"Two Kinds of Trouble" Log Date: 8/14/97 Log Cast: Han Solo, Galdric (NPC), Rellawy Woodlake, Bartender at the Burning Deck (NPC) Log Intro: She knew Galdric was in the bar the moment she showed up for work that night. Even with the usual muted din of music and shouts coming through the doors of the Burning Deck -- and with it, the peaks and spikes in the din behind her eyes, like needles poking outward from within her head -- Rell could sense him. Panting, fighting off a wave of nausea in her gut, she lingered at the double doors. Taking in deep breaths on Nar Shaddaa was never wise. But she preferred the physical queasiness brought on by gulping in mouthfuls of the moon's rancid air over the deeper, more disturbing sensations churning in her belly. _Been a week now,_ Rell thought wildly. _Should've worn off by now!_ But no. Clinging to the contours of her mind like a sheen of oil on the surface of a stagnant pool of water, the memory of her first contact with the man she knew only as Galdric lingered within her. And now, he was inside the bar. Did he know? Was he looking for her? She couldn't stay outside forever, though. Her shift was about to start... her boss expected her. Maybe, just maybe, Galdric wouldn't notice her. Squaring her shoulders, determinedly ignoring the surge of trepidation that gripped her as she entered the Burning Deck, Rell muttered out a greeting to the bouncer, waved another one to her boss behind the bar, and got to work. But it took her less than no time to know _exactly_ where Galdric was sitting... and that he was watching her. ---------- Burning Deck - Lvl 800 - Corellian Sector [Nar Shaddaa] The warm, chaotic light of live flame brightens the center of the establishment, casting moving shadows about the room. A raised firepit occupies the center of the room, kept alive by gases and some of the cheaper drinks; the smoke is whisked into a chiminy tube above. Table, long, round and square, dot the spacious room, and the occasional ragged band plays not-so-stellar music. The occasional relic is displayed on the walls; an assassin droid's head unit, a blaster with most of the barrel slagged off, and a scrap of blaster Mandaloran armor are some of the displays. The atmosphere, unlike some places on Nar Shaddaa, is relaxed, even in the face of the prevailent sense of danger and adventure. A pair of blaster beaten swinging double doors leads out to the level floor to the east. Obvious exits: Out Solo comes through the double swinging doors and enters the bar from the floor outside. Solo has arrived. Solo chumps in, slowly, working his way around a sluggish hairy...something...that he seems annoyed with. He mutters, gestures, but finally manages to squeeze past without saying anything anyone can actually -understand-. Full of beings as this place is, and wreathed in the moving shadows cast off by the firelight, it is reasonably easy to miss a single furtive figure making a cautious trek from empty table to empty table. Reasonably easy, at least, for anybody not actually sitting _near_ those empty tables. Someone is, and that someone, a greasy-looking human male with shaggy dark hair, days' worth of stubble, and a patch over his right eye appears quite fascinated by that furtive figure. He's easily mistaken as the owner of the joint, possibly due to the swagger and sheer 'master of this territory' manner he emits like a photon gun. But this is Solo. This is a small being lodging a complaint with Solo, appearing from the bar and chittering at the Corellian. Solo squints down and mutters, "Sorry, I don't work here," distractedly, moving steadily toward the bar. The creature chirps annoyingly and begins berating a nearby table as the tall human leans and orders, "Ale, large, and clean the glass this time, huh?" Firelight flickers. The figure under surveillance -- revealed, when the light catches her long enough, to be a worn-looking young woman grabbing empty mugs and hoisting them back to the bar -- looks up as the bartender hollers over, "Rell! Get over here with those mugs, woman!" She scowls, but does so, sliding the empty tankards down the length of the bar towards the tender, who scoops one up and turns to fill it with the Corellian's order. The greasy-looking man slouched at his table keeps a steady black gaze on the woman -- and at the bartender's call, the sloucher grins ferally. "Hey, hey...clean," Solo growls. The tender smirks and mimes