The Black Lion
C O R U S C A N T
E N T E R T A I N M E N T
D I S T R I C T
7 9 ' S
War was good business, not only for weapons manufacturers or arms dealers, but also cantinas. Lots of young people looking to blow off steam or calm nerves before a fight, and then either drown their sorrows or celebrate victory once the fighting's done. Tonight was no different, as cantinas on even the most wartorn levels of Coruscant became packed beyond their limit. 79's historically catered to military personnel, dating all the way back to the Clone Wars to the point of being labeled as a 'clone bar'.
Everywhere one looked there were uniformed men and women drinking, laughing, dancing, arm-wrestling, even throwing a few punches at each other. They were watching sportscasts on big holoscreens and gambling amongst themselves on pod racing. Some cheered loudly, others kept to themselves, thinking of fallen comrades. It was fair to say the Ironsides fell into both camps.
Cain and Mira, the young couple from Sev Tok, had taken to the dance floor where they became locked in each other's arms. Rrauros the Red Dread was dominating at arm-wrestling to the point of nobody being willing to risk their limb getting torn off by a wookie. Trek, Pac, and Hak'ken were hitting the bar, doing shots of who-knows-what.
Watching the festivities from atop the balcony was Gaunt, ever preferring the high ground, sipping from his drink while Balor fussed over him, the good doctor reminding him to watch his alcohol intake. Yarrick was in the corner reviewing their bar tab, watching the numbers go up at an alarming rate, whilst Creed, Belial, and Chief Ironside himself shared a drink in peace and relative quiet.
"Whatever, Doc," Gaunt threw up his hands, spilling a portion of his drink while huffing on a death stick. "I'm breaching and entering, you got my six or what?" Balor coughed and dispersed the cloud of foul air blown in his face. "Always faithful, Brother," he replied, well aware that the horrifically-scarred black hole of charm needed all the wingmen he could find if he wanted to successfully pick up ladies.
Creed let out a bellow of laughter, slapping the knee of Yarrick sitting behind him, knowing it would annoy him and got batted with the blunt end of a datapad in response. "Hey! No hitting a superior officer," he jested, making Yarrick roll his eyes. "You can't pull that card every time, Ezekiel." Thirdas smirked at the antics of the 'old married couple', as they were called. He turned to Belial, ever his loyal shadow, noting the blind weequay's attempt at reaching for his drink. Twice he missed, and would have missed a third time unless Thirdas hadn't slid the drink into his grasp out of pity.
"How come you can dodge incoming blaster fire and tell friend from foe, but you can't find a drink you yourself put down," asked Creed, moments before plucking a peanut from a bowl and flicked it at Belial, who caught it without issue. "Because it's not trying to kill me," the wizened warrior relied, stone-faced as usual before popping the peanut in his mouth.
Another smile from the Chief, his gaze drawn to the small container sitting in front of him on the table. Its lid had been left open, and from it shone the Star of Coruscant, posthumously awarded to those who gave their all to achieve victory. A drink had been poured and left standing next to it, its contents untouched.
Thirdas reached for his drink and stood up, prompting the others to follow his example.
"To
Tulan Kor
and the men of Dorn. He's back with the old breed now, like he would've wanted. Oorah!""OORAH!"
They drank, emptying their glasses to the point where Creed and Yarrick left to buy another round. The Chief slumped back in his seat, clinking his empty glass against the untouched one. "Oorah, Gunny. Hope Setter was there to welcome you."
He adjusted the bandana now tied around his head, still getting used to it.
"Don't wait up for me. I've got a life to live first."
