a hand signaling him to stop, "Let's wait until...." he pauses for moment, sounding as if he was going say a name, "Let's wait until he's ready." he says motioning to the tangle of limbs and plethora of smiles sitting across the table. Have her. Well, isn't _that_ a cozy concept? Draygo looks Leeni up and down from a rather significantly closer vantage point now, grinning more broadly, especially as Leeni trails a finger along his jawline and the faint but detectable scar along his stubbled chin. "Any way you like," the redhead purrs through full and pouting lips which unerringly draw Draygo's attention. He stares at them, then lifts up his azure gaze to those liquid eyes fixed invitingly upon his features. Yet, despite the signs of physical attraction that reveal themselves in his expression, still a hint of haunted distraction lingers about his eyes. He lifts up a hand, running a thumb just beneath the lower of those two pouty lips, and rumbles huskily, "Why doncha grab a seat, honey, if you're gonna watch? We shouldn't be long..." "I could sit in your lap," Leeni offers straightfacedly. And before Draygo really has time to say one way or another, she slithers adroitly into the lap in question, leaving him looking simultaneously flustered and aroused. But with credible aplomp, the man peers around the lush auburn mane of her hair, to regard Dillon once again. "I think she's ready," he drawls. A *nod* to Adar and the intial round of cards is dealt. Dillon eyes those given to him and, as any good Sabacc player should, just grins. Leeni occupies herself with running a slender hand through Draygo's tousled hair, apparently unfazed by the man's unwashed state. While she does, Dillon's opponent takes his own hand, his expression utterly impassive as he inspects the cards he's been given. After a moment, straightfacedly, he looks up to drawl, "Discards?" "I hope you /remember/ the Corporate Sector," he pauses for the slightest of moments, "rules. You can discard no more or less than three cards." such words are an insult to any pure-blooded sabacc player, such as the man seated in front of Dillon is purported to be. With a grin that reveals nothing Dillon says, "I'll stand with these." he says pulling his cards just a little closer to him, as if one of the guards behind him were going to signal them to his opponent. "I suppose I can't bluff you into folding can I?" he says with an ironic chuckle. Remember. Does Draygo pause for a heartbeat when that word is uttered? Or is it Dillon's imagination? Still, despite the odd shadow of confusion that's appeared to periodically darken his gaze, the man smirks visibly at the notion of actually _discarding_; either he's recalling sabacc rules well enough, or feeling a smirk is called for on general principles. "Where would be the fun in _that_?" is his equally ironic parry. Then he grins, almost ferally -- and that grin, too, is pure Solo. "I'm good." The tension in the room at this moment well exceeds that which could be produced by the dozen or so people present. The outcome of this hand involves more than simply Draygo and his freedom, and the tensions felt by those persons manifests itself now. The burden of those wanting Draygo to win and those wishing for his defeat show clearly in the extra weight of the guard's blaster carbines and the extra effort they must make in keeping those carbines trained on Draygo. It's also show in Dillon's personal attendant, who to this point had remained standing, but now feels himself too heavy to stand and must sit. Indeed even Adar, who one would think would be used to the tension of high stakes gambling, sinks a little lower into his chair. Dillon, however, will have none of it. He too share's that "I'm good." self-satisfied grin. He lowers his cards to reveal a 3 of coins......a 10 of coins........a bounty hunter.......and another bounty hunter. "Mr. Dillon has a bounty hunter's array." calls Adar, regaining a bit of composure in the repetitiveness of his job. Leeni, it would seem, has thrown in her vote for the man whose lap she currently occupies; she shoots Draygo's hand a glance, and gets a gleam of excitement in her eyes as she does. But then -- that might also have something to do with her attempt to slide her hand in under the open collar of his shirt. The hand in question is being ignored at the moment by Draygo, however. One by one he turns over his own cards: the Ace of Sabers. The One of Flasks. The One of Coins. And the last, suggesting that if the Hutts had gods who might happen to be watching over this game that said corpulent deities might well now be snickering at the appropriateness of it all, the Smuggler. "Ooooooo," Leeni croons in that husky voice of hers, while Draygo announces drolly, "That's twenty-three, I believe." "Pure Sabacc, Mr......" Adar pauses not knowing how to refer to the man, "....he has Pure Sabacc. He wins." Dillon now downs the remnants of Corellian Brandy from his glass, replaces it on the table and begins to applaud with sincere amusement. "Bravo. Your