spitting into the mug, earning a scowl and a dropped right hand from the tall man at the bar. "Don't kid, you know how I hate surprises," Han warns him, before deciding, well, females clean and they're usually nicer...wait, well, most of them. He turns his attention to the girl, asking, "Got a rag or something, maybe something to clean that mug out before he decides to get creative?" Paused in the middle of turning back to her tasks at hand, the woman fixes a slightly narrowed blue-green gaze on her questioner. "Aye," she says at last, neutrally, tersely. Then, as the bartender gruffs out, "She damn well better, that's what I'm payin' 'er for," she smirks, stalks over, and snatches the empty mug out of his big hands with one of her own small ones, flicking a cleaning cloth forward with her other hand, and running it a few times through the mug. With a *clop*, she sets it down then. "There. Clean as it gets, without a good dunkin'." Solo grins leisurely, answering, "Thanks, doll. Better than I've gotten here in days." He leans, swinging a leering gaze at the tender. "You hire more smartmouths like this, you'll get more business than you can handle." The bartender snorts, turning to build the requested ale. "Ought to frekkin' well get me a cleaning droid," he complains. "Do the job faster and with less backtalk!" The young woman's eyes narrow further. She flashes a barbed smile at the big man behind the bar, and sallies back, "Aye, but then you'd not be gettin' my sweet Khilanni charm, now would ye?" Armed with her cleaning cloth, she stalks off again, her features tense and set, aiming for the three empty tables in the corner. Probably intending to clean them. Solo's grin eases up, helped by the arrival of ale. He takes it up, tossing a few credits on the bar. The tender looks surprised, remarking, "You're paying, Solo?" His customer smirks and mutters into his mug, "Don't give me that, I'm not in the mood." This blunt reply causes the tender to shrug and move off, as Han glances over the joint with a jaded look. In the corner, the girl called Rell is indeed cleaning tables, scowling at them as though they'd done her some sort of personal grievance. And, in a a wall booth remains slouched that greasy figure with the patch, who has yet to take his eyes off the female. As she finishes her current task and heads back out into the bar at large, the man abruptly moves, snaking out a hand covered in a ratty half-glove, to grab her by the arm. Solo's eyes narrow at the grab, but his slouch doesn't change; he merely watches. Hey, barmaid in a bar? None of -his- business... Rell whirls on the one who's halted her; if she makes any reply, though, it's too soft to be heard from that distance. But the set of her shoulders abruptly tenses -- _that_ can be seen. And a few moments later, the greasy fellow rises, grip still locked on the girl's arm, and starts with her towards the door. Solo lowers his mug, hesitantly, watching the man. He casually glances about, checking other reactions. Most of the patrons don't appear to be paying attention. The greasy fellow with the eye patch, moving with a casual swagger, hauls Rell along past the bar -- catching the tender's attention. The big man rumbles out in query, "Rell...?" The girl's face has turned ever so slightly tenser -- strained. There is the subtlest of nudges from her -- companion? -- and she then says, "... friend o' mine. Wants a word with me. Be right back." The tender doesn't look like he buys it. "She's on duty," he informs Eyepatch, eying him steadily. "This won't take a minute," the young man rasps out, his one visible eye positively glittering. Solo watches the exchange casually, and his gaze lingers on the tender long enough for faint nods to be exchanged. Solo's finger taps his mug once, and the tender acknowledges the motion with a shift of gaze, his attention mostly on Rell and Patch. Rell puts forth a rather less than convincing smile, and promises in an even less convincing voice, "Just a minute..." and Patch hauls her off towards the door... and outside. You push open the double doors and leave the bar. Level 800 - Corellian Sector [Nar Shaddaa](#281RFL) The circular area is busy, though not harried, as various beings hurry through on their way to the business parts of this tower. Clear paths of traffic are defined by more stationary groups of beings, and the current streams through, eddies into pools of conversation, only