Formerly Sith
"Feth... this is disgusting."
Xeno cringed as he set down his glass. He was seated at a seedy bar in the underbelly, home to only a few other patrons and an old Twi'lek bartender. The man simply laughed at the half-Nagai's reaction.
"It's beer, son," the bartender croaked. "Ain't s'posed ta be good tastin'. Just for gettin' sozzled."
How the hell did Klocto even manage drinking? Xeno couldn't ever find anything that didn't seem to be trying to mimic the taste of toxic sludge. There was supposed to be something here that was therapeutic, something something forgetting the past at the bottom of a bottle, but he just couldn't get past the taste. And there was a hell of a lot to forget, at least as far as Xeno was concerned. Most people knew the underground musician. That was fine. Xeno didn't want to share that other part of him with the galaxy...
Born to slaves, sold to Sith, forged into a killer. He once lived a life consumed by anguish and hatred, fueled at those he slaughtered in the name of a master he despised above all others. It hardly mattered that it was a life that had been thrust upon him unwillingly. Even if for survival, he had become Sith. A monster, defined as nothing more than an abomination to the natural order of life. While Sithspit was a refreshing group therapy project, the nightmares still haunted him. The whipping of chains, unseen hands wrapped around his throat, the sting of blue electricity... but strongest of all was the smell of blood. Blood drawn by his blade without a second thought or remorse.
Maybe it was better to try and forget. If only the miracle fluid that was supposed to do the job wasn't terribly vile tasting.
"I'll pass," Xeno sighed, standing up from his stool and sliding the bartender a few credits. "Ain't cut out to be a drunkard."
"Smart choice," the bartender noted, beginning to rinse out Xeno's discarded glass. "Those folks end up in the gutter."
The half-Nagai stuffed his hands into his pockets and began to shuffle towards the exit. Before he could reach the door, however, he heard the familiar click of a blaster being primed. The end of the barrel pressed to the back of his head. He could see the pale man in the reflection of the window, a shorter human man with a large bald spot dressed in a trench coat. Just the kind of guy you'd expect to run spice for the thrill of it. A cigar hung loosely in his mouth, which spread into a chit-eating grin.
"Easy now, sunshine," the man began in a raspy tone. "Yous ain't goin' nowheres, Mr. Xeno."
Just his luck.
