Cities Full Of Empty People

[Eden]

​

Nar Shaadda​

In front of the Drunken Sarlaac​

Theme​

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"Five thousand credits, boo. As agreed." a deep masculine voice sounded through the half-opened window of a speeder limo parked on the plateau just infront of The Drunken Sarlaac. Chip with credits was then casually tossed out, as if throwing out a used chewing gum, not a month's worth of salary of some half-decent factory worker. Eden caught it, then quickly slid it into the interior pocket of her knee-long beige trench coat. Even before she had time to object to unusual level of brutality of her last customer, the window was closed and the limo flew away onto the hyperplane above, quickly vanishing in the busy evening traffic. Eden's otherwise plump lips stretched into a thin line; even if she was to speak up about working conditions, why would the Devaronian hustler even care? He only minded if the goods were damaged irreversibly; what could be mended with a splat in the bacta tank, was never to be sanctioned. He even advertized it as such, for the gentlemen of more refined tastes and special needs.

Sometimes, customers wanted to be dominated, wrapped up in leather and whipped. Eden happily obliged. On other occasions, men wanted a novel kind of experience; the kind of interaction no self-respecting woman would ever willingly agree to. The kind of play that left scars, not upon the body, but upon the soul. Humiliation, exercise in superiority. Whoever wanted that kind of service needed to cash out an extra dime. A risk premium, Wrutan always said, an insurance policy should the customer mangle the toy beyond repair. The bruises on Eden's wrists would heal in a week or two, just about the same time the shockboxer would take to squander all of the money he had won in the match. Eden was a bonus, means for him to relax before the fight, courtesy of Gammorean Beer & Liquor Club. He was almost equally brutal to her as he was later to his opponent. The mistress had to look away from the ring at times, the way he almost battered the other fighter to death. First row seat to blood and gore was part of the deal; payment would be done afterwards, when all the bets were paid out.

Black heels clicked against the pavement as Eden walked to her speeder car parked nearby. She sank deeper into her trench coat, thinking of a hot shower and a glass of wine, then maybe a short vacation, alone. She could afford one now, right? Lost in thought, the brown-haired woman failed to note she was followed. Suddenly, she was grabbed from behind. A middle-aged man, clad in black, with a scar on his face had witnessed her exchange. An lonesome escort lady was easy prey in the streets of Nar Shaadaa.

"Ahhhh..." Eden grunted, before turning in her heel to hit the person who assaulted her. She barely managed to ram a fist into his shoulder; the thief pushed her down in response. She fell to the ground, breaking the heel of her left shoe in the process. A few people turned heads, but then went about their business. It was getting rather late; all the good girls were already in their beds, tucked in.

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

Since his "retirement" from the Republic's service and that of his Mandalorian brothers, a rather hedonistic lifestyle had replaced one of toiling and strife. He collected that sweet pension every month, made more than enough money doing the dirty work of business moguls and khagans. It was a good life, for the most part. On the outside, everything was peachy for Marcus. Nice ship, lots of credits in the bank, and no worry in the world save for a few thugs on his tail - but that was nothing he couldn't handle with a well aimed blaster bolt.

So what was he doing here on Nar Shaddaa when he could be on Zeltros, or Empress Teta? The former commando could've been lying on nude beaches, sipping Corellian whiskey and watching fine ladies strut across the sand. Duty. A stagnant, unproductive life was an unfulfilling one. Lazing around, doing nothing with his small fortune. Even he got a little bored of gazing at seemingly perfect women, even he got tired of drinking himself brain-dead every night. He craved excitement, a little something new for an otherwise dull and routine lifestyle. That's why he continued his line of work instead of officially retiring at the age of twenty nine years old.

"To the bar, I presume?" Miranda inquired, crackling in his earpiece. "The same one that was built for the old Rebellion?"

Marcus nodded. "Yeah, that one. I wonder if they've got any of those murals of Rogue Squadron. I remember those guys. They didn't call 'em rogues for nothin'. Some of the best men and women I've ever met," he glanced at his chrono, "And I hope they have happy hour. I don't feel like getting hammered tonight. Just a nice little buzz."