to go whooshing along into the linktube, or any number of entries along the borders of the floor. It is a comfortable mix of lawlessness and residential living. The Corellian home-away-from-home bar, the Burning Deck, is to the west, and a linktube leads off the tower to the northwest. There is a turbolift here. (OOC: Type '+level list'). Obvious exits: Burning Deck Linktube 102 Solo comes out of the Burning Deck bar. Solo has arrived. "Damn ye, Galdric, I told ye to leave me be!" comes a strangled little gasp from somewhere not far away, as the two figures that just left the bar vanish around a corner. Solo follows after a moment, taking a deep breath of fresh air, as if stepping outside just for it. Unfortunately, it's anything but, and he looks slightly ill at his endulgence as he glances about. From around that corner comes a softly hissed reply: "No way, sweetheart -- now that I know it's you. You're gonna make me and Tabak a fortune." "Ye're daft! Let me _be_!" This, rather louder, but cut off with a sharp exhalation of air. Solo sidles over to the corner, his movements less casual now that he's not being sneaky and ninja. A hand rests on his blaster and he clears his throat to says with drunken enthusiasm: "'Ey...ye fergot yer tip, girlie!...where'd ye go now..." His jaw sets, the usual 'here we go' look in his eyes as he waits against the edge of the corner. There's no reply from the girl. Eyepatch's raspy voice, however, barks out with entirely false amiability, "She went the other way. Pal." "Eeeeh...nah, I's saw her come this way, friend..." Solo warbles, breaking into falsetto at spots. He winces as a few people stare at him, before moving quickly on. "Come on, I's just tryin' ta be nice...where ye go...?" From just around the corner, a half-gloved hand emerges from shadow -- sporting a vibroblade. "No girls here. Try the brothel on level 513." Sounds don't always define the source, and in this case, Solo ain't drunk. He aims a sharp kick at the wrist as it appears, blaster slipping free of its holster. The hand goes flying -- but the blade does not, as its owner staggers back from the impact, more of him coming into view. However, exactly at that moment, the girl bites out raggedly, "I'm here -- damn ye, it's alright, go on your way!" Solo ignores the girl's request, taking a wide step to the side, away from the wall, giving all of his blaster's attention to the man with the blade. "I said I wanted to give her her tip," he says, dropping pretense as he gives Patch a firmly confident glare. It can be seen, now, that Eyepatch has kept a credible grasp on his blade -- but for all that, he must not be sporting a gun of his own, for he flicks a look with his single eye between his quarry and the unexpected cavalry. The girl is pressed back against a nearby wall, her teeth gritted, sweat sheening her brow; to her, Eyepatch abruptly leers, pointing his blade at her and rasping, "This ain't over, sweetheart. You can't hide from us forever." And he just as abruptly retreats, cutting Solo a wide berth as he melts off into the night. Solo turns, following the man with his weapon, and glances around before slipping his blaster away. "I don't know what you owe Mr Friendly, kid," he murmurs, turning to the girl, "But the debt collection sounds harsh even by Nar Shaddaa's standards." The girl remains poised there for a moment, before she sucks in a breath and straightens. "I owe 'im nothin," she answers stiffly, in her accented tones. "The man's daft!" Solo shrugs, countering with a casual, "Somehow, I don't think he believes you." he jerks a thumb at the bar, adding, "You going to go back and explain to your boss, or are you going to keep trying to convince me this all is just fun for you?" "He'll know what I've told ye," replies the young woman, frowning. She starts to move, before adding grudgingly, not looking in her unexpected benefactor's direction, "You, I owe. I thank you." And with that, shoving a hand through her hair and straightening the ornament on her braid, she stalks back into the bar. You step through double winging doors and enter the bar. Burning Deck - Lvl 800 - Corellian Sector [Nar Shaddaa] Obvious exits: Out Solo comes through the double swinging doors and enters the bar from the floor outside. Solo has arrived. Solo follows, frowning. He tosses a casual wave at the bar, making his way over, and nods, as if answering a tacit question. The