astounding luck never fails to amaze." He lowers his feet from the chair and uses them to stand upright. For the first time since spying the man, Dillon turns his back to him and begins to walk away slowly--ordering the guards to "Seize him." while doing so. Once he has walked a 'safe' distance away, and having placed the guards between himself and Draygo he again turns to face the man, "Your luck, astounding as it maybe, has just run out." he explains. The guards might have been ordered to seize Draygo -- but he's got a girl in his lap and a blaster at his side, and just enough time to go for the gun, whipping it up swiftly to hold to her temple. All traces of lustful interest he'd had in his expression for Leeni vanish, and he growls out in the very bottom of his baritone range, "I don't think so, _pal_. I don't know what the hell you think I did, but if you think I'm letting you welsh out of a bargain, think again! They come near me, she gets it!" "Here," says Dillon drawing the weapon he did not surrender--a DL-44 heavy blaster pistol, "let me simplify matters for you." He takes a rather uneasy aim, not really caring whether he hits the girl, a guard, or if he's really lucky Draygo himself. There is a remarkable twisted aspect to Dillon's features now, as of a person who has cultivated a hatred that could not fail to mould the physical to itself, and manifest itself through these unmistakeable tokens. Slight pressure on the trigger sends a blaster bolt flying in the direction of Draygo and his hostage. As he lets fly the bolt, Dillon again lets out the bellowing, dark laugh that resembles a smaller version of a Hutt laugh. In that first split second where it's apparent that his desperate bluff won't work, Draygo -- Solo -- or whatever he might be claiming as his name at the moment -- bellows, "Get down!" to the girl he'd just threatened a heartbeat before. With his left arm he thrusts her aside and downward, hoping in the back of his mind to get her out of the line of fire. But most of his brain has kicked into battle instinct, and that instinct sends his own blaster snapping with blinding speed in Dillon's direction. Even as the other man's bolt scores his left arm, his right hand's pumping off a crimson bolt of return fire. Despite whatever strange confusion has possessed him, it has absolutely failed to affect his ability to shoot. Madness has speed because it doesn't stop to think, it merely does. Skill has speed because it has been well honed over the years. While Dillon may posses madness and Solo/Draygo skill, the casino's security personel possess neither, and thus their reactions are well behind that of either man. But they do eventually act, and follow their training. However, before the security personel can act, the bolt from Draygo/Solo's blaster connects squarely into Dillon's chest, knocking him backwards and sending him sprawling to the ground. A series of loud cries shout out and if the others weren't so intensely involved in the action they might think they eminated from Leeni, but it is Dillon's personal attendents who scream out, obviously not used to such violence. The security personel now move in, surrounding Draygo, leaving him but three options 1) Surrender 2) Blast them all or 3) Get blasted. Draygo/Solo, however, is not the most necessarily predictable of men. When given a set of options, he's always, _always_ managed to somehow pull another out of his sleeve when he's needed it. Faced with a cadre of armed guards, any _sane_ man would throw down his weapon here and now. But Draygo/Solo is arguably just a little less than rational even in a coherent state -- and right now, three weeks of running the streets of Nar Shaddaa with hunger cramping at his belly and danger pursuing him around every corner have reduced him to a lean, half-desperate and almost primal state of instinctive reaction. He surges up out of his chair, hand on his blaster, a wild blue gaze slicing around the room and taking in -- in no more time than it takes to draw a single breath -- the cadre of armed guards and the looks of shock and fear on some of their faces. Something fires off in the back of his mostly buried memory, something that makes this situation seem bizarrely familiar... but he doesn't think of why, not now. He simply lets forth a bloodcurdling howl, throwing himself at the nearest of the guards and firing burst after burst just over their heads. Contrary to popular belief, not all henchmen/stoogies are cowardous idots who will run at the first sign of opposition even when they have overwhelming odds. That generalization, however, just might apply to this group--neither of which is the sharpest tool in the shed. While they don't flat out drop their weapons and run, the suddeness and unexpectedness of Draygo's tactic does draw them into a slow retreat and growing weariness. As this is happening, Dillon still lies on a heep on the floor, only now beginning to show some signs of movement. The acrid smell of scoarched flesh now begins to envelop the room--both from Solo's