"You always say that."

"And I'll keep saying it."

The chill of the nighttime air made him shiver, zipping up his jacket just a little more. He took one last drag from the cigarra clamped between his teeth before flicking the dying narcotic away. It felt weird to be in normal clothes. Armor felt good; he'd gotten used to it over the past eleven years. Air filters, climate control, comfortable padding, and the added benefits of not being able to be killed with a single bullet. Y'know, creature comforts. But he'd draw attention like that - and most of the galaxy didn't know what he looked like without that gleaming black visor.

Then something caught his ear. A grunt nearby followed by something smacking against something even harder. His grey cybernetic eyes traced the sound, steering past the milling bystanders. Then he saw her, once a rather large Duros stepped past. A woman garbed in a trench coat with a being he couldn't quite recognize on top of her. Obviously, the lady didn't want the man to be there, which was more than apparent given the surprise on her face and the broken heel.

Marcus got to her as fast as she could, grabbing the man by the throat. His muscles worked to their max, their own artificial enhancements working to the fullest. Picking him up was easy, no average man should've been able to do that.

"I don't think she wants you to do that," he snarled, "So I suggest you get the frak out of here before it becomes my problem too."

A gurgle was his only response, to which he roughly lowered the man back onto the ground. He paused a second to fill his lungs with air before hurriedly scurrying away.

Marcus spun around before taking a knee next to the woman. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

[member="Eden"]

 

[Eden]

Eden couldn't remember the last time a man stood up for her. Madame Shiou was kind enough to take the girl under her wing, providing for her with food, shelter and schooling during her teen years. Her kindness, albeit calculated, had kept her off the streets. Ironically, she owed that old owl her life, as well her current occupation. No genuine kindess in the world; quid pro quo, forever and always. Her older brother had stopped father from hitting her; he stood between them, taking the beating instead of Eden. That sole act of heroism was the last kind gesture from a man, until now. She looked up at her savior, her full lips half-parted. His question echoed in her ears, as if spoken from lightyears away.

Outside. Inside. Everywhere.

Her inner voice wanted to scream, tell this stranger to find Wrutan and smash his ugly skull against the pavement, then find the shockboxer and neuter him with a single, precisely directed blow. Yet, thoughts and wishes remained unspoken as several fleeting moments were spent in a mixture of awe and confusion. She had already come to terms with being robbed. Ten seconds later, a man was kneeling next to her, offering her a hand to get up. He handled the thief like he was nothing but a rag-doll, a vulnerable sack of flesh. Eden caught herself unintentionally staring directly into his eyes; she instantly looked down and shook her head. Her cheeks aquired the slightest tinge of pink in the most genuine display of timidity. Long brown locks swung to partially cover her face.

Yes, yes, hide.

"No. I think..." she replied shyly and got up, using his upper arm for leverage. Her belt was tightened around her waist, further carving the elaborate hourglass figure wrapped in beige fabric, as if she didn't want the world to see what was worn underneath. With a pop, the heel was inserted back into the shoe and her foot once again slid into the black stilleto. A waste of a perfectly good shoe, almost. Perhaps some gratitude was in order?

"Thank you, sir." she managed somehow, half-stuck between avoiding to look him in the eyes and trying to act less disoriented. Men who weren't customers confused her; she understood them poorly, trusted them even less. Yet, this man commanded respect. His posture was immaculate, as he was a statue.

"You've probably saved my life." Eden added. A bit of an exaggeration, but that was all she could muster - "I...I...don't know how to thank you, sir."

Oh, but you do.

"He would've robbed me of my entire monthly income if you hadn't intervened." the brunette elaborated. She would've smiled if her jaw didn't hurt from the boxer's clutch that held her head in place when he had his way with her a few hours earlier.

Tell everyone you have five thousand credits in your pocket. Stupid. You don't deserve anything better.