bartender, in the middle of assembling three glasses of drinks involving several multicolored layers, glances over at the door. Seeing who has returned, and catching that glance from Solo, he says in the same gruff tone he'd used with the girl before, "Everything okay, Rell?" "Aye," the girl answers, a beat too slowly to sound truly at ease. She pauses a moment, then lowers her voice and adds to her employer, again not quite glancing at the Corellian, "Give 'im somethin' free, will ye?" The tender almost grins and waves the girl off, before sliding Solo one of the multicolored drinks. "On the house. Standard rate for keeping somebody else's grubby hands off my employees." Solo grins, taking up his customary lean. "Hey, why do you think I left this cozy spot here, huh?" He glances at the girl and winks; a thanks, because surely he didn't mean anything else by it. "Yeah, if they -stay- off your employees," he adds aside. Rell observes the wink, evidently bemused by it, then offers a fleeting quirk of her mouth in reply -- just a momentary upward curve of one end of it, really. Then, her features still tense, she stalks off to recover her abandoned cleaning cloth and goes at the now unoccupied place where Eyepatch had been sitting, her movements sharp and furious, as though she wants to eradicate every possible trace of his presence. Glancing after her, the tender murmurs sotto voce to the Corellian, "That one's been in a time or two watching her." He delivers this in the tone of a man who's just come to sudden insight, and he frowns, not liking his own conclusion. Solo glances meaningfully at the bartender, taking up the new drink. "Going to do something about it?" The Corellian's tone implies more than just asking him to relocate his carcass. Or perhaps he suggests just that; difficult to say. Jabbing a substantially sized thumb at the big hulking hairy being guarding the door, the bartender says sagely, "If he pulls anything in my place he'll be broken in half. It's outside that worries me." The other two multicolored drinks change places with credits with a couple other customers further down the bar; one of them, a very tipsy Twi'lek, actually squeals in delight at the beverages' arrival. "Yeah, well, the benefits package doesn't really go there, does it?" Solo's tone is nonchalant, but he takes a drink and watches the girl clean thoughtfully. "Any idea what they want?" he asks suddenly. "The goon mentioned something about making money." "Off Rell Woodlake?" The bartender snorts, though perhaps not unkindly. "Not likely." Solo pushes himself off the bar's edge and mutters, "Thanks for the drink." He makes his way around drunks and worse toward the girl, approaching with a hestiation bordering on politeness, though his greeting destroys any impression of civility the man may have accidently picked up, "Hey, you missed a spot." The girl in question throws a scathing glare at the place where her would-be assailant had been parked; hailed, she jerks her head up, frowning in startlement, before her features return to the same wary neutrality they've been wearing all evening. "Did I now. Not surprised -- dank little weasel of a man, soils everythin' he touches!" The insult comes out of her as 'waysel', and as she voices it, she swipes viciously at the seat. Solo slouches easily there, even with a bar, and holds his glass before him like a colorful lure against scathing looks. "I guess you could burn the seat," he offers helpfully. Rell straightens, staring hard at the chair in question, and muttering grimly, "If I could, I would." She turns, eyeing the Corellian cautiously. "Would ye be wantin' somethin', then?" Solo glances down at his drink, composing a reply. He lifts it, as if making an example of it, then answers, "Why are they after you, anyway?" Subtly doesn't seem to be one of his talent, though drinking is. He covers by taking a good gulp of his fruit thing. Rell frowns, first at the question, then at the 'they'. Her gaze flicks past the man before her over to her boss; evidently the return glance she gets must satisfy her, for she doesn't move. Then again, her wary look doesn't alter, either. "I told ye. The man is daft." "Tell me something I don't know," Solo grins, "But I heard what he said. Now, I'm not pushing it, but still, if it's going to give you trouble still..." He frowns, and shrugs. "Just curious." The fruit drink, one of the tender's specialities, boasts a