graze but more forcefully from bolt Dillon received to the chest. He (Dillon) begins to fully stir now, managing to sit himself upright and revealing the extent of his wound. The blaster bolt was mostly absorbed by the protective armor worn under his clothes, but it did manage to seep through and open a wound the size of a fist on his chest. The impact of the blow must have also caused internal bleeding as he now leans over to spit out some blood. It must be pure adrenaline keeping Solo from feeling the pain of his scorched arm, for he seems to barely even notice the charred wound as he charges through the ranks of the guards -- and towards the security personnel still keeping watch at the door. His eyes are the eyes of an animal struggling viciously to free itself from a trap, and his mouth has curled into a silent snarl, baring clenched teeth as he recklessly charges the front entrance, shooting with every running step he takes. Blaster bolts graze the ceiling, the walls, the furniture, sending scorched bits of fine materials flying in all directions. Though the blaster bolt has nearly drained his physical abilities, it seems to have fueled the hatred welling up inside of him. He's able to shake loose the cobwebs just in time to watch Solo charge past his guards. The disgust is obvious in his face, and if he could you know he would stand to charge after Solo. Even in a seated position he must place a hand down upon the ground to help support his weight. Yet even in his present state he remains fixed on Solo. He manages to spit out , "Stop him! Block the door! Do not let him escape!"spit here is quite literal as gobs of blood are sent flying as he barks out orders. As if fueled by the ressurected voice of their fallen leader, or humbled by the acknowledgement of their own stupidty. The guards act according, those at the door forming a barracade to prevent anyone from leaving, and those who have been charged through quickly charging in from behind to surround the man. Thus far, none of the poorly aimed shots from the guards he's just passed have struck Solo -- and none of the men at the door have fired their own weapons. This is the only thing that keeps the Corellian smuggler from being fried on the spot, even as he flings himself at the door only to find himself bodily tackled to the floor by two of the brawniest guards on the scene. Even then he struggles, his thoughts narrowed down to the need to Get Away, and when his gun is wrenched out of his hand he keeps struggling. Only when a savage blow is rammed into his wounded arm does Solo seem to finally be subdued, his face contorting with pain. He goes limp, the world going gray around the edges as his struggle now transmutes to one to stay conscious. The two combatants, well at least those who actually suffered wounds, are picked up off the ground of the arena--which only moments before served as a place of great revelry and profit seeking. Neither man looks like he has gained much profit here tonight, though one will eventually be termed the victor. Solo is dragged to his feet by the brawny guards, and Dillon by the previously cowering attendants. "Sir," says attendant no. 1 with composure that can only come after the final blaster bolt has fallen, "we need to get you medical attention ASAP." Dillon spits some more blood out, looks at the attendant, then to guards holding Solo before ordering, "Bring him here!" every word must be warbled out with increasing effort. With two attendants holding him up, he motions to where Leeni is still huddled on the ground, in obvious shock after having a blaster bolt fired at her. Dillon looks down at her, admiring her beauty and graceful form. The guards finally arrive with Solo in tow and Dillon, with litte effort, looks up and deep into Solo eye's. He glares into them as if hoping to make his way through the catacombs of that body and wrench out his (Solo's) very soul. "Make no mistake about it Solo," he begins and places his DL-44 up against Leeni's temples, "I may have pulled the trigger....but /YOU/ killed her." Then with a dull indifference, as if the Force could not and did not flux through his veins and make him feel compassion for any other creature, he pulls the trigger. An animal groan wrenches up out of the very bottom of the Corellian's chest: "Noooooooooo!" Who _is_ this man? Why is he putting him through this psychotic game? Perhaps he thinks he can do something else for the doomed girl -- but then, isn't that the way of things with this man? The rake, the scoundrel... the hero? He strains to break free of his captors' grips, horror shooting through his system at the murder being conducted before his eyes -- but before he can do more than that initial struggle, the butt of someone's rifle smashes across the back of his skull. Every nerve in his body seems to short out at once, and the world goes white. When it comes back, he's on his knees... and still on his way down, down, dropping into a well of oblivion that seems to open up beneath him and swallow him up. [End log.]