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

Kindness and compassion was something he'd learned to lend to those who needed it. He had brothers and sisters to rely on when everything had been taken from him, when the passion burning deep within was stolen by that pitch blackness that was the One Sith. He'd had nothing then, and those were dark times. Coping with the loss of his entire family, his entire livelihood was something most men never had to experience in their lifetimes - and he'd done it nearly three times now.

"What happened?" The AI's voice crackled through his earpiece.

Marcus looked away from the woman for a second, toggling the switch on his comlink. "Nothing, I'll let you know once I'm free. Track my position for the rest of the night."

"Can do."

The man turned back to face the fallen woman and lent her his forearm when she made a move to stand up. Pink tinted her cheeks, her eyes were wide with shock, and that broken heel looked pretty rough. But she rose with him, stammering a quick thank you before offering something in return for it. Normally he charged people for his services, no matter what he was doing. But he couldn't do that to this poor girl, clad in a beige trenchcoat and obviously defenseless and vulnerable out here on these rough streets.

He waved a hand at the notion of repayment. "I don't need anything in return. Everybody needs a little help sometimes, even me." He gave her a quick smile and raked his fingers back through his hair, fixing any imperfections resulting from their little scuffle.

"Where are you headed this late at night with your entire paycheck? Not to mention being all alone."

[member="Eden"]

 

[Eden]

Who is he talking to?

A curious brow was lofted at the sound of muffled chatter, the kind of babble one heard between displaced military units when they were exchanging information over the comm. Was this man a member of the law enforcement? His skills spoke volumes of his previous, or current occupation. She'd only seen that kind of physical power in club bouncers who were usually recruited from retired soliders. Directly asking was out of the question, since it would raise immediate suspicion. Eden turned towards her speeder car, a brand new ivory-beigeTarragon parked several meters away. Surprisingly enough, the car was intact. Only drug dealers and crime lords could afford such rides.

"I was just going to get my bag from the car, to change...." she said innocently, then took out the electronic key from her pocket, holding it out towards the man - "...but the encoder does not work. I keep pressing and pressing...and I won't open."
Her talent with all things electronical was virtually non-existent. Science and mechanics were her least favorite subjects in school, unlike art, music and theather. She just couldn't wrap her mind around how circuits worked nor how to use a hydrospanner. The key was probably just drained of battery.

Don't ask him. The answer will be no.

"Was going to head home." she stated, then paused for a few moments, finally finding courage to look up, directly into his face. His charmingly rugged features added some extra blush to her already rosy cheeks.

You mean, to the hotel. There's no home.

Clearing her throat, the brunette continued - "But now it seems I may be in need of a drink." Her eyes diverted to the flashing neon sign of The Drunken Sarlaac. The shockboxer was probably still inside, drinking his winnings away. To go back in...probably not the best of ideas.

You going to run away, forever?

"Let me at least buy you a drink, as a token of my gratitude." she suggested meekly - "My mother always said - repay kindness with kindness, to keep the universe in balance."
A wan smile crept to her lips at the mention of her late parent. Eden had, amidst all the toil and trauma, completely forgotten her face. The only memories were fragmented sentences, shattered pieces of a deeply dysfunctional childhood.

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

Her initial alibi was believable enough. It was hard to comprehend that average people still lived here on Nar Shaddaa - not everyone was a hardened thug, a drug dealer, or part of your local street-corner gang. Then again, she still could have been and being attacked just now didn't necessarily make Marcus feel safe in the slightest. Important people usually got attacked. She was apparently carrying her entire paycheck, was obviously covering something with that massive trenchcoat, and that speeder she had was something a mere commoner could afford.

"Batteries dead?" He suggested. That seemed to be the typical ailment of most remote keys. "Either that or something is jamming the frequency, or the transponder in your speeder is shot, or.." he was ranting. He liked his techno toys. "I'll give you a hand with it or something if you need it."

But then she offered a drink. Oh man did this dollface of a woman know how to make him grin. "Oh yeah, I'll have a drink with ya." He replied, raking his fingers through his hair once again as he surveyed this woman once again. Plump, rosy cheeks, couldn't tell much about her body because of the coat but she looked mighty busty. All good things though he doubted any of that would matter in the end. He was going to go grab some drinks anyways, having some company would be a nice change to his rather lonesome whiskey-guzzling

"What kind of work do you do? I don't expect a speeder like that has to come cheaply."