different flavor for every color in the glass, and in a couple of cases, two distinctly different liquors per hue. The entire thing, only somewhat muted by the presence of actual fruit in the mix, blazes together in an overall vivid warmth. And Rell, watching her questioner sample it, frowns a little more tautly. "If ye're hopin' t' be hired to get him off my case for me," she says, "let me save ye time and trouble. I cannae afford such luxuries." Solo laughs, light pink tracing a faint mustache over his upper lip. "Nah, I don't have the time, and besides, your boss couldn't pay enough." He licks the mustaache off, adding, "That doesn't mean I don't think that you couldn't handle the problem. You're about as whipped as a slave, no matter what you say." He churns this out with apparent relish, a mischievious grin on his face. The girl's eyes darken; she crosses her arms, glowering. "And I suppose ye'll be havin' a brilliant suggestion as to what I might be doin' about it?" she inquires, words clipped with frost. The Corellian is either oblivious or more calculating than he appears, for his grin widens at the question. "I might," he says proudly. "A little less futile protest, a little more spine, maybe." Sliding off a couple of brandies to an extremely short Rodian, who proceeds to scamper back to his compatriots at a distant table, Rell's boss stifles a snicker, and puts on a blandly innocent expression when she shoots him a frigid glare. That glare then swings back to the Corellian, as the girl demands, "And I'll be wantin' to show this extra spine exactly how, would ye say, then?" Solo wields his drink, on the pretense of actually drinking it, and waves it sloshingly around in front of him as he speaks, warding off glares. "Oh I don't know, standing up to him, having him arrested...trip him or something." He frowns, as if noticing the girl isn't burly and lacks *gasp* a blaster. "Can you slap?" Rellawy actually laughs, bitterly, though at which of those suggestions is not entirely clear. She answers back shortly, "Aye. I can slap. Fat frekkin' lot o' good it'd be doin' me if he comes back with his Gamorrean pal." Solo smiles, the expression lopsided. "Hey, I know it ain't much, but I know a bad situation when I see one. I was just hoping you did too." The girl's icy glower relaxes, marginally; her expression flickers, before she clamps down on it and says, much more quietly, "Aye. I'm well acquainted with such things. Would there be more you'd be wantin' to know, then?" Her gaze averts itself; there's still tension in her stance. Solo lapses into shrugging, his answer low, "Nah, I guess not. Take care of yourself." Without waiting for the girl's snappy comeback, he turns, lifting his colorful drink to his lips as he does so. For a moment, her gaze lingers on the man, bemused, musing. Then she snaps her regard away, replying curtly, "Thank ye again." At her boss's beckon, she brisks to the bar and snatches up a tray of beverages and a single large bowl of finger-food, hauling it off deftly to a big table near the fire-pit. Solo drops off his drink to the bar, emptying it before striding out, his customary light frown on his face. Solo pushes open the swinging double doors and exits. Solo has left. ---------- Postlude: Rell knew better than to watch the Corellian go, and she did not, but that didn't keep her from knowing when the man had departed. She counted off five ticks in her head, and just for safety's sake lingered a moment longer at the table by the fire-pit to ensure that the customers' order was to their liking, before swinging back to the bar. Lerren, by then, was casually assembling a drink commonly known as a Sullustan Strangler; as Rell approached, he caught her eye and kept it, lifting an eyebrow as he marked the frown of curiosity that furrowed her brow. Leaning close across the bar and pitching her voice so it would carry no further than her employer, Rell remarked, "Would it just be me, or do all Corellians sling their attitudes around as much as their blasters?" The bartender smirked, but looked amused nevertheless. "Hey, girlie, just remember, _I'm_ Corellian." "Aye, and a fine example you were for me to tell that your friend with the blaster was, too," Rell shot back, with a snort. Lerren's grin only got wider. "He's got an even bigger attitude than I do." "So I noticed. You _would_ be knowin' him, then?" "Ah, hells yeah. That was Han Solo." [End log.]