[member="Eden"]

 

[Eden]

What are you going to tell him, boo?

Regular, everday, hard-working people did not drive a tuned-up Tarragon racespeeder, not on Nar-Shaddaa or anywhere else. The vehicle was reserved for a distinct kind of individuals who wanted to convey affluence as well as verve and audacity. Hard to believe a shy girl would purchase the flagship transport of Reclaimer Arms&Industrial, one that attracted attention wherever it was parked. A pause ensued, with Eden musing what variant of the truth would she disclose.

"Oh, that..." she began, half-confused - "No, I didn't buy it. A gift."

Started to tell the truth now, have we?

First time Eden had to make up lies; her social contacts were restricted to Shiou and few other girls she commandeered. No need for pretense and false morality. All of them were throat-deep in a spiral of debt and addiction. Thankfully, Eden had somehow managed to stay away from deathsticks.

"For my birthday, from an ex-boyfriend. He wouldn't take it back after we broke up." the brunette explained, then handed the man the remote to the car.

You mean, client, who wanted exclusivity.

"Wanted to sell it a while back, but never knew how much to ask. I know nothing about cars." she admitted, turning to face the Drunken Sarlaac. Once the fights were over, regular program resumed, with exotical dancers and a DJ. She drew closer to the man and slipped a hand under his elbow to grip his forearm. In her business, the process was called tagging. It signified the lady of the night was with a client, which assured they wouldn't be bothered.

"My work?" Eden repeated his question, giving herself a bit more time to think - "I'm a hostess. Gala dinners and product promotions. Basically, event management."

What a beautiful, beautiful lie.

"What about you?" she tossed the ball back into his court, merely to make sure he is not the member of law-enforcement - "You seem like you can pack a punch. I'm Eden, by the way."

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

He'd an eye for nice things like that. He had an eye for nice girls too, and this one seemed to be rather exquisite. Of course, in the flattering sense. He wasn't one to regularly visit strip clubs or erotic bars; the average and simple ones suited his needs just fine. Lots of alcohol and an atmosphere that they tended to exude. Cigarra smoke, the heavy smell of liquor, and even that musky scent of adrenaline and testosterone made his head swim with memories of the past.

She spoke of a rather persistent ex-boyfriend, who seemingly had more than enough hard cash to spend on a girl like her. Most men he knew would've taken that nice-behind speeder back in a heartbeat but this man seemed apt enough to leave it in this woman's care. "Well that was nice of him. I bet that thing'll fetch a pretty penny," he remarked.

Then she slid closer to him, entwining their hands with a gentle hand soon coming to rest upon his forearm. He didn't exactly mind it, especially given her previous circumstances and issues with being attacked, he just gave her a curt, wry smile before leading her on back to the Drunken Sarlacc. She told him about her work as a hostess and nodded smartly; they must make a pretty fair amount of cash.

Then the conversation turned back onto him.

"Oh, me?" Now it was his turn. "I'm in the private security business. Self-employed, work for whoever I want to on my terms. I protect things and people of value."

It was a half-truth. The other portion of his job involved getting his hands dirty because someone paid him to. You owe money? Marcus can collect it for you. Insulted the mob boss? Marcus will have a word with you. Simply stuff, really. They paid him a lot to knock some sense into dumb people, so he didn't mind helping them out for a fat paycheck.

"That's a pretty name, Eden." He grinned. "I'm Marcus."

[member="Eden"]

 

[Eden]

The kind of man Wrutan would send after you, should you decide to go astray.

Eden had witnessed privateers bring girls back after they've attempted to escape; they'd carry them in on their backs, like rolled-up rugs, careful not to damage them in any way. There wasn't a single thing money could not buy in the galaxy; a woman's decency, murder, honor. All was for sale, especially in the darwinian culture of Nar-Shadda. The worst kind of capitalism, with corrupt institutions and clientism on every corner. Members of the law enforcement were on the payroll of mafia, politicians recieved bribes from shady corporations. A cruel, cruel world in which, to her own surprise, Eden did well. Demand was high what she was offering. Marcus would witness it right away, once they've crossed the threshold of the club.

"Miss Eden, you are back." a male Rutian Twi'lek noted, who served as a host of club at the door. Somebody had to make sure your name wasn't on the banned list.
"I've never left, Tyuss." the brunette knew him by his first name, which was a clear sign she was a regular guest. Her name was known among the most famous shockboxers; they even had a nickname for her. Boo they called her, for her porcelain face and sweet curves.
"Take a booth by the bar. I'll send Daruvvian champagne shortly." Tyuss said, then diverted his yellow eyes to Marcus - "Or whatever the gentleman preferrs."

After courtly nodding to the majordomo of the club, Eden gripped his forearm tighter and stepped forward into the club. The interior was dimly lit in blue and green hues, while scent of sweet tobacco permeating the air. One of the walls was dominated by a mural dedicated to Republic armed forces, with X-wings and their pilots carefully assembled out of pieces of coloured glass. A shrine of sorts, if you will, to remind of human sacrifice in times bygone, honor men and women who pledged their lives to military service. Yet, the occupants were too busy intoxicating themselves to pay respects to the fallen warriors. Until Marcus entered with Eden in tow, with many eyes raised from the bottoms of glasses to take note of the newest arrival. Many stares were fixed upon the couple as they made way to the booth, right across the middle of the establishment that served as a dancefloor.

How are you going to explain those stares, boo?

"The Sarlaac regularly hosts shockboxing tournaments, where I serve as hostess. As a matter of fact, one was just taking place earlier this evening. You've caught me leaving work, actually." she explained, leaning in slightly so he could hear her over the music. The booth was just a few meters away, an oasis of privacy. She finally unbuckled the belt of her trench coat and slid it off her shoulders. Underneath it, a simple, tan coloured mini-dress, barely holding her curves together. Unintentionally, Aawhiff of peach-scented perfume was sent Marcus' way.

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

Capitalism was how the galaxy progressed. Nar Shaddaa, while it looked pretty rough on the streets, was actually one of the most prosperous places in the galaxy. There was always, always a way to make some good money fast. Companies and larger galaxy-spanning corporations had invested a lot of capital into this world. They experimented in the lower levels, paying good money for these street-dwellers to try out their newest medical tonic, or test drive the latest in airspeeder technology. But even a playground for the free wasn't without its faults. The lowest of the low lived poorly while those above them probably had toilets plated in gold.

It felt good to be at the top for once. Independence, defiance, and freedom. It was exhilarating, and quite shocking to think that during his tenure of service with the Republic the thought of openly defying a superior was akin to religious heresy. Nowadays, a full bank account kept him happy enough to keep doing work like this. It paid the bills and more - he was the freest man in the galaxy.

They strode into the bar with impunity. Marcus noted the various glances they attracted, and he wasn't sure what they were aimed at. Between a fine, busty beauty and his rogue-ish appearance, it was most likely the former. Even he had a hard time not letting his gaze wander all over her body. It seemed like it was customary to have a stereotypical Twi'lek majordomo as well, and Marcus merely offered the Rutian a flat gaze. Alas, Marcus made sure to interpolate himself between the man and Eden.

"Seems like you know your way around the block. It's my first time here, honestly. I've heard about this place before, a bunch of my old friends used to be affiliated with the Alliance and I wanted to come see if this place really honored them," he eyed a drunk couple chattering loudly, "And I'm not sure it was the best idea, but at least we can drink in their honor."

They quickly crossed the cantina, seeking refuge in one of the shadier booths. It was quieter in this portion of the cantina, thankfully.

Then Eden began to disrobe herself. He nearly shielded his eyes but made due with looking away, "Whoa," he mumbled. Then he warily peered back towards her. "Oh, okay. I swear, that dress has the same tone as your skin and I didn't know what was going to happen." A light chuckle escaped his lips.

[member="Eden"]